The "Rivers of Blood" article, or -- The Lordship list, fifth year.

Motto : "pricep ca ai trage apa dupa ei in esenta si pe drept cuvant. si ti-e o lehamite cumplita."

"apai macar dupa jumatate. anu' trecut daca-ti mai amintesti l1 s-o cam injumatatit ; se vadeste ca era dublu si-asa."

Recall Enoch Powell, ie the last time a "representative" attempted to actually represent his constituency, rather than toe the pantsuit line ? No ? That's odd, because according to google he's the only thing worthy of note in relation to that Vergil line. Who the fuck was Vergil anyway, amirite, he didn't even have a twacebook account or anything.

Artificial "intelligence" aside, there's more to this "rivers of blood" device than the rather unremarkable and on-its-own-merits-hardly-worth-the-mentioni circumstance that pantsuit have serious problems digesting the substantial inhumanity of a large portion of all what crawled out from between woman's legs.ii

Such as for instance... well, originally the de-lording portion of this piece was going to be a lot longer -- so long, in fact, it was broken down into a section for proposals and a section for imposals! But, as history actually flew -- rather than as it could have flown -- there's really no need for butchery on such scale. Instead, here's the reduced, attenuated, piddly rivers of blood article ; with nary the gory and none of the glory of the original, it shuffles sadly towards the dusty corner of unremarkable where all these deplorable could-have-beens if-only go.

But without further ado, let's sit down to business. The current list reads,

Her Ladyship diana_coman, Marquess Eulora,

Her Ladyship hanbot, the Lady Falconeer,

His Lordship trinque, the Master of the Rolls,

His Lordship bingoboingo, Lord Goebbels,

His Lordship mod6, the Lord High Steward,

His Worship danielpbarron, the learned Trishop,

His Lordship mircea_popescu,

His Lordship asciilifeform, the Lord Admiral,

His Lordship davout, the Master of Common Pleas,

His Lordship ben_vulpes, the Lord of the Well,

His Lordship phf, the Lord Chancellor.

His Lordship jurov, the Lord Treasurer.

His Lordship Framedragger, the Lord Scanner.

His Lordship shinohai, the Right Honorable Baron Titsbare.

It is my considered opinion that davout, jurov, Framedragger and shinohai should all be stricken, due to a certainly present defect which might best be called "failure to thrive".

It's not that they aren't fine, pleasant, respectable or however else people -- jurov was right there when some Foundation funds had to be disbursed, for instance ; shinohai's still always on hand to do a spot of work as he always was (even though nothing anyone heard of came from, say, that reddit experiment) ; davout and Framedragger do on occasion grace us with postcards from whatever pantsuit hellhole they chose to call home, every six months or so.

Nevertheless, these personal characteristics of theirs have no bearing on the matter. The Republic can, and in fact does -- as it had to -- manage just as well without them as with them, and this state of affairs utterly precludes participation in the L1, whatever other qualities may be argued.

It is also my considered opinion that lobbes, spyked and ave1 should be added. As far as lobbes is concerned I believe we have such wide agreement so as to make belabouring the arguments a waste of space (not that I won't happily indulge, if need be) ; as to the other two I believe they have shown great potential, and should be encouraged -- you have to produce the future's "failure to thrive" somehow, after all!

This year's discussion begins somewhat early (though we're technically in March -- the other way from how we were technically in March last time) ; but the actual execution is still intended as a mid-April-ish sort of affair, which leaves ample time for debate. What say you ?

And can you believe it's already been five years ?

———You know, just like the very pantsuit in question. They don't have names because they don't actually need names for any purpose. [↩]It's not that "history is the biography of great men" ; it's rather that the vast majority of walkers had no business treading the Earth in the first place, entirely indistinguishable from the products of yeast infection as they find themselves.

Don't tell me it's going to be "even yeasts have rights" next, hm ? [↩]

« Memoranda of Congress

Here's how pantsuitism / christianity ruined civilisation, in both the Ancient and the Modern world. »

Category: Bitcoin

Wednesday, 28 February, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Republic without MP

Motto : Ma Gep... secondo te,

si se potesse davvero

far scomparire una giraffa...

io starei ancora qui alla mia eta,

a fare queste baracconate ?!

E solo un trucco...

One of the more... amusing, shall we say ? What shall we say ? One of the results of the recent crisis was, in the words of its original author,

asciilifeform: it so happens that asciilifeform has purchased a 50% stake in bisp. and specifically with one condition: that mircea_popescu (named, concretely) will not be a back-seat driver there.

But let's think about it for a moment. If indeed it were possible, si se potesse davvero to have an item in Bitcoin somehow isolated from me, wouldn't USG have long had its preferred coin installed ?

If it were indeed possible to achieve such insulation by convention, wouldn't the USG's conventions have long ago prevailed over the underlying reality of the matter ?

It's not just that you can't make giraffes disappear. It's not just the rapes, and it's not just the beheadings. It's not even just the strategic superiority, or intellectual, or financial, or however you wish to look upon it.

Consider the TimSwanson problem. Who's to say "how debates work" ? Who's to say how everything works ?

Consider what triggered this article : as the Republic ever develops, as its tools and methods take the forefront in people's minds to match the forefront they've always held upon the transition phase between known and unknown where furthest man's mind ever went -- ever went! -- as lobbes' archive morphs into an item capable of recognizing which websites stole whose images and hanbot's svg-izing project grows to the point where we can have true standards of "how things look", as Amazon's business modeli goes the way Tesla's went leaving behind the Republic's item as the only item (much like MIT's coin went away leaving behind the Republic's Bitcoin as the only coin), there will be a huge influx of interest on the part of the pantsuit in "joining" -- specifically through the ag3nt_zer0 approach.

They'll want to have a Republic without MP, a WoT without the WoT, a Pizarro without the Pizarro, a this without the that. Absolutely typical pantsuitism,

Then the immigrants sweat and strain and break their hearts carving out a "civilisation". Fine. Great. Then when they get all pretty and prosperous, along come the grafters, the landgrabbers and politicians and with one hand skim off the cream and with the other scoop up the gravy. Not for me.

which is to say ye age old "we can always get into it later".

Except you can't get into it later. The fact that you weren't here, to take your marching orders from me, isn't a free option you write yourself ; it is an option you write at considerable cost : it limits your ability to participate in future discussions as to computing! Altogether! If you're not here today to do what I tell you with computers, you will not be able to do anything with computers. Let me repeat that : You. Will not. Be able. To participate in computing. At all. Whatsoever.

I understand that you don't think this "can ever be the case" ; but in point of fact it has already been the case : the conquered peasants of the middle ages, living on the land as tolerated cowards, the notional equivalent of captives of war whose lives are already forfeit, had no participation in that thin barrier of the furthest man's mind ever went at the time! None whatsoever!

Rustics you were and rustics you stay ; you will remain in bondage, not as before but incomparably harsher. For as long as we live and, by God's grace, rule over the realm, we will strive with mind, strength and goods to suppress you so that the rigour of your servitude will be an example to posterity. Both now and in the future people like yourselves will always have your misery.

Bitcoin is feudal, you understand. Do you understand ?

Do you ?

The time while the lords are still even looking for more knights is drawing to a close, like all windows of opportunity ever do ; do not let yourself be seduced by the siren song of idiocy, imagining your present, accidentally loose circumstance will long endure. It won't ; as it hasn't.

I'm sure I make myself perfectly clear ; but I am also sure that the Pointless & Witless parade will dumbly & deafly claim otherwise at such a point as there's no recourse left (but not before -- because just as the pantsuit arguments come instinctively to the pantsuit mind, just so the presence of optionality inhibits action in them).

———"Hey, let's emulate an imaginary box on a pile of real boxes cobbled together". Contrary to what was hoped, this is not something exant iron can do. In fact, it works in practice abount as well as quantum computers and electric cars. [↩]

« Dentist with a view

Cu cartile pe masa : un fleac, l-au ciuruit. »

Category: Bitcoin

Wednesday, 21 February, Year 10 d.Tr.

The problems

Two lines in the log really don't suffice for a particular pile of problems. Nor is really the log the venue for such minutia, so I'm not going to add more there. Instead, I'm going to add more here!

The pile in question :

LordMPofTMSR 38M Master 16h

Not even kidding.

Miss_Asstridi 23F Domme 8h

The subject heading is too long and cuts out. I've no idea what you're not kidding about

LordMPofTMSR 38M Master 2h

Think of it as an intelligence test. That you're failing.

Miss_Asstrid 23F Domme 2h

'How about you drop whatever it is ...'

I'll assume you're some grumpy cuntii that has a problem with me making money?

Miss_Asstrid 23F Domme 2h

Alsoyour previous message should not have been two sentences. Either a whole sentence with a coma for emphasis on the "that you're failing". Although if you wanted to keep it as two sentences, the second should be 'One that you are failing'. Beginning with the word 'That' is grammatically incorrect.

Miss_Asstrid 23F Domme 4m

You failed my intelligence test

LordMPofTMSR 38M Master 1m

Eh, talk to the hand, dorky.

The problems with the pile in question :

Some chickiii thinks that she is making "her own" porn. No male has yet distinguished two cunts to any greater degree than the average duck distinguishes two "different" lampreys, nor ever will, nor ever could ; yet hordes of these unreflective morons imagine they're making "their own" porn. How's this nonsense supposed to work ?! Face down nobody can distinguish "you" from any other self-same "you" and yet somehow, magically, in a fairty-tale that got substituted for realityiv while nobody was looking...

Some chick that thinks there can be such a thing as her cunt imagines the process whereby some raindrops end up in all nooks and crannies equates "making money"! How the fuck is that supposed to work ?! Obviously turning on a power hose that pumps however many trillion little bits of confetti stamped with the word "money" (as fucking if) will necessarily result in the useless, obnoxious shit piling in the way but also finding its way everywhere, including in hats, upturned or not, held out or not, by statues, pigeons and whatnot. So ? Has the puddle "made water" by being in rain's way ?

Some chick that imagines there can be such a thing as her cunt, and that arbitrarily assigns the getting stuffed of her cunt to the passive element in that equation, will then proceed to give rules for my behaviour! Imagine that wonder, it is now "gramatically incorrect" to start sentences with the word "that". Because grammar sometime last Tuesday ceased to be the collected summary of my behaviour, and instead abruptly became the projective tool of some dumb cunt belabouring under gross misapprehensions of self-importance! An infinite history all for naught, make room for "change you can believe in" why don't you!

The problems, in the end, are simply that there can not be any place for punks, irrespective of gender. Nor can punks have a voice, nor can this nonsense carry on. Enough with the ergative fantasy already, it's a played out joke that never was all that funny to begin with.

But at least we gain something from our periplus! We now have a word for punks : we shall call them punks, thereby resolving a most irksome ambiguity where overgrown girlies failed to be correctly distinguished from the ladyship of the Most Serene Republic. We can now say "out of indistinct cunthood the passage of time separates the punks from the ladyship" and in so saying repeat what was before said "in terms that relate to us", and so following.

So following, forever.

———Originally I wrote out color=punk. I do not believe this was a typo, I rather think it is unfortunately the case browsers don't know how to color punks the color punk.

And while we're on the subject : punk is not "an insult". Nothing ever is "a categorical label", like that, generically. "Punk" has a specific meaning, it denotes the post-pubescent boy playing the cockrag for an adult male. Like this kid. Because all sort of curiosities may be excused prepubescent boys, and all sorts of stupidities, in the vein of "audito voluptatis pretio puer stertere coepit" or otherwise ; but not of a man.

The item is then used here metaphorically, but correctly, because I propose to you there exists precisely no difference between the boy who, long past the age when he should have turned into a man, persists instead in playing in boyish ways and the girl who, long past the age when she should have turned into a woman, persists instead in girlish ways. They're punks both, what! [↩]Many years ago, a Romanian moron quit. That momentary inspiration made no difference to him in the end, much like the average drunk's moments of clarity do not coallesce into any sort of useful or even perdurant insight.

Nevertheless, it makes a difference to they who can read, and understand the written word, and more importantly : deeply and fundamentally grasp that one core truth at the cornerstone of all effectual knowledge and all working wisdom, namely that there's nothing personal about the world. That the world as described by words is the same exact thing as the word experienced ; that there's no particular, priviledged value in the having experienced it, even though it may seem so ; that learning from mistakes doesn't have to be personal, impassionate self-investment -- it can just as well be a disinterested, vicarious glance, and to the exact same effect.

What the Romanian moron said, inter alia, read

Am reusit performanta de a ramane in viata, castigand cate ceva si avand un job plin de incercari, drama si nervi. Asta mi-a dat ideea ca sunt pe drumul cel bun si ca trebuie doar sa ma perfectionez. In acest fel am ajuns sa pierd timp, ani, resursa cea mai pretioasa.

Which you may render as "nothing's quite as damaging as a bad revenue source early on" ; or as "so don't do that" ; or as "the best predictor for a young researcher's future career is name of the first field in which he encounters some success", or whatever else! You could even say "desteptu' face bani din ce doreste, prostu' din ce poate", you could point out that in an inflationary world income's not an absolute, but a relative value -- making less than the most is falling behind, there's no such thing as a "salary" expressed in any unit besides "what fraction is it of the largest salary" -- for the directly obvious reason that the house you want will end up costing whatever someone else can afford to pay for it, and everything else you want also, that's what inflation buys you (no, it's not what you thought it'd buy, of fucking course the fuck not!).

However you go about it, there's no avoiding the substance of the problem : anything you do besides The Calling, whatever the hell it might be, is a waste of your time and naught else. Duh.

This very very evil statue of a "grumpy cunt", "old af" inequitable patriarch holding a scythe under the black robes ; and how closing our eyes totally protects from its blade. [↩]And by "some chick" I do not here mean "this" or "that" one. It's not a matter of ones, they're not ones. They're a collective blob, and I mean all of them, each and every one of a large chunk of confused cuntspawn. Each indistinct element, until it manages to distinguish itself in some manner, very well fits the bill, and is very well fit by the bill. [↩]

Tanquam ex ungue leonem.

[↩]

« The Community of Division. Or, Puteria y Verduleria.

I don't get it... »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Sunday, 30 December, Year 10 d.Tr.

The problem with christians

Apparently this is the day of the great re-read ; anyway, find below an excellent 2010 piece, originally called "Problema cu crestinii".

Well, one of the problems, in no case the only one nor the most pressing. Merely a fundamental defect that renders the whole pile to rankest ridicule. Promising intro, isn't it ?

