The Exceptionalist

"You have to be careful what you say around John. He's an Exceptionalist."

"What the hell is that ?"

"Oh, nothing... I just call it that. It's like a pet name."

"Ha! I thought it's a college degree or something. So you and John..."

"No, no, nothing like that. But you'll see, he gets to asking you pointed questions..."

"God, I hate when they do that..."

"He really doesn't take well to being cut off, either. But the worse part isn't the questions themselves. The worse part is that if he doesn't like your answer -- and he can not like the answer for any reason, mind you, the most obscure, impredictable and unexpected things will set him off. Not to mention he will pick any random part of whatever's going on to stand for your answer, he'll freely disregard what you say because a crow didn't fly right in the background or who knows what..."

"This sounds terrible."

"Wait, that's not the worst part. The worst part is that if he decides he doesn't like your answer, he'll just throw an exception and that's that."

"What do you mean that's that ?"

"It's hard to explain. I've been watching it happen for a long time now, and it still doesn't... basically, the world just stops. Then he plucks you out of it. Altogether. Then the world recompiles itself and continues. You understand me ?!"

"No."

"It continues! Without your ever having been here at all!"

"This doesn't make any sense."

"I know."

"But wait, wait. So John can just throw up his arms whenever any little thing doesn't matter which goes maybe slightly not exactly his way."

"Basically."

"And everything magically changes to suit."

"Yes."

"And in this best of all possible worlds -- for John, in this world literally tailored to his every whim, John is a... what the hell is he, even ?"

"Senior Techniconsultant."

"A fucking grease monkey in a basement somewhere! Nobody's even exactly sure which. Are you freakin' kiddin' me ?!"

"Unbelievable, isn't it ?"

"It's not even believable. At all! I mean... you smoke a lot, don't you ?"

"That doesn't even have anything to do with anything!"

"Whatever. Listen, I have to get on top of those reports, Boss will have my ass. Hmm... that didn't come out quite right."

She takes a moment to chuckle to herself, then barely audibly, as she's walking out the break room door, "come out, get it ?"

"I'll be seein' ya" offers the other in her wake ; then "I call you Sarah, just so you know", also barely audibly, and by now well outside of Sarah's earshot.

« The "State of the Vidya" Address.

The Professor »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 12 June, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Egeszsegfejlesztesi pont

In Romanian, "pont" would be a tip, as in, "hai sa-ti vind un pont", "let me sell you a clue". This however... this'd be the ultimate pont of them all, wouldn't you say ? The Egeszsegfejlesztesi pont, definitively and incomprehensibly unpronounceable for one and all.

I have no idea what it means in its original language, besides a vague something to do with female genitals, which oddly enough seems quite appropriate. Doesn't it ? As the dork once said... "I think they're happy if you just make an effort". Sooo... ege...egesgege... fegemege... whatever. Should be close enough.

I know even the little I know from a local girl. You see, we were walking down the street somewhere downtown Bucharest, looking for an adequate place to have breakfasti and engaging in our usual games of fun and entertainment -- in this case we were racing words for length (as well as quality). The titular Egeszsegfejlesztesi made such an impression we stopped for a moment, winded by all the glossal effort -- and just as we stopped, some fellow dressed to blend in surrepetitiously retrieved a sort of table arrangement from atop a kind-of hip-high metal pole minding its own business somewhat to the side of the sidewalk. Why would he do such a thing ?ii

Dazed by the proceedings but quite eager to learn more of this strange new culture and thirsty for observation we therewith sat down in the corresponding corner bistro. I ordered the traditional one of everythingiii and while she was trying to recuperate, I proposed the waitress read the damned thing to me. She did, I repeated it, she did it again, I repeated it again, I can't fucking say it now but please believe me against all evidence -- by the time she was done with me fifteen or so minutes later I could vocalize it almost acceptably. She told me so herself, as part of her attempted explanation of what exactly the damned thing is supposed to denote. You will excuse her and hold me solely responsible for the vague notions I'm left with -- I admittedly do not make the best of students, being on one hand rather stubborn and on the other definitely preoccupied with the superficial outside skin to the detriment of deeper substance. Such being the sad state of affairs down here, until the enactment of the future Republic of Ideals, Egeszsegfejlesztesi pont is stuck classified under "cunt-something" and there's exactly nothing anyone can do about this. So sorry.

This is the local bistro dog. I do not recall his name, as it happens to be maleiv. Nevertheless, he was very cute, as well as missing a leg.

That, by the way, is the girl I mentioned, bringing us the one of everything I mentioned (in this case, the everything is rum).

"Is it okay if I bring three at a time ?"

"Oh, no, bring everything together, I intend to take pictures."

She gave me a look of utter despair, and executed. It makes little difference to me, my table's ever overflowing anyway, whatever the staff may attempt. At Doris Int'l they twin tables the moment they see Bartholomew turn the curve, but the tell-tale sign of my presence, that plate projecting over the edge of the table manifests just as well. By now all the girls can summon in response to a "seating three ?" type inquiry from a green master d' is this pitying look, quietly saying something quite like "bitch... you have no idea."