Very well, let's look at the christian system. So John the Christian does things. Not being crystalline shale, but live being, it's not possible to do nothing ; life depends on exchanges with the environment, and from there flows the obligation of action for any live thing, no exceptions. As such, John the Christian can't just sit suspended in stasis, but necessarily must do things.

Of the things he does, necessarily some will be "good" and some "bad", irrespective of what ethical system is chosen to add value tags to historical facts. This is so on one hand for the theoretical consideration that an ethical system devoid of category, one that either calls everything good or everything bad, would be trivial and therefore not worth the mention ; and on the other hand for the practical consideration that it is not possible to completely control material interaction (this being a law of mechanics, so however practical of a theoretical seed it sprouts nevertheless). We can't evaluate with arbitrary precision anything in nature, and as such no action will ever be crafted to perfectly allign with any theoretical model, system of values etcetera, never ever, whosoever and howsoever might try.

Here intervenes christian ideology, through the artefact of "forgiveness". I've said before the notion means nothing to mei, but in xtianism it works something like this : if John the Christian does something, and later comes to think he shouldn't have, and if he "sincerely regrets" the deed, it is "forgiven".

What does this mean ? Well, the first nebulous concept, "sincere regret", is in fact insurance against man's will : the system of christian forgiveness does not wish to work except in those situations where its functioning will not be used to prove... its dysfunctionality. A sort of "we'll sell you cars only if you promise under pain of annulment of the sale that you won't use the cars sold in any way which might prove the thing we sold you isn't a car". That's the basis of the "meeting of the minds" involved, xtian "forgiveness" demands as its only precondition the warranty of the potentially-forgiven that he won't rely on said forgiveness in any kind of dispute with the system.

In the simplest presentation, this wonder works thusly : if John goes to the priest and asks for forgiveness, after which upon being so forgiven turns around and points at the idiot in funny costume and laughs and tells him "ha-ha, I'm going straight to the brothel, dumbass" the professed warranty of "sincere regret" somehow manages (in the "reasoning" of the christian, I am not responsible for their idiocy) to retroactively annul the fact of forgiveness (which in turn was the retroactive annulment of the fact of sin).

So, in the thermodynamic flow of events, every proposed "act" of forgiveness creates a bifurcation, and it is proposed to be established at an ulterior moment whether the forgiveness "held", and the deed forgiven is in point of fact undone, or conversely if the forgiveness was anulled, however factual it might've been at the time of its occurrence, and by way of consequence the deed it purportedly annulled is un-undone. For better idiocy, the moment at which the fork is to be resolved isn't even fixed in time -- and this, even if not by a longshot the only problem, is nevertheless a very serious one.

For instance, inheritance vests into title within a specific, maximally fixed term ; wills that purport longer intervals (or just the lines in question) are routinely stricken. "No interest is good unless it must vest, if at all, not later than twenty-one years after the death of some life in being at the creation of the interest." says the Englishman of 1500, to avoid the situation of mortmain, but the christian doesn't have that minimal understanding of things and matters in law (discussed here as a theoretical possibility of legal working, nevermind practical applications) as'd befit a medieval legal scholar. As such, there's no RAPii among the xtians, I can pull out the proof Mary was a whore and never actually regretted it sincerely (but instead simply lied to everyone about it) whenever I fucking feel like so doing, and blam! there she flies out of Heaven, to the consternation of the whole body catholic.

A more serious problem than this issue of vesting repentance is the problem of broken idempotence. As you perhaps know, everything in nature balances out, every action with its reaction, every interior with its exterior, every "up" must have its "down". Anything that can be accelerated can also be decelerated, anything warmed can be cooled, if you lift water here you lower something somewhere else and so following.

Christianity hasn't quite managed, on the piddly impetuus of its scant brain poorly employed, to comprehend this basic property of the world, so therefore sins can be forgiven, but achievement can't be... forgiven. Logically it would be required, by the doctrine of annulment of fact by faith (call it "repentance", or whatever theologico-religious bullshit you prefer) that any facts be annulable. For instance, John the Christian trains dedicatedly, works for years day by day, ends up an olympic runner, runs very well one peculiar day, is a hint lucky too and gets first place. Good for him. Good for him but tough tits, because looky I sincerely repent his victory, and it's thereby annulled. Buh-bye.

The circumstance whereby this device of "forgiveness" is to be opposable to third parties, per the lights of xtian idiocy, but third parties don't have an equivalent system whereby to oppose our deeds produces necessarily and as it must a most significant imbalance, which works to reduce the importance of our own failures to nil, and through this moral hazard, cosubstantial to and entirely produced by christianity, utterly corrupts the faithful. Sooner or later any true christian will be mendacious, bigoted, jealous, and generally speaking driven against the other -- because you can't possibly give anyone a button which reduces the other to nil and expect them not to use it to infinity. No matter how well the story begins, however elegant, generous, loving or honest may the hero start off, through christian practice he will necessarily if by degrees arrive to moral decay, because that's how christian ideology is constructed, to corrupt.

Seeking some respite from this fundamental problem rivers of ink flew, whole forests of innocent trees were pressed into countless tons of useless maculature, billions of spoken evening entertainments were produced and consumed in halls set aside for the purpose of spoken evening entertainment. Sadly one can't mend a tear in the space-time continuum with needle and thread, and similarily one can't repair the fundamental immorality of christianity by superficial moralizing. The two principal avenues through which fixing is attempted but not succeeded are the doctrine of love and the theory of nonlegalism (which is to say the fanfic view whereby ethical considerations supersede legal considerations aka the "people themselves" argument, or "willing suspension of disbelief" if that's the label you prefer). These two aren't just systematically neglected in practice (for their own fault, being as they are self-contradictory and unmeasurable nonsense), but in spite of their not fixing anything nevertheless they manage to create all sorts and manner of other problems, so intricate and far reaching as to make their complete avoidance a much cheaper solution, normatively speaking.

In the end, the imbalance we're discussing is the driving force for the insurance mechanism we discussed further up. Not that it could possibly serve anything to have meaningless warranty in support of a system that's systematically dysfunctional, but hey, people try.

May it stand for their eternal happiness, that trying, but I'd prefer to hear no further whines about how "people are bad / the world is evil / sinful" blabla etcetera. The problem isn't the people, the problem is the nonsense thought by boots calling itself christianity. I don't necessarily hold the original authors responsible, because what can be expected of a bunch of unwashed orcs shepherding goats ? In any case not operating systems for numeric machines, an infinitely easier task than what they pretend to have achieved writing "the bible". I do however hold the belated idiots responsible, the sort of moron trying to run GoatSmegma '00, the Jerusalem edition on 64 bit processors. It's fucking inadequate, derps, how about an upgrade ? Try Popper, it's open source.

———Through the magic of the passage of time, there's a much better article to link to here (since 2014) than the original had available before it, back in 2010. Blogs, you know ? There's a reason books are dead, and this is half of it. [↩]Rule against perpetuities. You had no idea, did you. [↩]

« Here's how pantsuitism / christianity ruined civilisation, in both the Ancient and the Modern world.

Titless. »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Friday, 02 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

The principal-agent problem, or how America went away

The exact pinpointing of when VHS-America ended, to be replaced with the current lulz is rather a point of irrelevant minutia, even if it may be an enjoyable pastime. The understanding of how exactly it happened, of the mechanism of decay involved is however instructive not to mention outright habilitating. So let's review this wonder that briefly was, for the sake of future wonders we'll produce, in the hope thus they'll ever be.

The origins of America are quite recent : at the time Alexander Hamilton was penning his Observations..., America was actually less, in comparative terms, as a percentage of the entire world, than The Most Serene Republici is today, and its potentialii by comparison minuscule. It is the nature of human naivete to hallucinateiii anachronisms all over the place, but as a factual matteriv had Bitcoin existed in 1818 America would not have been worth a thousand, and you could very likely have bought it all for less.

From that sorry initial state, because supported by sound ideology, America expanded at an incrediblev rate over a century, which is to say four or five generations. Towards the end of this interval, the last great generation of Americans, the people who had created "the Gilded Age" were coming to an end, and for the first time in the history of America replacements were not forthcoming. The discussion of why exactlyvi they weren't forthcoming will not find its place here ; and since you lack proper knowledge of the topicvii we shall proceed through the more accessible venue of expertly selected cinemaviii.

So, have you seen Cat on a hot tin roof ? Big Daddy, a man from an earlier time, had madeix the greatest farm this side of the river Nile, and bought from Europe, that "great open air market", whatever useless junk his wife stuffed in his basement. His son, Brick Pollitt, is a drunk of a little boy, hanging up on his friends, and on his wife, and on life.

But tell me, have you seen Ragtime (Samuel L. Jackson's first American film ; or Jeff Daniels', if you prefer) ? Harry Kendall Thaw may well be the inheritor of a Pittsburgh rail & coal fortune, but he's certainly not the man to carry it forward, contrary to what the Sob Sisters would have loved to make you believe.

Big Daddy Pollitt and William Thaw Sr.x didn't go around on crutches or brawling over preteen pussy ; the very sharp "you, what's your name" is redolent of exactly what she, what's her name failed to pass along into Brick : the useful portion of the alpha malexi. Their sad descendants, though maybe prettier than Greek gods through the virtues of improved childhood nutritionxii, nevertheless suffer under the burdens of horrid parentingxiii and so... well ? Something will have to be done.

Big Daddy is dying ; William Thaw is dying. There's farms and banks and railroads and other things to run. What do ? Williams' tzadik fiction has Brick somehow magically rise up and assume the crown, a fiction that works exactly like porn works : by carefully not showing us what happens after, or presenting any meaningful mechanism whatsoever. He just downloads the required kungfu from god directly upon assumption, what, problem ? It's the movies after all.

But what if it weren't the movies ? How does it work when it isn't the movies ? The collected "family" surviving the patriarch, composed as it is of Brick and Gooper sheepishly following the lead of Maggie and Mae (who neither want to, who both would much rather other things with better men, but who both also perceive they have no choice in the matter -- as indeed they don't) sit around and can't, on their own power, sort the comparatively simple problem of property. They need outside help to do that much, which is to say that very, very little. Solving the problems that Big Daddy solved while he lived is so far above their paygrade it's not even representable in their system. Yet those problems don't go away just because Big Daddy did. They remain behind, one can't ever take anything with him out of this world.

The only known solution to this problem is captured in the title : the principal-agent relationship. You might know, even if the odds are you do not know, who Dinu Paturica was, and how he and Didina aimed to make a life for themselves. If you do not, which is excusable even if it hurts you, you might perhaps know who Pepin the Short was, and why and wherefore the erstwhile Count of Paris and Chamberlain of the Palace became king of France. Or you might've read about Eugenie Grandet and her vintner father, or else maybe the Merchant of Venice ? But you don't really need any priors to understand the simple fact : wealth, in the strict sense of "controling future activity" will pass from the dead hand to the active hand. If it's not done violently, as in the assumption of the Roman empire by the Visigoths (and then everyone else -- not merely the Germans had a "Roman" emperor but so did the Russians, and the Turks!) it will still be done. How will it be done ?

The agent-principal relationship! That's how it will be done. The inept clan of idiots left behind by Big Daddy will... a) list the "company" incorporated as an attempt to preserve his legacy on "the stock exchange" and b) hire some young dicklet to "manage" it for them.

You understand what this is ? Big Daddy had no need of such a thing as a) above, it wasn't meaningful for him. He knew what was going on. The successors, those who do not know actually need the crates and the labels, to them the contents is not meaningful of and by itself, certainly not enough to be recognizable as content or non-content by its simple examination. They need liminal barriers and labels to make (some semblance of) sense out of the jumble. It's a purely archeological approach, they're not building anything but merely trying to preserve.

As to the agent... his interests are very much not aligned with theirs. He wants to take as much for himself -- as well is his right, and as exactly is proper. They should have nothing, and he should have it all. But here is the barb of womanly "civilisation" : he's not "supposed" to. Why not, you aim to ask ? Ask rather why this imbecile aims to "raise servant leaders" and the matter should be plain before your eyes : she's lazy and dumb, and seeks to protect herself from her more active, intelligent daughters. She "knows" without knowing that the missing ingredient for those to amount to anything is a competent Master in whose hand to thrive, and so she cucks all the little boys she can find as soon as she can find them. It's a simple if despicable strategy.

So instead of doing the right thing and simply assuming their proper position, the "agents" are stuck doing a complicatedxiv dance through which to steal the shebang while leaving behind the appearance, in the manner of termitesxv. Year after year this proceeded, and the gulf between book value and actual value ever grew, to the point that in the 1970s the cost to carry any property on corporate books had ballooned to such an extent, divesting out of America and into Asia appeared as the correct choice. It was.xvi

That's the mechanism by which America ended : that the Dinu Paturica whom the empress Irinaxvii fucks has no interest in her perpetuation, and in the process of her disenfranchisement he first calls ten loaves twelve, then later counts two for every present loaf, then even later there's one loaf present per dozen counted and then so following. Why did you think the hospital aspirin costs 10 bucks a pill ?

And you want to Make America Great Again, you say. It can't be done, America has long ago been replaced with the US, and this is not reversible. The America you're looking for is called TMSR today, get with the programme.

———By the way, if your name is Matthew, do stop to consider that Republican literature is a whole lot more reliable, accurate and truthful than Imperial literature -- a point ironically proven by the attempt to categorically reject the former on the basis of its unimperial origin rather than substantive discussion. [↩]Something piously & affectionately referred to by Fanboi Buffett as "unlimited", though evidently unlike the Republic America actually has borders, try as it might to pretend that it doesn't. [↩]They are hallucinated, and especially by the orc mind. They're thinking "Oh, American tourists are rich!!!" and therefore imagine America of a coupla centuries ago as some sort of wonder of might and power like they had in Europe throughout. This is in point of fact how the lottery winner thinks, "because I am a millionaire now, therefore I wasn't a dumb fuck an hour ago when I hadn't two pennies to rub together, and therefore my ideas of an hour ago are good and right and proper and useful". It doesn't work out in practice for the lottery winner, nor does it obviate the strict truth that while Europe always had might and power, America (as the continent) never did -- the original Boston was eaten by fucking wolves, something unheard in Europe since at least three millenia ago, which is to say once iron was introduced and put to its first and to date principal use : teh Wolfsangel (you probably know it as the letter Z). [↩]You understand that early "presidents" ate at the restaurant if some European friend with actual money invited them to and not otherwise, yes ? You understand what Jefferson was actually after, yes ? [↩]Depends what your standard for incredulity is. Let's just say that every generation properly regarded its production as a supermajority of the collected everything that came before. This is a state of major disruption, rarely encountered in human history, and so perhaps merits the epithet.

On the other hand, if you stop to consider that within TMSR this situation has occured every single year since its inception, that at the end of 2013 we could look back and see that all of 2013 was a lot more than half the sum of 2012-2013, and then at the end of 2014 we could look back and see that all of 2014 was again more than half of the 2012-2014 collection, and then at the end of 2015 we could also look back and see that it too had been more than half the 2012-2015 accumulation, and yet again at the end of 2016 we did, if memory serves, look back and found that indeed 2016 was by itself more than half the whole 2012-2016 pile, and today, as we look back over 2017 we again find the same fact : that half of everything was made last year.

In short, what may or may not seem believable is very much a function of one's own experience, and so let's not quibble over it. [↩]The linked item attempts an early pantsuit rewrite in the typical vein -- supposedly some sort of mystical disenchantment in the children brought about by their mother's enslavement were the cause of their poor performance (and only to be cured by making the cunt into the head of all households, of course). While this nonsense is a common pantsuit theme, insistently and ubiquitously repeated, the completely sufficient and obviously correct explanation is that sooner or later extensive expansion will have to give way to intensive expansion, and then once the low hanging fruit are picked longer and ever more elaborate stairwells are required to continue picking, resulting eventually in that situation where the capital cost of equipment exceeds the production of that equipment over an arbitrary interval. There's no way out of this bind (certainly nonsense of this sort will not be entertained, I don't care that pantsuit consensus is rather leaning that way), and specifically the overburdening of women with weighs above their carry capacity certainly won't fix the fundamental problem. [↩]Which you are very much encouraged to develop for yourself -- if for no other reason then simply to check this article -- and then proceed to see which parts of what I say stand or don't stand in that light, and most importantly -- what this says about the article and the light!, because odds are you'll discover you had misunderstood something, as per usual. This is how an education is acquired, after all. [↩]It's an illusion, all this, of course, a grandiose show of light caught between smoke and mirrors. Of course ~I~ can pick which films to pick, and stand with them ; but the apparent ease of the process hides the massive piles of thought that went into building the sorting trees on which it all relies, or as the man said, "Actually, you were asking me to design a logotype which would have taken me a few hours and fifteen years experience." [↩]That's right, made. Now go pack my lunches. [↩]Born 1818, dead 1890, a fine example as he happens to straddle the period. William Thaw started as a clerk (like the kids in, say, Hello Dolly) in the bank where his father worked -- the United States Bank of Philadephia, on 420 Chestnut Street, mostly invented and run by Nicholas Biddle (in a building by Strickland). The father in question, one John Thaw, was actually sent from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh to open a branch of the bank, carefully saved his stock warrants and thereby started a major capitalist dynasty (they're like hasidic courts, basically).

William Thaw managed transportation and finance for a large chunk of period America, most notably contributed to the decision to switch from canals to railroad (this was a fundamental design decision at the time, exactly like, say, our decision to drop C for Ada), and eventually croaked (in Paris, see?), never to be replaced. [↩]Brick Pollitt, you see, also asks his woman what's her name to leave him the fuck alone -- but in his case, it's to drink. [↩]Sadly I can't find anymore the spot where it is said that the father's only responsibility to his daughter is to to stuff a pound of raw prime beef down her throat every day and naught else, so it will have to be restated. Protein makes the girl tall, and strong, and her spine sway elegantly and her tits big and her hips heavy and everything else. Feed her protein abundantly and let her be ; there's naught else you could do to compensate for not doing this capital and most important duty.

Incidentally, it was found twenty minutes after I complained : Genetics proposes, the environment disposes. [↩]The notes on parenting are a must-read here. [↩]And utterly corrupting. They will never be able to properly stand up to actual men for the very reason of having spent their formative years involved in this sort of pidosnic nonsense. [↩]If you imagine that "public opinion" will "prevent corporate theft" you've not understood the basics. Public opinion works in that manner only if the public doesn't consist of those who are doing the thieving. If everyone in this "public opinion" of yours is the CEO of some kind of corporation, they're not going to prevent any theft, they're just going to organize into a thieving combine and leave you behind. They don't even have to want to in order to do this, or indeed even understand that's what they're doing. Optionality exists where it exists, not where you prefer to hallucinate it. [↩]I don't think you can compare 1980s China (or, to some extent, India) with today's. You're probably wont to engage the same anachronism-secreting glands and imagine some kind of similarity, but no, nothing of the kind. The 1980s director of the Nanking nuclear physics research institute couldn't afford a hotel stay and dared not eat a second plum at the formal dinner table. Their whole 1987 GDP was barely a quarter trillion, that's less than a coupla hundy per capita. [↩]Do you know of this character, the woman who blinded her own son so she could continue regent ? [↩]

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Category: SUA care este

Thursday, 25 January, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Price of Loyalty, revisited

Motto: in the end, useless hp box

found new life as heroes 2 playstation.

I still remember the day, 25 years ago just about, when I first saw this wonder. "It's exactly like a fairy tale", was my first and strongest impression, the mind racing to cope with the first, and to date strongest miracle it ever witnessed : mythos, embodied.

I played the hell out of this game, solo as well as hotseat multiplayer. It was a point of pride, and a point of joy, structure of my early life of the mind. I was fascinated, utterly. In fairness, I still am, yet... things have changed. Perhaps the opposite of how the world has changed meanwhile ; yet changed they have nevertheless.

What a far cry, those days of the eagerly occupied, feverishly relinquished seat of power, magnificent throne of allpossibilities standing before the desktop running the "hotseat". As we sat on comfortable couches passing a laptop around now, me and my bevy of nude girlies, there was a quite palpable feeling of difference, hovering, iridiscent if barely perceptible, above the cruft-ladden coffee table. Things have changed, haven't they!

How many times did the DOS boot into a C:, and maybe identified a D: ? Yet how many of those times your actual residence was in a mystical, alien, outright science-fiction Z: ? This, this alone, that I'd get into the image of the computed world from an imaginary, hidden Z: of power, of magick incomprehensiblei... The apotropaion of ulterior me smiles back over the years at myself, such as I was. This place isn't a hruscheba, nor does it look upon the Romanian "picior de plai". They around aren't sticksuri Aurora. There's no longer any rule against going into town multiple times per day because the machine no longer takes a good second to flip memory bits and render the townscape. In fact, everything in the virtual machine's practically instantaneous anyway. Eight cores, who even heard of such a thing!

And so we played ; and I won ; and made merry. I wouldn't trade it for the world, this life of mine, such as it was, such as it is. The best possible time of the best possible times, there for the grace of god goes no-one else than I.

Goodbye! Adieu! Si pe curind!

———Altogether very comprehensible. If you have the original game CD, like I do, rather than a more recent repackaging (stolen from GoG, like everyone else on the internet's, apparently) you may find the ubiquitous "helpful guides" abundantly useless. No matter : plop your CD into the drive, start dosbox, run

mount c /home/user/blabla/

to put the game into c and then

mount d "/media/Heroes II" -t cdrom

to put the drive within reach. Yes, believe it or not, /media is a thing now.

Then heroes2 and enjoy yourself. [↩]

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Category: Trolloludens

Wednesday, 26 September, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Perfect Day

Motto : What a perfect day...

I'm glad I spent it with you...

This will also serve as a guide to postcrastination. Read on!

So at four in the morning we took off for the beach! With the great sea beyond! The shining jewel... Lewt Golhiney!i

We arrived by sunrise ; we took a short and pleasant walk up and down the deserted beach and then we strung out the Towel of Legend and took a nap.

I woke up somewhat later, to admire girlybutts on surfboards. It really is the ultimate female sport, don't you agree ? Great Asses Wet, what more can ye ask for.

Then I went in, myself, against waves standing taller than the camel ; and therein I died again. Just like before only moreso this time. They dragged me back out, I could not stand. I leaned against alabaster abdomen and groaned the groan of the anoxic. I turned blue around the nose, and the eyelids. I passed out, and then I came to, and therewith needed to shit, piss and vomit at the same simultaneous time.

I had a fabulous time! Thereupon which having we returned, laden with sand in each crevice and orifice, from cochlea to interstitia and so following ; plus a battery of pineapples, a bushel of mangoes, fruits of paradise and other fruits etcetera. And on the road over I said cocksucking first, showering after, and then while girls hauled empty the complex baggage train requisite for such adventure, compelx arrangements of towels and ice boxes and thermoses and spares + everything in triplicate etcetera, I sat down to check out the wonderful world of the Internets!

Whenceupon-forth, 877.194.

Eight hundred seventy-seven dot a hundred ninety-four. That's how many street fights... I mean, that's how many millions of ECu my latest pop popped. Now you see why they call me Popescu ?

There it was, joy of joys, delight of delights, almost ten million Nondescript Tubers of a very acceptable quality! Thereby pushing all competition into third place and below, for now I own both first and second places in the all-time top of pops! The moment I'd been waiting for, patiently pouring five-digit quality LBN into the ground! VICTORY!

So as I was sitting on my Couch of Mastery (you have no idea) delighting in delicious homebaked monkey bread with a side of the world's best coffee etcetera it occured me I've had a perfect day!

And it's not even noon yet! (Well, it wasn't, at any rate).

See, this is postcrastination : to enjoy not doing anything after having done it! Not before, that's for suckers. After, after. There I sat, and there I enjoyed, my perfect day.

Tai-tai.

———This joke almost works if you know how to say naked in Romanian and butt in kidEnglish. [↩]

« Qntra (S.QNTR) August 2018 Statement

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Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 03 September, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Outbridge, the Bitches' Bow, the various things you didn't know...

First, the Outbridge.

Suppose you're going to Poas (which is a volcano) but you're not going the direct route (because holy shit I'm not going through Alajuela-Herediai, I'd rather go tailparty in Hatillosii) nor are you going the alternate further route (through Atenas) because it can't be found, because who the fuck here ever heard of signage, "people already know where they want to go because otherwise why would they be going there"iii. Isn't knowledge a wonderful thing ?

But it's okay, we'll go through the even further route, why the hell not, the engine's powerful and the country tiny.

Except...

How about that!

And from what I hear, there were people on it when it washed away. (In fairness, the situation was signalled, in the shape of a 20pt handscribbling in orange on a different-orange roadblock set suspiciously kinda passively-aggressive on the roadside.)

In entirely unrelated not-news, here's a nice lake :

We oft stop there for a roadside coffee ; which we carry in a special compartment. We do because we must, it is generally, universally, inescapably and infuriatingly the case that whatever and howsoever arbitrarily chosen "tourist location", "resort hotel", "so and so peninsula" etcetera fail to provide, and fail to even come close to providing the level of human amenties Bartholomew can be prepared to carry by a forenight forewarned forewhore (a certain Miss Hanhanaha Wackerns, you don't know her). I can pack more in a trunk than these idiots can provide through real-estate, libera nos Domine.

But let's move on. To chattels (real estate having been above exhausted) :

I do spin quite the yarn, do I ? Anyway -- above, smiling sweetly her submissive cute, a certain cheap bimbo whose name I forget. Not to worry though, it'll come back to me (the bimbo, I mean). Maybe even today. Or maybe not, depending on how I feel.

How about that, bimbo ?

Mwahahahaha.

Moving on : below, the technology of sealing cuts in nylon rope. You understand, the difference between natural and synthetic fibers is that naturals burn while synthetics melt, yes ? So therefore, nylon rope can't fray, yes ? There you go, aspiring young "master o' women, just like that mp from the internetweb"! Now you know!

Above -- you pass the seared end through the hook's loop (yes, this is going to be one of those instructional items).

Below -- you make a loop. Do you know how to make a noose, by the way ?

Above : as I was saying (above), first you make a loop, then you bring one end back (from the opposite side of the loop you made), and loop it over the rope.

Below : you turn it around a few more times, then you bring the end through and last loop you made and knot it, thereby producing half of what you need to hang yourself.

And now we're ready : one noosed ends goes on her wrists, and the rope is twisted around them as many times as needed ; the other noosed end goes on her neck.

And the hook goes in...

You realise there's absolutely nothing she can do but squeal and run around, now. Do you ?

So then good, let her squeal and run around, what.

———Too much traffic ; you can't even begin to imagine what happens when you sell cheap toyotas to a bunch of recently alighted tree monkeys that can't, for the life of them, merge.

Por algo es Toyota! [↩]Horrid New World hruschebization ; basically a collection of cul-de-sacs for the poor. It looks every bit as terrible as Puerto Rico, an agglomeration of dodo birdsnests and makeshift shelters posing as "houses" inconvincingly even to the natives.

Human houses are built on broken ground according to a pre-existing plan since the time of the Latins ; but these are mere collections of whatever materials-like objects happened in the hand of the prospective homeowner, somewhat organized after the fact ; and it's not even that none have celars, it's rather that the owners can't even comprehend why any lair would include such a thing. Not like you dig under your future house, wut!

It makes a big difference, this, whether you collect materials according to a plan or whether you produce a narrative to fit the extant materials. Did you know ? [↩]I'm not even fucking kidding, this is the fundamental mode of idiocy informing the local mind. They absolutely never go anywhere they don't already know. Never.

They do not.

Consequently, what use is there for signage ? And what difference it makes, being born well, so your parents take you places when you're still a kid. And so on. [↩]

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Category: La pas prin lume

Tuesday, 25 December, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Night of the Hunter

Motto :What a fellowship,what a joy divine,

Leaning on the everlasting arms

Leaning,

Leaning,

Safe and secure from all alarms.

Leaning,

Leaning,

Leaning on the everlasting arms.

The Night of the Hunteri is an old piece of pantsuit agitprop deeply relevant to public discourse today because of the naive, credulous and unrefined manner in which it tips its hand.ii

To understand each other : our colonies in North America have known three social models of manhood. In historical order :

the fop of (originally) Boston and then (by inheritance) New York, that guy dangling a tennis racket Humprhey Bogart spent the first half of his career trying to escape ;

the actual male, of Pennsylvania and the rural original colonies, inherited by Chicago, Detroit and the Alamo, that guy whom women serve, on their knees, and naturally ;

the Western steer, principally of California and its cultural dependenciesiii, aka Zed's gimp, a thoroughly decerebrated slave, there to move weights around at the behest of the female in the saddle.

We won't go into all the intricacy of historical detail -- as to what the cultural ascendancy of California in the decades after the war both means and was driven by ; as to how New York malesiv briefly experienced a Chicago infatuation leading to some type two resurgence between the wars ; as to why exactly Texas (and its Mississippi and Ozark cultural dependencies -- there's a reason Alabama's barefoot) is Texas and how Detroit intermediated that southern migration of the scions of the sanded port of Penn. Suffice to say that when Lilian Gish says into the phonev

Miz Booher ? Rachel Cooper. Get your state troopers out to my place.

you immediately see exactly what Ballas meant by

Ok, but what happens when violence finds you and a hero is needed?

That's why the end of Gran Torino fits so well -- this is a *spoiler*, though they don't so much foreshadow this ending as they do scream it at you from the opening scene-- he goes to confront the bad guys and dies in a hail of bullets -- the end which is so obvious and predictable but at the same time the only one that would speak to this generation of narcissists: when we need a hero, heroes are obligated to rise up and serve, but please have the decency to die afterwards so we can go back to second guessing the ethics of your actions.

We hate to be reminded that there are others who are better than us; but, for the love of God, please let there be people better than us.

(besides, of course, his self-inclusion in the "we" of the female herd).

Thus equipped, we can actually understand this story : a little boy is confronted with the choice (and a seemingly unreliable female sibling, that he never trusts but who nevertheless never betrays), in the shape of his father, an actual man, dropping the bomb on him. Another actual man, deeply, fundamentally and irredeemably hostile, takes up his little boy milk scent, and is pressing down the doors -- and god almighty I'm hardpressed to think of anything more satanic than the (exceptional!) Mitchum character going down that hill crest under the moonlight singing the mottovi. "Doesn't he ever sleep ?!" is exactly right. But no -- evil never sleeps.

As depicted in the film, the little boy cracks up under the burden, and returns the package. "It's too much! It's too much!" he cries. For many fenotypical boys manhood indeed is too much, which is why "go West, young'un" is such a commonplace. Go there, it's where Rachel Cooper coops up all the insufficients, there'll be a pair of lederhosen and the occasional apple waiting for you in Californy! Take the first left after Frisco.

Pretty much the entirety of contemporary discourse as well as behaviourvii is laid out, plainly and unobfuscated, for your viewing pleasure. If going through it will be enjoyable or annoying... well... I'd rather set that down to mood.

In any case, remember : there's nothing more rural, provincial, unrefined, acultural or plain old uninteresting than California. And for very good reasons, at that.

———1955, by Charles Laughton, with an exceptional Robert Mitchum and a well pickled Lilian Gish. [↩]More in-depth discussion of how this works can be had over at Consumerism is not the answer, though it will put you to sleep ; or, American History X. [↩]Why did you think women had the vote in Oregon ? [↩]At all historical points cosmopolitan, which is to say not cleanly subscribing to any particular current. This then was seized upon by the usual sort of poisonous jewry, who spun it into myriad tendentious misrepresentations, all directed at somehow obfuscating the true source of the difference in models. In spite of their best efforts however, it's plain evident that neither the marx-ziggler concept of "class" nor any other such low rent nonsense has any bearing on the matter.

Yes the foppish and the "criminal" (aka poor) sections of New York went Southern just as the "middle class" (aka "church going") sections went Western, hence the know-nothing movement and the draft riots (you know about these, by the way ? what do you know ?) and the Volstead act (to "break the power of the publican", you understand) and so following. These demographic considerations are caused by, and not the cause of, the deeper and more fundamental gender role divide. [↩]And note how this quote is universally truncated on the net today, into either the mendacious through omission

Get your state troopers out here. I got something trapped in my barn.

or else out-and-out counterfictive retcons a la

Then, she phones the State Troopers to come and arrest the Preacher, telling an officer: "I've got something trapped in my barn."

Admire the instinctive shitheelery baked in, "an officer". Right ? [↩]I've searched ; no one sings it better. No one else even understands what the fuck the song is even about, buncha tonedeaf retards the lot. [↩]As a for instance : the Mitchum character subtly takes advantage of a) the fact that there's such a dearth of actual men in the pantsuit space and b) the unescapable universal that the women composing it are just as eager as any other women to give themselves into the hand of a man by pretending their idiotic nonsense. He's a preacher, don't you know, much like the con men selling useless rifles and assorted nonsense to oldsters are "conservative". If they weren't, they wouldn't advertise on naive-old-losers.com, would they now!

Is this different from today's beta male "transsexuals" trying to fit in among the herd ? Different how ? "Virtue signalling" is just the first step on the road to the knife. The step just before hormonal supplements. What, you didn't know ? And what else didn't you know, you thought "vegans" eat lots and lots of soy for their convictions ? What fucking convictions ? [↩]

« Must suck to be one of you "average guy with a great sense of humor" losers, seriously now.

Incursion in classical pantsuit discourse »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 17 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

The negotiations of terms

I dumped something in the vein of "Fetlife chicks are kinda dull" in channel yesterday. Here it is :

chickie Awesome! I am in Canada and I see you are in Costa Rica. I just spent the Christmas holidays in Mexico. If I let you tie me up, do I get to spend a week in Costa Rica?

Me Sure, why not. Buy your plane ticket and I'll pick up the hotel & feed you for the week.

chickie it took me 2 weeks to figure out how to respond to your last email, which I have to say was not well received. I don't need you to pick up the hotel and feed me. I found that insulting. I wanted to have an experience together, not negotiate terms... Maybe you can understand when the next girl offers to come for a visit

Me That's ok, there's really no room in this world for girls with delusions of equalitarianism or w/e that was.

By the reaction (both public and private) that met the item (both exactly identical) I came to suspect I'm perhaps the only one who understands what actually happened there. Yes a deal can be anything, so let's delve into this one!

First off, to get the minor point of pantsuit rhetorics out of the way : it's utterly untrue she "took two weeks" to complete the task of answering me (or for that matter any other task at any point during her short but insignificant life).

What happened there was that two weeks went by before her lazy, disorganised ass found itself in front of a blinking cursor in this specific box, and she did what she always does in this situation, be it Philosophy 404 or writing to her mom : she looked around, took in the surroundings, and attempted to forge that instant, present perception into some kind of passible shape. The rulebook guiding the attempt is based on her (limited) knowledge of the common locuses and general expectations of human beings, which is to say the sort of intellects that do have some notion of time rather than perpetually inhabit an unutterably sordid present. Exactly like the sociopath attempting to mimic humor, hence The Roomi, exactly like the ESL-tarded "business majors" attempting to mimic business, hence The Disaster Artist, exactly so the imbecile pantsuit attempts to mimic having a brain that's capable of supporting some sort of rational thought process while they have no such thing nor anything even vaguely similar.

That's the common, deep source of all those "As an X"ii bits of howling, batshit insane nonsense you previously found scattered everywhere yet never could explain. That's the common, deep root of all those inedible "human interest" ledes burying each and every unpublishable bit of drivel the jew press insists on publishing nevertheless. The "It was a summer day in Karachi and I was..."-style J. Peterman copy ? It comes from the same place the "as an X" construct comes, and really all of the rest of pantsuit abstract production : they are the necessary distortions wrought by a a timeless, memory-less signal processor "trying to fit in" a world made by humans for humans ; they mean no more nor connote any more than vibrations in an engine or ripples on the lake.iii

That out of the way, we can now proceed to

Does he love me ? I want to know how can I tell if he loves me so ? Is it in his eyes?

Oh no! You'll be deceived

Is it in his sighs?

Oh no! He'll make believe. If you want to know if he loves you so. It's in his kiss. That's where it is.

Call-and-response, because yes, Africans. The truth of the matter is, most women have always known and still to the present day do know (as they will forever know just as well) the facts of the matteriv ; and have consistently relied on the shriveled up old cunts to to divine their future as passive objects. Will "she be deceived" ie have to work hard for very little pay ? Is he looking to be financially dominated ? How can she tell ?!?!?!?!

It's not altogether unsensiblev an approach, even if it is thoroughly insensate. But it is also a crystal ball, and as a result it changes periodically.vi Do you know what it morphed into currently ? No, it's not "it's in his kiss" anymore, duh!

You've watched Scott Pilgrim vs the World with me, I know you have, because I mentioned it upstream and you definitely check up on all the references, being a respectable intellectual sorta fellow. You've watched it with me, but what did you see ?

There's for instance the scene where the girl, for no conceivable reason, "decides" to put out and finds herself in the "hero"'s bed. That part needs no explanation whatsoever -- yes it sucks to be them, but you're welcome to suck in one palm and piss in the other and report the revolutionizing, world-changing results at your leisure. There was no deciding there involved in any case (and mind the costs of pretending otherwise).

Then she decides, and this actually is a decision, that "she doesn't want to fuck anymore". Why ? What sort of insane, self-cutting, anorexic sense does this make ?

Exactly that! Precisely like anorexia, precisely like self-harm in general, the girl's doing the only thing she can do : reject what she needs, as the prisoner's only remaining avenue to signal. She's on hunger strike. But why ?

Why. Because she believes what the failuresvii told her, namely that if he sends her packing off to the dungeon to linger there chained against the cold wall with no food and water he "was an asshole" and therefore bad, whereas if he's a chinless limpdick of no possible import or consequence it's all alright and "he'll treat her right".

Why she would be dumb enough to believe this is not really germane -- for one thing I didn't yet meet anyone who actually did so believe ; for the other the actress surely doesn't ; for the third you hadn't thought about the waves, either. I guess it seems obvious now that you consider it but you never stopped to consider it before ? So what do you expect from ditzy twentysomething cuntlets then! They somehow came to believe that anything but catching a live one is a good outcome, and their lives really show the sad effects of the diligent application of just such nonsense.

But at least it keeps the printing press bills low, which is the ultimate point of this exerciseviii : "live ones" pose a disproportionate danger of actually doing something. As the perceived costs of doing are overwhelming the perceived benefits thereof (this, through a rational process, I have it under oath), it then follows that all your sons will have small chins.

See ? We actually understand each other!

———No, sorry, sociopathy is a disability, not The Power Of Cool. I'm aware ambitious betas have been miscasting it as "their missing and, alas, unreachable ingredient", a sort of "heroic flaw" if you will (don't!) for something like decades by now, yet that very much doesn't mean anything changed. It sure as fuck doesn't mean "oh, do we still have to DO that ? We all moved on as if this bit of fanfic were reality! And that makes it real [to me]!!", because nothing ever means that.

Actual sociopaths don't live the life of the investment-banker-as-losers-imagine-it. Instead, they live the life of the Daltonist (except instead of not being able to distinguish green from red he's unable to distinguish eagerness from hatred, say), the life of the deaf (except instead of not being able to distinguish sounds, such as of speech, he's unable to distinguish emotional cues, such as on faces) and so following. It's a sad, desperate existence that only barely qualifies to human life, and if you had actually met some instead of wanking in your insalubrious tenement as to "how you imagine they'd be" you'd come off as a lot less idiotic.

Same goes for girls, by the way. [↩]In case you were wondering : just as MIT is chiefly famous for The Lightbulb Incident, Princeton is chiefly famous for trying to pass off Phuctor results with serials shaved off as their "own" and Harvard is chiefly famous for illiterate "graduates". [↩]Speaking of which, you understand it's not the ocean that "makes" waves, yes ? The fucking earth makes the waves, what you perceive as "waves" are exactly nothing more than epiphenomena of the fundamentally insubstantial ocean trying to explain the rigid solidity of the earth to itself.

Please tell me this isn't the first time you think of that. [↩]They actually are the facts of the matter. That you "don't think so" is neither here or there. In fact, to help you understand your situation : suppose there's castle European Empire, consisting of so and so fortified positions, so and so fishing weirs, so and so everything in between, itemized. It costs so much to run, it produces so much by being run, in cheese, and young cunt ready and fretting for ravishment, in gold and whatever else.

Suppose then the old owner of this item dies, and suppose his heirs are underage. That'd be you -- and by all appearences perpetually. So he does what one always does in this situation -- he leaves the execution of his testament in the hand of... well ? Some third party. That'd be the State.

And what have we learned in De-Dumbifying 101 class that the agent always does in this relationship ? That's right! The State-executor of your father's will has all the interest in you a) staying underage, hence all the neoteny and b) pretending the property left him to pass on to you were worth a lot less than it actually is worth. Hence all the "human rights" and "decolonialization" and etecetera gargle.

It's worth it for the State, even if Cape Town actually collapses into the sea. What's the alternative, having to give you account for the income you didn't see from that one colony ? No thanks, how about we act as if africans may make choices for themselves now, somehow, any proof to the contrary be damned.

That you believe Claudius, earnestly or otherwise, just makes you a very happy/retarded Hamlet, naught more. Reality stays the way it always was, oman'yah. [↩]The opposite of sensible. Insensible is "passed out", which has relativel little to do with it, Prozac notwithstanding. [↩]The mores of Kink High be fickle indeed! [↩]Again : success of society strictly depends on how well old women manage to train young women for slut-dom. If they fail, the whole thing ends, that's the proximate cause for "barbarians over the gate" moments : that the men can't be arsed to protect the dumb sort of old women that didn't make the young ones be sufficiently loose. [↩]Remember the whole wrangling about "if the Fed has all this money, why's it not giving any of it to the kids ???". The problem with trying to build a society out of spending the money notional equivalents of free goods China keeps shipping (yet) for no apparent reason is that the overpowering concern is not rocking the boat, and a close second is "appearing respectable". That should explain a few things. [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Monday, 12 February, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Naked City

The Naked Cityi is as beautiful a piece of literatureii as ever could be, up there with the finest productions of the counterfactual professions.

The voiceover by the producer (whom I shan't name just to piss him off) can get irritating in parts, but on one hand it is needed by the economy of the thing and on the other hand he does the "lady, have you seen a man, looks like this" bit quite well, so he's forgiven.

The photography is masterful, the film exactly flows as a succession of well composed photographs. Stop the reel wherever and look at the still : isn't it fine ? This is a major achievement, even if it may pass unobserved. Your brain doesn't miss it, even should your consciousness dwell other places -- this is the function of the presence of art in the environment, that it makes your life better without you necessarily noticing. And this is why marketeers should be impaled.

But the work by Barry Fitzgerald... why! It bears no comparison. His character, this joyousiii gnome of a homicide detective, a character so seductive you can't help wanting to help him, is what Hitchcock tried his whole life to achieve and died without managing. I do not know of better composition of a male actor, nor better execution of that intention, in the entire history of cinema. By all means, pick up this challenge : who ? Where ?

The script is fine, and deeply intelligent. As a forinstance, it has the young wife (who's nothing special, entirely bucktoothed girl next door) wear a scant swimsuit indoors (hey -- it's hot!) for her husband, and then call him a coward for failing to deliver their baby the needed beating. One can scarcely doubt she asks him for her own beating when she needs one, too.

As another forinstance, the whole construction makes perfect sense but without the overbearing, tiresome presumptiousness, so typical of the adolescent male mind as it is typical of the "noir" genre in general. The characters live, and breathe, and exist, they're not puffed up convention center props, they didn't come out of a dork's suitcase, they have the loose and pucker of actual skin on actual bodies of men and women. Nevermind the "gangsters" and complicatedly conspiracious pre-pantsuit worldview. Here's a simple story : an ambitious goodfornothing, the sort that'd run for office these days (and get it, especially in the "blue" states) pairs up with a hussy that's as hungry as if she grew up with the Depression (because she did) and a couple of thugs. The goal is to "rob" ie reallocate resources away from the senescent, pointedly useless pseudonobility of the land -- an altogether laudable idea. But he's weak, and his thugs smell it ; they however are dumb, and kill the girl "out of principle", which is to say exactly what Cagney should have done :

Say, you don't want to open up for might because fixated on the "smart" douchebag ? Cool. You hang in the morn.

Then they kill each other, and then they botch killing him, and then well... "Nothing doin', my boys will take care of 'em." as reality actually went ; or rather inspector Muldoon gets to crack the case, as a perfectly credible alternative.

Interlude : But Paddy dear, oh, don't forget... you are an Irish man.

The most important portion of all this, the part that makes it work and function, is the city. The naked city itself, splendid in its unabashed, ripe nudity. A New York still capable of being loved, sensible, architecturally sound even if a little worn in the skirting. The bridge, that great grand bridge nobody wishes to look at anymore, that nevertheless was in its day more of a bridge than any of these current globs of sputum will ever be people in all their born days, is the proper (and properly silent) lead actor of the final scenes. He is there, very carnally present, smiling down on its city. The city that made it because she needed it.

1949, apparently the last year I'd have, I could have considered working for the mainstream rather than against it.

———1948, by Jules Dassin, with Barry Fitzgerald, Howard Duff, Dorothy Hart [↩]Let's talk about literature. What is it ?

Have you ever compared the wheel of a car with the engine block of another car ? No ? Good, me either.

There is no such thing as "books" or "movies" or "theatre" by themselves or "as such" ; not anymore than there's carwheels or engine blocks in isolation. Every piece of literature is the whole set : the novel (in all its restatements), and the screenplay (all of them), and the movie, and the theatrical play and the ideal theatrical performance, and the historical list of attempts. Exactly like how every word is more than just a word, including its etymology and history of usage and so forth. This is what allows me to rewrite a movie as a novel and everything else.

Sure, there's defective sets, lacking one or another lobe. So ? [↩]There's more hasidic yiddish in this one performance of an Irishman a century ago than there is in the entire collected summum of US Jewish associations today. Fact. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 30 March, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Moth

So, earlier I was overpowered by a stench.

But I don't mean, run of the mill stench, like something odorously displeasing on some kind of level as it may happen all the time in the sad, meaningless wastes of time that people who travel by bus out of necessity pompously call "their lives" as if such misery could ever properly be theirs as opposed to simply public nuisance.

No, I mean something effusing the testament of Moloch's own putrefaction through the... offices, let's say, of ten thousand cacodemons and not a single one less!

So I sallied forth to investigate, reciting The Conversation in antiphony as my only shield of hope and pavise general ; whereupon at the epicenter of the eyewatering emanations from hell, I found two things.

...where as ye guts of them yt doe quiff-splitters bear, stand comely still and rounde...

The first thing I found was this :

The second thing I found was my man Guillermo, who was ~painting~ the walls because waterdamage from the endless tornadoes and earthquakes and let's not digress.

IT WAS HIM, it turns out. Modern paint stinks, it turns out, and I don't mean in ye olden sense of "o woe, I don't like the smell of turpentine, herp derp". I love the smell of fucking turpentine, I used to handle toluene without a mask, that's not what this is.

There's no words for what this is, outside of perhaps "ourdemocracy" or "pantsuit" or such -- rotten piles of never-used-this-millenium old woman snatch-droppings macerated in stale prolapse.

Terrible.

Never paint anything ever gain, unless it's to paint it in like, steel, or something.

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Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 12 January, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Miracle Of The Bells

A Conclave Of Terrible Hamsi (inexplicably released as "The Miracle Of The Bells" in some markets entirely foreign to taste, experience or any sort of sense) absolutely sets new USDA cinematic standards. You've not seen ham like the "press agent" talking to the "doctor" since the days of Turducken!

On top of all of which, the script's so bad it puts David Mamet's impossible nonsense to shame!

There's absolutely no reason anyone could have to see this thing. I did see it ; but that's because I'm not all there. Save yourself some time, save yourself whatever shreds of sanity -- do something else for an hour.

———1948, by Hormel, with that terrible ham from Double Indemnity (the original, terrible version thereof). Plus a (slighty) singing' (and very very hammy) Sinatra. Plus some chick that utterly can't act (Baroness Altenburger von Mackenstein-Frauenberg, what can ya ask) trying to pretend she's an actress acting well the role of an actress acting well... The whole thing's a boat of failboats piling into each other.

PS. Stupid bitch was terrible in Senso, too, though that steaming pile of pretentious shit would have been just as terrible with or without her. In fact, given the deep idiocy of everything about it, nude dancin' Rosalys'd not have likely fixed anything. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 29 August, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Man Versus The State

Everyone I know with an interest in or familiarity with the dismal disciplinesi regaled me with some version of "you know you'll have to do Spencer sooner or later". Well... I know no such thing, honestly speaking, but then again who am I to disagree with so many intelligent fellows. Let's doii Spenceriii already, what the hell's it cost usiv ?

The New Toryismv

1. It is to my eyes incorrect to claim that Tories and Liberals stood for militarism (there called militantism) and industrialism respectively. I do not dispute that they may have so represented their relative situations on occasion, but I am willing to say that it is unlikely any one then living understood the nature or substance of either consideration in any meaningful sense (this being a common enough occurence through history, I don't even expect it to be contentious). This view is perhaps anachronism on my part ; but if it is, it is no greater a diversion than the insanity produced on the topic of the German (successful) military campaigns in the 20th century. If, by virtue of sheer psychotic nonsense, a century of German effort to destructure the British empire can somehow be translated into hallucinatory "ill effects" of the ascendancy of the "Junker class" (ie landed gentry, identical to the "Tories" in this discussion) so as to fit in the broader international-socialist narrative of "progress" and such gargle then certainly the struggles to self-understand and self-represent of a handful of British niggers can be interpreted as naught more than the retelling of some momentary symptoms of the failure of the socialist lie fraudulently put forth as "the definitive solution" to actually paper over the underlying problem. Don't you find ?

2. The discussion of status and contract strikes me as a pedestrian retelling of that old story ; it should be interesting to note just how recent this collapse actually is -- Spencer talks of it as if it were an event that happened within his lifetime (which is probably correct).

3. I suppose it is evident, two pages in, how this entire exercise will go. He calls the superior "primitive", as if gold is to be somehow less valued than plastic because, you see, plastic's a more recent aparition.vi In any case the words are misused, there's strictly nothing illiterate about Republican views, seeing how the entirety of socialism is rather an attempt to apevii the original texts of the Republic.

4. His notion that the bait-and-switch inherent in all socialism is somehow accidental is outright fucking endearing. Really, "men have forgotten" ? Which men ? The common man never knew nor will ever care. "How are we to explain this spreading confusion" indeed!

5. The confusion between king and government is more concerning. There is no relation between the two, the king is entirely different from the scar tissue with which modern & contemporary socialsm attempts to replace him. That Spencer doesn't seem at all aware of the difference betrays an ignorance of the early part of the millenium comparable with attempting to discuss industrialization while unaware of say the steam engine. What of

What's he that wishes so ? My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin : if we are mark'd to die, we are enough to do our country loss ; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. O, no, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my host, that he which hath no stomach for this fight, let him depart ; his passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us.

where's your government now, bitch ?! Coercion, do tell me more, this fascinating new larnin' amazes me. Too bad we primitives have books ; the enlightment of the banana-shaped Earth is such a valuable lotion nost on us!

6. While it's absolutely true that set theory is a perfectly fine basis for all mathematics (which directly stands for "thought" here), his statement is inept and his discussion of it painful to read. Really, cetacean mammals ? Gimme a break. Yes, yes, I'm aware they didn't have set theory back then. What do you want me to do ? I'm not reading it back then.

7. That he doesn't think much of the perfect government of yore I place on the same fundamental ignorance of the world specific to the English speaker that say Rothbard evinces. They're just not very well read, the marginal barbarians, what can you do ?

8. The ultimate point which he makes, being that socialists end up drinking their own cool-aid and in the end confusing the indirect results of their struggle to poison existing arrangements with some sort of viable goal once those arrangements (that supported them like they supported everything else) are extinct and the "revolutionary" is called upon to actually somehow govern is altogether quite accurate.

9. It is I guess entirely forgotten today that the Irish of 1880 were legally declared retarded, as a collective, by the English Parliamentviii, yet nevertheless this was a historical fact. Put that in your "potato famine" pipe and smoke it, hm ? In any case, his catalogue of 1860s legislation may well be interesting to the young reader.

10. His en passant criticism of socialist miseducation, as well as socialist pseudoscience, is quite pointedly prescient, even if coated in a very quaintly 19th century vision of "what is plainly impossible for the future". Turns out it wasn't nearly as impossible as all that, to everyone's detriment.

The Coming Slavery

11. It is a pleasure to see the distinction between the deserving and the undeserving poor in print. Have you noticed how nobody wants to hear of this distinction anymore ? Is there indeed no difference between the deservingly needy and the accidentally neededy just because a hospital's crewix will treat the idiot who ran headfirst into a tree and the misfortunate who slipped on an unexpected bit of black ice in the same manner ?

12. The notion that misery and misconduct are associated is perhaps the right's equivalent delusion to the left's "bright future" nonsense. I've in my experience failed to find that much of a connection. It's true that ineptitude naturally doesn't thrive, generally doesn't thrive, and this state of affairs shouldn't be altered ; but misery is generally a function of the faculty for reflection, with the dumbest also being the least miserable. There's no pain for the paralytic, no frostbite for the marble, what are you going to do, belabour to fix this ?

13. I must say that his very open-handed use of rhetorical devices is, if somewhat uncourtly, still quite endearing.

14. The story of Spanish (arguably bipedal) cattle is entertaining enough to wish to quote it later, so here goes :

It is said that when railways were first opened in Spain, peasants standing on the tracks were not unfrequently run over ; and that the blame fell on the engine-drivers for not stopping : rural experiences having yielded no conception of the momentum of a large mass moving at a high velocity.

The incident is recalled to me on contemplating the ideas of the so-called "practical" politician, into whose mind there enters no thought of such a thing as political momentum, still less of a political momentum which, instead of diminishing or remaining constant, increases. The theory on which he daily proceeds is that the change caused by his measure will stop where he intends it to stop.

Who ever knew that there's nothing original about the New Jersey method!

15. That provedly fertile women were preferred in 1880 as they were preferred at all points in history is not itself a cause of concern ; but that the idler of late 19th century London chose exactly in the manner the idler of late 20th century Baltimore, by the income the headcount of a woman's children could bring him is rather... why exactly am I having this worthless schmuck provide me with children I don't fuck ? Let him pimp out his wife to me like in the old days, and earn his meagre subsistence in the proper manner for one such as him -- ie, an old woman.

16. The amusing part of Spencer's critique of the ineptitude of the SOPS, is that leaving aside what they can't imagine, he can't imagine that in less than a century they will actually respond to their inability by claiming the dangerous momentum he speaks of is actually both a justification of their rightness and their ultimate goal! This is exactly like the alcoholic claiming cirrhosis proves alcohol is good for him (perhaps through some contorted reasoning proposing that it makes him fat or somesuch) and declaring it the ultimate goal of his efforts anyway.

17. "Failure does not destroy faith in the agencies employed, but merely suggests more stringent use of such agencies or wider ramifications of them" is quite exactly the description of "representative democracy" idiocy. Once the stupid comes to believe he is also infallible, there's no other possible output -- and a parliament can never ever be anything besides stupid. "Habits of improvidence having for generations been cultivated by the Poor Law, and the improvident enabled to multiply, the evils produced by compulsory charity are now proposed to be met by compulsory insurance" you see. Do you see ?

18. "Popular education results in an extensive reading of publications which foster pleasant illusions". Yes ?

19. He evinces the functioning of England's idiocy ("the Poor Law") would be a fine topic to use as an introductory study into the hopelessness of representative democracy in an economic and societal-organizational perspective. I don't actually know "that prophecy made in Parliament that continuation of the old Poor Law for another thirty years will throw the land out of cultivation", but I know for a fact that the English speaking Parliament has in more recent memory been systematically dedicated to anti-representative activity whenever its supposed representative duties came in conflict with its religious notions or threatened to upset the narrative of its cult -- such as for instance the celebrated case of Mr. Enoch Powell, MP.

From Freedom To Bondage

20. The ancient Toqueville point, that serfs rebel against oppression not in proportion to its actual burden upon them but in proportion to its amelioration as perceived in living memory, is memorably here repeated, particularly because the connection is drawn with a typical delusion of they "educated" in the socialist sense of "being exposed to the diffusion of pleasant errors rather than stern truths" through observing these defective minds' tendency to discount the actual effects of actually working mechanisms in favour of cultish explanations. In the eyes of a crowd of state-educated nitwits, the more clearly and deeply theoretical physics explains perceived phenomena, the less credible the scientific process which yielded such explanations appears, and the more credible the idle posturing of religious niggers. It is a perfectly natural heuristic, this, and to be entirely unexpected : just as their ancestor monkey discounted the present value of a present berry bush in direct proportion to the berries it had already had picked from it while at the same time increased the perceived value of a distant bush yet unpicked in the same proportion, "thinking" in the unthinking way of apes that if this here bush was worth ten berries then that one across the valley would be worth perhaps "at least ten", so exactly the monkey of today, even if dressed in multiple layers and inhabiting a cave dressed in wainscotting, nevertheless imagines that the more benefit the Republic delivered therefore the less the Republic is actually worth to it, and the more imagined Empire-in-the-sky may one day be worth, if only the valley be crossed. This dysfunctional mental process, strictly unworthy of the label "thought", is so very specific to the subhuman ape still unfortunately infesting the otherwise pleasant Earth to this very day that it almost serves as a distinguishing heuristic.

21. We fully disagree, both that "the fates of the great majority have ever been, and doubtless still are, so sad that it is painful to think of them" or that "unquestionably the existing type of social organization is one which none who care for their kind can contemplate with satisfaction". It pains me not one whit, at all, earlier watching that excellent exercise in cinematographic rendering of business that is Glengarry Glenn Ross my girl asked if I'm sad for Levine The Machine, and I said no. Because I aren't, not at all, there's nothing there to elicit sadness. As to the unquestionable... lawds' mercy. Any system in which the poor do not die of hunger in the streets is absolutely immoral and entirely intolerable for cheating the rich out of their richly deserved entertainment, that is of seeing the painful, dolorous and preferably slow extinction of those defeated. This is no small matter, because once cheated of this capital font of all pleasure and of all enjoyment one is already prepped for a subhuman existence irrespective of any other consideration ; once man surrenders the ancient truth, that the greatest joy is to defeat one's enemies, to drive them before him, to take from them all they possess, to see those who mistakenly loved them in tears for the realisation of their error, and of the unworthiness of the fraudulent object of their misplaced affection, and to embrace them as his chattels, there is no hope left for him. Absent that necessary basis of humanity, absent a soul, however you construct the remainder you'll have naught more than some kind of zombie, a plaster cast of the live animal. Perhaps you make it out of almond paste and you imagine it valuable for this reason, perhaps it may even be interesting -- but it will not be alive. I don't know what "sympathetic imagination" likes to dwell in the hallucination of equality, but such boyish nonsense is to be left behind with the rest of the plushies.

22. He can take his "actual workers" nonsense and shove it. Just because the common man is a goat, and as any good goat thinks every other man a goat just like himself does not actually make it so. The intangible contribution of the boss is more important for being intangible than the tangible contribution of the shop girl, not less important, for the plainly obvious reason that it is always cheaper and easier to reproduce the tangible. This constant blather that the lowest workers in an entreprise "receive too little a share" is patent nonsense I am well and thoroughly sick of hearing.

23. It is utterly untrue that every man works that he may avoid suffering. I know this because I am a man, and never in my life did I do such a thing or ever conceived of doing it ; not as a little boy in school and not hence. I work because I'm good at what I do, and because I enjoy doing it ; not working would certainly be less suffering (in a limited sense -- my original retirement in my 20s lasted for a few years until it drove me up the wall). There is a faint sense of duty involved, I suppose, but very faint indeed. There's also a certain pity for the inanimate objects and assorted abstracts which rather depend on my agency for their existence in this world. What fucking suffering ? How would it fucking dare ?!

24. The Icarians! Who today remembers this hysterical socialist utopia of the 1800s ? They almost made it to 1900 in Corning, Iowa!

The Sins Of Legislators

25. His insistence that military success comes out of regimented subordination actually contradicts military practice in all times, but especially so in his time. The victory of admiral Nelson over the French at Trafalgar is a particularly shining example of the superiority of principled military agents over the efforts of obedient military agents ; but the exact same situation is readily apparent throughout military history, from the remnants of the once glorious US Army's constant, bitterly humiliating defeats throughout the second half of the previous century into our present day all the way to the systematic defeats of the numerous Parthians at the hands of the decisive Greeks. I have yet to encounter a case where Spencer's idea of military discipline was ever anything other than the most ominous of dark omens. I would propose that his ideas of war and its carrying stand roughly equivalent to red skins' notions of cabaline husbandry in the early 16th century, or to the Zulu notion of a Gatling gun : he who has never worked a thing has wonderous notions indeed as to the manner of working of that thing.

26. The point that no "legislator" appointed by the idiot empires pompously pretending to a sovereignity they may never have was ever made responsible for the ill effects of his idiotic intermeddling is welcome, and bears repeating of an insistence in excess of any item currently found in popular culture. Nevermind vampires and pure maidens rescued and brave lads on their quest's journey! Hear ye all, and hear ye every day, and every hour, multiple times, hear until you fall over all about how the parlamentarian was hung for buying IBM. It's really the only lessonx worth imprinting upon the multitude : that if you make a law, or if you involve yourself in the enforcing of a law, I will have your head, after I've hung your children by their own guts before your very eyes, to dangle softly in the breeze.

27. The concept of law-made evils, as a third category properly set above either natural evil and man-made evil in the overpopulated sadness that pompously and for no proper reason calls itself "civilisation" is actually a significantly useful analytical tool. Of a year's murders, how many are natural, how many are due to man's agency, and how many are produced by legalistic idiocy ? For instance, how many women have died so far this year because some idiots somewhere, sitting pretty behind walls of comfort and abundance others supplied, hallucinated the bizarre notion that equating the punishment for violent sexual usage of an unwilling partner with the punishment for murder would serve to deter said usage rather than to encourage decapitation after the deed is done ? If the criminal took his cue from legislators and law enforcers he obviously wouldn't be a criminal in the first place ; but so boundless is the empty vanity of the castratto that he mentally represents the criminal as a sort of clerk-at-crime, more eager than anything to imbibe of the ever precious edicts of the conclave of cucks! How could things be otherwise ? If the doctor gave way to the clerk-at-doctory, if the scientist gave way to the clerk-at-scientry, how could the criminal not yield himself to be replaced with a clerk-at-criminy ?! For the bureaucrat to conceive of life outside of bureaucracy is difficult indeed -- ironically about as hard as it is for the criminal, and yet this readily accessible model doesn't apparently lend itself to much actual accessing. Let's wonder together whyxi that is!

28. His idea that scholarly pursuit, either in languages or literature, helps judgement "not in the least" and political acumen "not appreciably" is rank fucking nonsense. More generally, there are no special sorts of knowledge ; all of it is itself and naught else.

29. The notion that the size of the statistical sample is the only considerationxii coupled with the batshit insane proposition that ancient societies were somehow smallxiii leads him astray. The relatively uninteresting accidents of modernity are a comparatively weaker source of understanding of the kind that arms policymaking than the older comings and goings of Antiquity.

30. In particular, the Greek expressing of spears "being guided by a God" is poetic license and naught more. The Greeks did not literally believe that actual spears were literally god-moved ; and from the sheer insanity of the proposition I can intuit Spencer didn't read Greek.

31. There is no such thing, nor ever was such thing, nor ever could be such a thing as a causal relation "among social phenomena", which is to say in group behaviour. That he imagines these are "in our days becoming clear enough" is a slice cut off the same loaf as "physics is now a complete discipline", entirely soaked in the intoxicating wine of early modern intellectual provincialism.

32. The problem with Spencer's view of state is that, ultimately, he actually believes in the pantsuit derpage, that the state is important, meaningful and powerful ; that the state can change people, and so forth. All this is dreck, the state is about as powerful as cardboard -- until the first rain --, about as meaningful as Rapunzel -- works fine for as long as you're about nine years old -- and about as important as parasites of the crotch -- yes if you neglect your hygiene and that of your women for long enough you'll eventually (and "unavoidably") get it, but how about you don't do that!

33. His Lamarckian notions of inheritable traits would seem out of place, inexplicably limited and quaint, if it weren't for his ridiculous notions of scholarship, of statistical sampling, of physics and the state pricked above. The man is consistent, the problem with his consistency is that he's consistent in a certain sort of uncurious, disinterested, approximating manner.

34. His theory that "species advancement" correlates with young care is dubious on the face. A crocodile's babies receive significantly more parental care than a deer's kids, and are absolutely incapable to survive without it to a degree most mammals' offspring aren't. The crocodile is one of the most primitive creatures, truly an antique living fossil, about as early in comparison to what one imagines when they think "reptiles" as these in turn are to rats ; but this is by no means the only example. In general, apex predators will overwhelmingly nurturexiv whereas animals at the bottom of the food pyramid will spawn very independent offspring ; this is still imprecise, but a much better heuristic than his proposed "advancement" criteria.

35. The notion that slaves (he uses children, nonsensically, but he means slaves) receive resources in relation to their need, whereas lords, sovereign and independent, receive valuation in relation to their performance, is not useful as he states it nor exactly correct in any case. The performance of slaves, which is to say some women, most children, a good fraction of employees, clients and other dependents is judged by different criteria than the performance of sovereign lords, this much is true. But if one were to sit down and correctly evaluate, including properly time-discounted cash values of all the things involved, that one's bound to notice that there is in fact no difference across the board. Yes I gave young Bitcoin an immense sum, immense then as now, because "it needed it" ; but if you were to do my accounts, and see the immense wealth this "unworthy" young pup has brought in due time, you'd understand that no, there's nothing socialistic about nurturing the young slave, whatever shape she may take. If she credibly may one day win you the Triple Crown, even if she doesn't end up doing it nevertheless the oats of yesteryear were justifiable and justified capital outlay, not charity. Consequently we do not at all agree that inside the human family it would be fatal to proportion benefits to merits ; it would be fatal to incorrectly judge merits, but otherwise... start eating fucking babies already.

And it is here that we must, amicably but nevertheless, part ways. While a pleasant writer sitting atop an undisputable vein of gold, we are by now so far divorced from one another as to require the separation. I do not think Herbert Spencer should not be read, on the contrary, but I would warn against the danger of reading him too young (in the mental sense of that term).

———It can not be properly said that there's such a thing as "Social Sciences", or such a thing as "Sociology", "Psychology", "Economy" etcetera, or such a thing as a scientific basis for government.

On one hand, as far as purely gnoseologic considerations are concerned, the accumulated pile of spurious commentary "based on" misunderstood accident, however packaged and labelled, stays nevertheless what it was to begin with. There has not yet been a "sociology", for instance, howsoever formulated (with, possibly, the exception of this present note, if one's willing to accept this much and no more as Sociology with capital S), that wasn't exactly and without remainder some kind of The Proceedings Of A Few Provincial Spinsters On The Problems Of The World Produced While Knitting These Here Ugly Sweaters. Moreover, as it is forbidden to have a course in nonsense, any retelling of this gunk from any other perspective besides "here's what narrow minded old girls hurr at each other instead of (and to protect themselves from) maturing already" is a waste of the time of everyone involved ; and, if undiscerning youths are at all molested, also profoundly immoral.

On the other hand, as far as teleology goes, get the fuck out of my face already. Pretense is a very poor prosthetic for the dumb and the feckless, and besides you sad lot have absolutely no business here anyway. Just go away, preferably to die in the darkness in a corner somewhere. In silence. [↩]While we'll be using the 1960s Caxton edition, in homage of some young slut being from Idaho, we'll nevertheless discard out of hand the pompous wrangling of some random retard (A. J. Nock), not just because of sufficient considerations already explained, but also (and with extreme prejudice) because seriously, get some anodyne georgist to introduce Spencer ? What sort of imbecile Americana is this ?!

For the newcomer : "Georgism" is shorthand for the shockingly inept proposition that taxation should consist chiefly if not exclusively of a tax on rents (the original was formulated with a view to land rent, but the concept is readily extensible) because it is the "perfect taxation" in the sense that if one owned a block downtown it is nevertheless "society" (undefined) that "gave it its value" (ostensibly, through deciding to bless the plot of land with downtowness) and therefore it is only fair it should take the value "it has given back" for "its own purposes" ; and that "true value" (of labour, capital etcetera) can only be seen once such taxation extracts the whole value of the rent. Leaving aside... actually, let's not leave aside. If I own a plot of downtown, that therefore makes me a better person than the man who doesn't so own, exactly in the manner in which for owning women as chattel property I am a better man than any man merely married to one (not to mention the unworldly cucks who incel and other such transvestites), and exactly in the manner in which for having letters I am a better man than one who doesn't, and exactly in the manner in which for owning an immense pile of Bitcoin I am a better man than any other man, who ever lived, and who will ever live, and so following.

Moreover, this necessarily and inescapably subservient relationship between the rest of the men, who don't own a plot of downtown, and me, who does so own, is to inform the future -- specifically, the future disposition of assets, the future flow of production and capital, and quite strictly the future behaviour of said men (or rather, more interestingly -- their wives, sisters and daughters). Any idle pretense to the contrary is very readily reduced to its pretentious idleness : we just each retreat into our respective castles of "I don't care what you say" only to in very short order discover that my plot of downtown makes a way the fuck better castle than the hurr durr of MIT.

Contrariwise, should the ineptitude be enacted, the socialist abomination thus produced will still find itself in need of a hierarchy. How will it supply that, once it's cut its own head off by eschewing the natural order ? Hire a bunch of niggers to be "servant leaders" ? Good fucking luck.

As you might imagine, Georgism is as qualified to speak of Spencer as the run of the mill pantsuit is qualified to talk of freedom. [↩]In fairness, and before we begin : the broad criticism to Spencer in my mind is very much the same as stands baring the way to the future for the entire anglo-saxon tradition on "liberty" : that dividing cooperation between "voluntary" and "involuntary" (which, for one, is an entirely spurious distinction without possible real correlate besides its very significant costs) they then proceed to choose "voluntary" as "the only good one", which is patent nonsense, if for no other reason then because all education is rape. As this brief comment should have made clear, it's not evident that "cooperation" even has any sort of meaning or importance -- indeed it seems rather a purely literary construct of no actual cognitive content, similar to the Italian coinage "altruism" or any other random nonsense some poet came up with because he needed a three syllable word that rhymed with orange. [↩]Well, over a thousand words so far, but what's that, 1/10 of an image amirite. [↩]If you need a copy you could use this. [↩]This may seem as a ridiculous piece of nonsense "nobody is actually proposing" until you stop and consider what inept anti-Bitcoinists actually think and actually say. Your "nobody could be this fucking stupid" would be a lot more convincing if it weren't stuck in a recursive loop where it keeps having to invent alternative explanations for patently idiotic statements and behaviours, only to be confronted with dispositive counterproofs to whatever alternative explanations it might devise, and then proceed to alternatively explain those to the same effect until paper eventually runs out. [↩]What did you think "the englightment" was if not a sort of "chukcha found Trilema and here's a hunk of Aristotle glued to the front of chukcha horse" ? Hm ?

Let's resolve a recent mystery : Domus Aurea. [↩]In which it was decreed that specially appointed social workers must go and buy the seeds these dumbasses must plant, and have them plant the seeds correctly. Because, you understand, exactly in the manner in which Monty Python mendaciously misrepresents "the upper class twit of the year", the Irishman of late XIXth century was, literally, fucked in the head, perfectly apt of digging one hole per acre, taking all the seed, putting it in that hole, covering it up and heading to the pub, there to whine in a society of his peers about the unfairness of inequality and his lack of opportunities. Does this remind you of the "African American" of today ? And if so, what exactly does this mean to you ? [↩]And there's a reason I don't use the word "doctor", as in the liberal profession. There's nothing liberal about the modern hospital whatsoever. Consider :

ME: Well, if he refuses, what are the alternatives?

THEM: We'd have to discharge him on oral antibiotics.

ME: Would this work?

THEM: Well, it's not ideal. There's a good chance he'd end up back here in the hospital in a few days.

ME (not punching anyone): if he has someone at home who can help take care of him, etc, he, unfortunately, (squeezing the thumbtacks in my hand) has the right to refuse.

THEM (frustrated, angry): Fine. Whatever. They have to sign an AMA discharge, and know that we're not responsible for what happens.

Note the final aggressive maneuver. It's the only thing they can do to "punish" the patient-- for not doing what they wanted. It's more clearly seen when I say this:

ME: Unfortunately, (tacks in hand again) his refusal doesn't discharge our obligation to treat. He'll need an outpatient appointment within a day or so.

THEM: No, I'm not doing that. If he doesn't want to follow my prescribed treatment, I'm not going to alter my schedule for him.

ME: Unfortunately, if you were ready to find him incompetent and keep him in the hospital, lawyers won't understand why you didn't follow such a sick person more closely as an outpatient.

I always blame lawyers, not because they are to blame, but because it's the only thing doctors really understand. But either the patient is really sick, and we can have a discussion about incompetency, or they're not, and we shouldn't be having the discussion.

Doctors ? I think not. Clerks, forget about it. [↩]It is one of mylord Newton's most respectable traits, that his complete record of parliamentary contribution consists of one phrase asking for the windows to be open. This is more the testament of a working mind to my eye than the theory of gravity, or infinitesimal calculus. [↩]Consider "moral" dork X, who sits there and tells me that it is his right to decide (through the avenue of his passing a law to that effect) that woman Y should be killed on top of being raped, in order that he, dork X, should be able to feel good about the world, which is to say his notions as to what is as bad as what else to gain through usage more currency among others than they previously held. Consider then same "moral" dork X, who sits still there and now tells me that the actual rapist-murderer involved nevertheless doesn't have the right to decide woman Y should be killed on top of being raped in order that he, the criminal, should be able to feel good about the world. Why exactly is that to be ? What flavour of special pleading will we be regaled with to justify the bureaucrat's right to behave like a criminal but not the criminal's right to behave like one ?

There is absolutely no difference, you understand ? The criminals that are too cowardly, too lazy or too inept to indulge a life of crime join up the bureaucracy instead. That's exactly it, the two categories of social marginals are exactly identical in all aspects otherwise. Just like a school and a factory are the same thing separated by a mere few decades, just so a parliament and a jail are the same thing separated by a mere trifle of ability, dedication and competency. [↩]There is a VERY large difference between sample quality and sample size. For instance, genitally inspecting one woman randomly picked out of each fiat pretender to sovereignity, for a total of a couple hundred, will yield immensely closer estimations to reality of the prevalence of devulvulation at the present time than genital inspection of a contingent of girlies picked off US collegiate campuses, no matter either how large or how selected. Sample quality may correlate with sample size, but there is no more there. [↩]The fact that New York's few millions are numerically in excess of ancient Rome's million does not in fact amount to a larger size of society. Roman society of the first century was doubtless larger than anything built hence anywhere, without exception. In most cases (such as is the case today) larger by a degree of magnitude or more. [↩]It makes fucking sense for a ton's worth of crocodile to guard its nest, because what could possibly threaten it ? Meanwhile it makes no sense for a half ounce quail to attempt the same, it'd be tantamount to an invitation to the table addressed to the larger half of the whole world. [↩]

« Hey, women! Did you know that before the Pantsuited Hilarity gave you your civil rights, you were living in slavery ?

Bogota, a mixed bag »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Sunday, 28 January, Year 10 d.Tr.

The lolz inflation continues unabated.

Remember how I said years ago that

As you can see, lolz were had. The funny part is that the sum total of lolz claimed to be had exceeds (by what looks to be a significant margin) the total lolz actually physically present, which I suppose means this entire thing is a lolzubble.

Well... nothing substantial has changed in the intervening half decade. As a forinstance :

At this juncture the more regular reader probably remebers the "big mouth correlates well with absent sexual value" heuristic put on display again and again and again on these very pages as well as everywhere in the world they faithfully mirror.

Yet sometimes reality exceeds reasonable expectation. This is such a sometime. Behold :

This item, abject object of "adoration" online, can't stop "laughing" at my pictures.

Who could disagree ? And what more could be asked for ?

Anything other and besides "pay up", rite ?

« How Anthony Kiedis killed Louise Ciccone

ffytche »

Category: Rautati si Mizerii

Sunday, 07 October, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Letter

The Letteri is two things.

First, but perhaps not foremost, it is a very plain and directly illustrative instantiation of Arthur Blair's great fear :

The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man's life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.

The manner in which Victor Sen Young's "Oriental" character guides the movements of James Stephenson's entirely English character -- for the sake of argument "not a prisoner" but nevertheless free in no meaningful sense beyond the preservation of his spurious conceits -- is exactly accurate, and exactly descriptive of both the cause and the result of the fall of the British Empire. That's what the bedwetters of early 1900s aimed to get out of, that situation of crushing impotence brought about by their manifest insufficiency. Turns out that romantic notions of Queen and duty fare very poorly for dickless bureaucrats adrift a sea of more dedicated, harder working, smaller people.

Secondly and evidently foremost, it is a very harsh and deeply illustrative clash of two matriarchates. There's no room given here, no quarter offered here, no consideration wasted here on the marionettish "British female" of ridiculous wank in the vein of Anna and the King. Instead, in the confrontation between British and Malai woman, the indigenous element stands its ground, and wins its fight, in its own terms ; the English priss has to kneel, and while the particular instantiation thereof has both the strength and the flexibility to do so, and do so well, she's still the one on her knees. The comment, intended or not, that women who kneel three to a man are for that reason, and irrespective of the quality of the men involved superior to women that divide themselves between two boys stands most eloquent. It happens to also be true, and always remember it : you will be inassailably more on your knees than as a "woman in tech". It's what it is, and your permission, approval or awareness is not sought or required for things working this way. It is of course better to kneel before a great man, even if in a company of a thousand others, than to kneel before a nobody, even if alone ; but this is a minor point, by comparison to the simple and unyielding fact that she who stands "on her own two feet" is nothing and ever will be nothing, below any and all on their knees, no matter where, or why, or when.

Other than that, Bette Davis' got great tits ; and the costumes are accurate.

———1940, by William Wyler, with Bette Davis. [↩]

« Moron

Here's what "polyamory" is not : »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 05 April, Year 10 d.Tr.

The lesbian in Winter.

There's such a thing as a lesbian in exactly the same sense there's such a thing as a rock covered in snow.

I'm aware you might've seen rocks that weren't, at that most holy & particularly sacred moment of your observation, covered in snow. I'm also aware you might've encountered rocks that claimed, even truthfully, to have never been covered with snow.

Nevertheless, a snowy glaze is universally and unexceptionally something that happens to rocks exposed to Winter outdoors.

That some rocks happen to find themselves underground since before the last Ice Age ; that some rocks were spewed forth by tropical volcanoes and haven't yet made their way up to the glorious North ; that plenty of chunks in this world never yet knew or possibly never will know the crushing glory of frost -- all that's strictly a discussion of circumstance, and of accident.

The only truly random element in anyone's life is the order in which they experience things. Nothing worth the mention is changed by the broadly irrelevant circumstance that some particularly basic rocks experience a lot of difficulty internalizing this basic truth, even perhaps to the point of ridicule where they fail to do so, even beyond the point of ridicule where they imagine the particular order they ran into things is somehow universal or if not universal then at the very least important an therefore universalizable.

With their permission or without, with their approval or without, with their agreement, understanding, notice even and just as well without : as soon as Winter comes, all rocks outdoors will be covered in snow. No venue is open for rocks to discuss whether they think they could, or whether they think they should, or whether they think the flow of events might, or might not or should not or could not. There's no ought open to rocks, their internal statei is not relevant to the ardours of intemperate water and seasonal winds.

A rock in Winter will be covered in snow because that's what a rock is and that's what Winter does.

———Admitting they have one, on the exact strength of evidence we admit anyone else has one, lesbians, donkeys, space stations and amoeba alike. [↩]

« Post Malone

The Outbridge, the Bitches' Bow, the various things you didn't know... »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Sunday, 23 December, Year 10 d.Tr.

The leak...

Me how did you sleep, whore ?

slut meh

Me heh.

slut crying a lot today. how did you sleep?

Me great. and why is that ?

slut my leaving is being announced, anxious about everything

Me you mean at work ? i thought everyone was ever so supportive & jealous.

slut yeah no one has said anything. i just didnt realize how much people liked working with me etc. not that it matters, but its a lot of change

slut no one has said anything negative*

Me hehe. well... tell me something. isn't it, practically speaking, betrayal, that these fuckwits DIDN'T tell you, before you left ? utter asshole play, "oh, while she's here ima keep it quiet, if she leaves ima say something."i

slut yeah thats true and im sure its about the amount of work they will have now.

Me "i only do things if it's my direct interest" sorta thing.

slut true

Me "while she's here who cares, not like it gains me anything. if she leaves though..." i fucking hate this sort of thing. then again, i guess most people aren't all too sensitive to it.

slut what do you mean re arent all too sensitive to it?

Me well, i am generally more than willing to tell people to get fucked over something like that, and then make it stick.

slut lol

Me i imagine if more people did it, the behaviour wouldn't exist, as -ev. but since it's there, evidently it's +ev. the sort of people being that kind of asshole are very sensitive to expected values.

slut thats true... what is -ev and +ev?

Me there's this thing called game theory. like, a meta-approach to gaming. -ev is negative expected value, ie, if you add up all the results, you end up in the red.

slut oh

Me like, driving on sidewalk. it's -ev, because while you do gain something maybe for going faster, you lose more by killing people.

slut yeah i see

Me the fundamental point here, that you probably never thought about, is that thinking about other people as "people" is a losing move in most contexts. a much better approximation is to think of them as automatons, that try to make bank. so they'll do what pays and not do what doesn't pay. not necessarily "pays in money", but "gains them something"

slut yeah of course

Me so it's very easy to deal with people -- set the ev correctly and wait. that's why i don't have nearly as much anxiety as you do. but corporations are different. take your employer for instance : the fucktards just lostii, and they're going to be in denial about it. pretend nothing happened, try and carry on, etc.

slut do you think i would normally care? im just being dumb and emotional right now. lol

Me i have no idea what you think "normally" is. i don't know you long enough to know what normally is.

slut oh great

Me hm ?

slut i understand people have selfish intentions and especially after working hard to do jobs no one wants to do. its not something that would "typically" bother me

Me that's not it.

slut what is it then?

Me hard jobs that a) no one wants to do and b) no one wants to PAY YOU FOR DOING

slut oh well yeah. lol they gave me a higher position title with no raise.

Me that's the fucking thing -- they all want to play this fantasy WoWoW, where a) someone else always steps in to do the hard jobsiii they don't wanna do and b) they owe them nothing for this. this'd be exactly why i have 0 respect for esltards. it's not "fairness" or "socialism" or "money doesn't matter" or "think of the baby dolphins" or however they misrepresent it to themselves. it's "you, not me, has to do the hard work" and "i don't owe you jack shit for doing it". which... how about they take a hike, who needs 'em. which takes us right to what the republic is : the people who CAN do the hard jobs had enough of doing them so morons benefit, so they banded together to cut the morons out of the loop. and that's who's raping you anallyiv : this guy who invented the place where the elite defect. and that's also ~what your job will be : find yourself a place, your own place, on the island of people who can do hard jobs and don't allow the morons to benefit from it. how about that!

slut how about that.. and how do i do that?

Me well, you're a smart girl and you've got no less than two lords of the republic helping you. so i guess you'll figure something out.

slut yeah its just a little concerning for me

Me whyssat ?

slut i know nothing of it, i know hr and immigration and im good at that

Me don't worry about it.

slut thats all im doing

Me it'll be painful, but if i thought you couldn't do it i'd say. o btw! ready to update your linkedinv ? or wanna do it when you're back from work ?

slut ugh

Me :D

slut this soon?

Me well sure!

slut i thought i was still training to be a slave? we wouldnt want to you know give me to much credit yet.

slut i still think id make a good lawyer

Me can you believe, how the rollecoaster just keeps on going ? "lyfe of adventure" or how did they put it.

slut lol yeah but what about after i leave work?

Me well, you either do it now, before you go, so you can spend the time at work wondering who looked/saw it (spoiler : nobody). or else you do it when you're back, so you can spend the whole day fretting about it.

slut lol it sends an update to everyone when your linkedin changes

Me even so. much fewer people give a shit about the social crap than you realise.

slut yeah except the 200 plus views i get on postings or profile searches. which is almost all of my "connections"

Me then again, maybe more do than i realise. i guess we'll find out, if you do it now :D sexy huh.

slut is it to early to drink?

Me not as far as im concerned.

slut lol

Me lol

slut whats sexy again?

Me this, basically.

slut basicallyvi huh?

Me how your asshole is twitching etc lmao. think, slut! exposed for the whole world to see, for the bimbo that you are. WHAT WILL THEY ALL THINK!

slut yeah only everything ive worked hard to build a reputation around and a name for myself to people i respect. the bimbo you made me, no?

Me yup. didn't take me that long, either. don't you long to wear high platforms and go around with no bra so people comment ? omaigerd!!! what have you gotten yourself into !!11 ELEVENTY

slut lol sorry im slow i keep putting my head in my hands and shaking my head

Me :D

slut i just added like four people on linkedin. and it didnt take you long because i have no choices

Me you mean since we've been talking ?

slut lol since this morning. since people found out im leaving

Me oh. i thought you went there and added people to make the humiliation grander :D

slut uh its a lot, not sure howmuch more i can take.

What do you think ? How much more can she take ?

———This cuts deeper than you on the first pass realise. Really, it's an "unfortunate coincidence" that "all those great minds" of "history" were "not recognized during their lifetime" ? It absolutely has nothing to do with your own and personal, and very pedestrian "best wait till he dies to '''recognize''', lest that recognition creates some obligations for me" ? Hm ?

Yeah, right. [↩]Epic lulz of all time, this. So these dorks, best and brightest of Inca's businessmen fired a whole department figuring they'll dump all the work and some idle titulature on this one subby chick they had. Except she had just managed to get herself enslaved, and so their Sunday business lunch consisted of some very overwhelmed pantsuits. Corporate reorg, amirite ?

The one thing that's never ever getting reorged is the idle airs of the imaginary person. It ain't ever going to come on hands and knees to its superiors, is it now. [↩]Really worth a read in integrum, that Ballas piece.

But we want him to exist. This generation, this, The Dumbest Generation Of Narcissists In The History Of The World, they hate heroes-- except dead ones, they're ok, and superheroes are ok too, people with magic or from other planets-- but human heroes are anathemas, they want to tear them down and show them to be regular mortals, flawed-- and the best is if they can catch them being hypocritical, nothing brings an impotent narcissist to orgasm faster, even faster than cheating wife stories, than detecting hypocrisy in the elites.

What they don't understand because they are stupefied by their jealous hate is that the real reason they want to show that heroes are flawed is because that would mean that heroes exist in the first place.

Gran Torino is a gift to the jaded narcisissist of today. It says, look, there aren't really any action heroes, violence really doesn't solve anything-- I see that now.

Ok, but what happens when violence finds you and a hero is needed?

That's why the end of Gran Torino fits so well-- this is a *spoiler*, though they don't so much foreshadow this ending as they do scream it at you from the opening scene-- he goes to confront the bad guys and dies in a hail of bullets-- the end which is so obvious and predictable but at the same time the only one that would speak to this generation of narcissists: when we need a hero, heroes are obligated to rise up and serve, but please have the decency to die afterwards so we can go back to second guessing the ethics of your actions.

We hate to be reminded that there are others who are better than us; but, for the love of God, please let there be people better than us.

Right ? [↩]Direct quote from the previous day

i couldnt sleep thinking about being anally raped, you know :)

Believe it or not, she didn't even bleed. [↩]Historically, this linked to the slut's profile on that pretentiously derpy website, because it showed her career as slave to yours truly ; they deleted it quietly hence, and well... that gone, what other claim to fame do they have ? [↩]"Basic" is a term of art among the 20something crowd. [↩]

« Algorithmics problem seeking experts

This is Trilema post #80808 and I'm running out of passible titles. »

Category: Lifespiel

Thursday, 23 August, Year 10 d.Tr.

The Ladies Man

The Ladies Mani is the sort of atrocity that usually ends up with a "cult following" (as it happens this particular one didn't, but that's most likely because the sort of people that "cult" follow aren't all that cultured and consequently not really informed).

It attempts to bill itself as a comedyii, but the only proper way to classify it would be to say it belongs to the genre of bruteforce. Paramount figured "hey, we have all these handymen, camera crews, grips and gofers, why not build a three story dollhouse-on-set ?". So they did, it's literally an eight meters tall doll house, populated by real girls picked to look like Barbie dolls, and dressed like Barbie dolls ; and then they film their actual crew in the process of importantly doing jack shit, but hey, it's a lot of people! Aren't you impressed ? Well... could you have hired that many people ? Could you have built a pressed cardboard dollhouse cutout ? No ? THEN YOU LEGALLY, TECHNICALLY AND ETCETERATICALLY MUST BE IMPRESSED!

Jerry Lewis on the other hand figured misplacing his glasses and contorting his mug will carry him through -- but sadly it doesn't. He doesn't have nearly the finesse of Jim Carey, in fact he's rather an US version of Doru Octavian Dumitru in his contextless, sociopathic desperation of a relationship with humour. He's rather sad to watch, to be honest.

Oh, and they even resurrected George Raft to do nothing in particular on the set, while uncomfortably lumbering in a tux. Aren't you impressed with how respectable Maddey Owen's runt brother is ? Please don't remember he was actually iliterate, he's got the tux on, that's what it's for! Yes ?

That said the film does have two saving graces. One's the hat scene, which works extremely well, so well in fact it raises to the level of one of the better skits America ever produced. The other's the cello chick. This chick... she's got a sub-17 inch waist, I kid you knot, and an ass like she were one of mine under it. And she's fluent in French.

Anyway, to be honest I wouldn't watch it, but I'd totally keep it around. It's the sort of McGuffin that has no value besides the humiliation in can produce through being properly wielded. It is, after all, more deeply representative of real America than any VHS ever produced, you realise this, yes ?

———1961, by Jerry Lewis, with Jerry Lewis and all the singer/dancer/actress/whatever sluts Paramount could scare up before the 60's even began. [↩]"The biggest, broadest, funniest production yet" ; "The most hilarious idea since the invention of the belly laugh!"

If for some reason you're thinking "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" you wouldn't even be all that far off, I don't think. "Unfunny wanna-be sits down to spend an unjustifiable budget on his systematic anticool" will play out about the same in 1961 or 2009, because how could they actually differ. [↩]

« Dead Maze, the game

Mr. Dilworthy falls in some bad company. »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 15 February, Year 10 d.Tr.

The keks of all time...

You don't need modification as much as strengthening. You've built yourself most ecclectically, without even realising what imposing edifice you'll become. No one lives comfortably within yourself, not even you, not yet. Your thing's entirely disjunct from the common product of banal beings. Evidently you did crib from others, the ones admired, or at least appearing to be admired by some majority, but you cribbed derisively and went with deliberate stylistic contradiction. You like being the most sought after, and you know quite well whom to lure within you. This isn't to say you lure victims, to be consumed instinctually and directly, with the guile-less naturalesse of the black widow ; but beings to whom you invoke the impredictable and whom you beg to help you with something or the other around the house. Them you need, to steal unspoken ideas, plans they've not yet managed to write down, things they'll confess to you because they feel happy inside you.

The very few who actually felt at home within you were also the only ones who helped you tear down walls to obtain in their place large, luminous windows, trained on life, and within which to be, in turn, acclaimed by the crowd.

You used to do everything behind the cover of artificial lights, for the unspoken fear the light of day might bring out imperfections unknown. You used to lie about loving, about being good, about being wonderful. Being as expressive as you are, you were believed. You made people stumble on the stairs among your floors, not necessarily to laugh at them and their involuntary slapstick, but to be begged for help. You love causing your help be sought, because you know best how all-digesting dependency can get...

(I still haven't quite understood whence such need to let inside all sort and manner of small creatures exlaiming "wow"'s so priceless to you...)

When the traffic in your vestibule comes to an end, you climb your soul floor and seek love among forgotten rooms. Others' lovers seem more accessible, because it's not as if you'd come in the main door, nod to the clerk and ask for the item in the window, try it on and pay for it. It'd be so earthling-like, so fucking boring for you...

You can love cleanly a woman even if you obtain her through maximal felony, although, again, even you realise it's just special effects.

The relationships you break into, confounding your friends, sending, under their very eyes, love letters written in eyeliner to the loves of their life, last about as long as the erection, which, as a general rule lives longer and more pleasantly for you during planning than during consummation.

You're an expert at taking within women to be kept preorgasmic for years, and these you call friends. That you know they're dying for you clads you in the nonchalant perversity of the man who, while fucking the mother, locks eyes with her pubescent daughter spying from behind a curtain. But these you keep in the salon, to converse superficially. They're women-lolis -- you suck them like a strongheaded child, they melt, become passe, leaving in this behind for you a pleasant taste...

Others you'd take to your bedroom (many times you pick in the dark, without bothering to take in all the details) but on the way there it occurs they're not rather... themselves. Then you bend them over the balustrade and consume them right there, without scruple, without guilt, with splooge that drools desire.

The stair which climbs to your intimate floor is admired by so many -- made as it is of legs of beautiful women, widely open with dedicated earnestness, polished with tars pressed out of women whose hearts you marked with red irons. The beauty of the stair consists in the expressivity of the women, and in their cries of passion covering up the creaking of the wood. In those beautiful rooms of your soul few women make it, and not all as lovers. Some remain for a long time...

From up there one hears no screams nor glances garters, for on that stair... even you take off your shoes at the end.i You want many women, mostly to make sure the stair's solid enough for the chosen one you will eventually carry across, so she doesn't touch even with her feet what's sordid in your being.

The room in which your soul will sometime wed is locked, you alone hold the key, although you vaguely recall there might've been a copy made, lost sometime, in the world ending howl of the coming Fates, who found you only very late. It is then possible some woman finds it and comes by herself inside ?! No, such is not possible, because you await no one, you are the seeker, not the locked in. Doubt must fortwith be framed and put on display on your own hall's walls, lest you discover one day you had fallen unpredicted. For shame! (Well, you repeat this to yourself each morning, after which you smile satisfiedly to yourself from all available mirrors.)

No woman tied to that stair can go any further, you keep repeating. And yet, some whom you picked in passing but never stopped to look at made you unknowingly carry them to the very threshold of that one room. It's true, you couldn't open for them, but you did give them your best perspective, did you not ? You have a most interesting "dwelling", such that it haunts after visiting. God, how well you know this. How much you rely on your charm, how well it works on almost any being, how easy for you, to want, and to get what you want, whatever it may be. The lured will gladly give ; whoever comes in admires the decorations, wonders at the manner in which light enchildens your smile and takes pride in the tests required of them to reach your bedroom : they must walk on a wire, through a long hallway, with perfect posture, else they won't ever reach the haysack you sleep on -- by the way, what do you say when they ask why haysack where a normal bed would go ?

Whoever manages to reach as far as the library is aped by the beautiful statue with a respectable erect penis is to be found among the very stories of the world, as if you wanted all the literary characters of all the books know of your daring! Yeah, the library, for you like building out of words the castle of any relationship, and the statue is there to open mouths. Really, before women started showing up you had built all your walls out of books, provisionally.

Everyone coming in for the first time forms naturally the impression (an impresson you don't usually bother to disabuse them of) that they're seeing the whole thing, that they're taking the grand tour. If they knew how many rooms you avoid, how many are covered behind heavy curtains, in how many you don't even wish to enter yourself! They're not all disordered or foul smelling, some are truly wonderful, you simply see no business there, not for now...

There's nothing about this house you need demolished, you just need a few items consolidated. You've had moments when you overdid the self-distrust. I know you greatly need the windows always open into the street, I know you greatly need to be seen naked, clad in the nudity of the nude women of your youth. There's room for some whitewashing a wall here and there, filthy more out of rebeliousness than true conviction. The stair could take some work, as the number of women just keeps increasing. There may be need of some objects essential to everyday living, as you've lost the trite from view, too busy with the overwhelming spectacle of your instincts. And you could use a maid.

Let me apply to be your maid. The maid of your "house" should be, counterintuitively, the most important woman in your life, the only one allowed free passage among your thoughts, to put them in order, the one who'd wash and air your mind and tell you always what you're out of, what needs to go on the list... a servant girl... ever since I've met you I'm learning everything there is to know about cleaning. Call me over and I'll show you what I can do. I don't go searching through drawers nor do I steal valuables, at the most I might ask permission to admire them. I'd like to ask though to not have to wear the same maid uniform the other women wore who cleaned the floors of your life. I already have some notions of how to go about cleaning the grand stairwell, all you must do is trust I won't boobytrap the boobies.

I live across the street. I see you every morning naked, with your windows wide open. I do not show myself, it'd make you smile. I study you. I count the women you carry in at night, I circle the ones that manage to earn the right of opening a window for you in the morn. I know your fearful visage when you're alone, and I've seen you cry so many times after humiliating a woman that just left. I've seen all your masks, one day you left the window open even in the attic. Those stairs you have to climb, by yourself, every morning, to choose whom you wish to be that day. I believe three days in the last year you lived without mask. Always the same woman visited. Only then you closed the windows. All of them. And pulled the curtains tight. All of them. And they'd leave. All others. She'd come in with her back straight, but she'd come out, chased away by how much she'd have loved you had she not known you so well... so bad, really.

Don't love. Wait, wait for me to come clean up.

Keep on collecting bodies, sighs, goosebumps. I know it's what you do -- you love being a collector, but not an owner, you wish nothing of your gatherings should belong to you. I like your vulnerability, it shows well from my window.

You know, I just moved in town, from the periphery of some preconceived ideas. I came to the center of your attention because I felt you, from a great distance. I won't stick around forever, I just come in the morning and leave with the dusk. I mean to have a different life at night -- I will be whom I want to be... maybe even a woman on your stair.ii

Now I'm going to open my windows and you will see me... lift your eyes. Good morning. I am naked because that's how you drink your coffee and I wanted to not come short. Keep on reading, you'll have time to see me, anytime. Lift your right if you need me or lift your left if you're afraid...

You've put both hands on your face... my letter's on the floor. Therefore, you did lift your arms, but both. Sometimes it's hard to translate you. You need me, but you're afraid... it's too common, couldn't possibly be the meaning...

I wrapped, crossed the street and came into his house. As I suspected, all the doors were closed. I went everywhere, eyes closed, even on the wire, smiling. From the library I crossed directly into the room where he sat, naked, both hands on face. Now I know -- needing me, but utterly terrified of admitting it, wearing the only mask any woman in love could trivially remove. Behind his palms were exactly his feelings, all I had to do was take them away...

The distance between two windows hid details I only apprehended once a breath away. I cleaned everywhere, into the deepest recesses, polished tables and sparkled crystals, shined the marble of that stair such that any unwarned visitor'd have broken her neck, I put flowers in where they were needed and left one day, because I had enough of what I knew by heart. I never removed his palms, I realised I prefer men who seem to have answers to men who have questions for me to answer.

I lived in his house three days, and then I moved into a studio with a view of the sea. Every morning, when I open the window, I lift suddenly the right and much, much slower the left as well. Out of force of habit, for the sea doesn't see me.

Mihaelo... prea te crezi, fa.iii

———Cultural issues. She only got out of the country late in life, and well.. it's hard, what. [↩]Vecine... nu-nteleg, straine... nu-nteleg ce aveti cu mine... [↩]Bonus #1 : ce capra esti, sa stii ca pe linga punctele de suspensie se exista si alte semne de punctuatie capabile sa-ncheie un paragraf.

Bonus #2 : iti dai seama ce proast-ai fost cind pizdutele din noua generatie de pizdute fix ca tine ies la inaintare cu copy/paste-uri dupa ~acelasi rahat ? Ce, tu credeai ca-i al tau sau ceva ? Nu-i al tau. I-al vostru, pisi. I-al vostru, devalmas, pausal si la comun, si inca de multisor asa. Tat fix aceeasi pizda creste-n voi, caz doar n-oti creste voi in ea.

Hai, succese si vezi tu-acolo-n chapeau. [↩]

« The bitch doth protest two woof.

Titles are a scam anyway. »

Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 19 November, Year 10 d.Tr.