Yet you see, and this is a notable characteristic setting aside the denizens of Budarest from the rest of the best : when confronted with the exceptionally demanding, anonymous girl does her utmost! Because this is not the time to slack, this is the time to go all out ; when ordered a thousand pies the pie stand's not to deliver nine hundred nine-tenths of pies, but a thousand eleven pies with ribbons and complementary cherries on top! Thus she brought in little slips of paper, scribbled by her own hands, in approximate renditions of what liquour's found in the associated glass! I didn't ask for that, nor did I necessarily expect itv, yet there it is. Speaking of which, it occurs to me : imagine you went out drinking, and ordered this after well loaded, and everyone took sips of the damned things for a while, and then you mixed it all together into one large glass, took a sip, and discovered it's sheer ambrosia, the best thing you ever tasted by very far.

Then you could spend the rest of your life trying (and, of course, failing) to replicate the exact selection of little glasses missing the exact ammounts of little sips. I call this the FuckPasztor random cocktail generator.

Here we go :

Inquiring bimbos wish to know.

And now for a selection of views from Buchapest :

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good,

She was very very good,

But when she was bad,

She was horrid.

Speaking of by the way : I very much recommend Dimbovitavi cruising. It's not like highway cruising or any kind or tom of cruising you might've seen before or be familiar with. Dimbovita cruising works like this : you walk down the pier, hop onto the gangway, the attendant tells you the thing leaves at 3, you ask him what time it is, he tells you it's three while showing you his watch displaying 5:01, you ask him why he says three when his clock shows five, he points out there's a 1 in front, you pay and get on, the boat takes off, you order goulas and a bottle of red wine while checking out the teenage daughter of a tourist nuclear fambly, busting out of her blouse and so fucking desperate to be separated from the boring dorks that spawned her, she spends her entire time "taking pictures" by standing her ass as close to in your face as she can possibly manage while trying to lift her skirt by moving from one foot to the other and back again. Then by the time the wine's done the cruise's over, and there you go -- you've Dimbovita cruised.

Oh, and by the way -- as Collette Cuntsomethingvii aptly points out, the limb is mightier than the thumb. In practical exercises and assorted exertions on that theme,

Pai pina cind, va intreb, domnilor, pai pina cind sa n-avem si noi perversii nostri ?!

Now let's get back to viewing views.

The girls went ahead, and I, left behind, forgotten and alone, found myself ambushed by an evidently international, transparently lesbian couple. The femme was quite obviously local, going by her sweet curvature (and quite possibly pulling double time, going by her propensity to dove eye the observer). The tomboy (or however you call the ridiculous man-wanna-bes these days) was probably French or some kind of southern Dutch or somesuch, going by the unpleasant angular shape of her face and body. She was indeed very threatened by the circumstances, and so pretending there's no egress by the statue dragged her temporarily compliant prey down the other way.

I don't specifically care, there's an incredible abundance of quite passible cunt nobody has any use for all around ; but wouldn't you say this is sex abuse ? Is it only creepy if some naturally-born dudebro does it ? Does it magically become high-five material once a wanna-be dudeho indulges ? Cuz she's only doing it ironically, right, it's not really creepy, it's just playing ? I can see it, totally.

You got problems, my dear contemporary socialists, revolutionary wanna-bes, retards united. You got problems, and merely their formulation by very far exceeds your quite laughably limited capacities. Of all the times in history, this is possibly the one during which the socialist "idea" is most hysterically inarticulate, and most painfully inarticulable. When, tell me, when did the idiot party have it quite so terribly, in quite such general terms ?

Rid de voi sclavele si cu curu', bai astea din tabel.

As I explained to the bimbo, this is where disused girls are kept, in the dank darkness, for someone to perceive the need.

The principal advantage to harem slavery, you see, is that one can come up with a new Christmas every other day! What do you mean there's no chained, nude girlies behind that hole in the medieval wall ? LIES!

Speaking of which : I bought a slingshot at a fair-like thing. The bimbo pointed it out, she does this thing where her fantasy impels her to express things which she regrets the very same moment -- but the very same moment is also too late. I tried it out before purchasing, by having them bend over and snapping their butts. The woman minding the stand told me I'm a very lucky man as I paid for the thing. Lucky indeed, I have to come all the way to the Turkish town of Bukresh to buy a slingshot whittled in the shape of a macaw.

The problem with man-made tools is that everyone assumes they know how to use them. The woman, for instance, thought she's putting on sale a tool for projecting rocks ; and that I'm a lucky man to use it in a purely sexual manner, as a sort of captive-bolt switch for eager girly butts. How is it luck, though, it's self-evidently what the damn thing is for, you rest it against the intended spot, pull the rubber back, wait a while so the victim can't really predict the exact moment and smack!

Or so they think -- because that is very much not how I intend to use it. I fuck the bimbo in the ass, you see. She's quite the anal queen, I don't recall many girls quite so anally talented, and so she might've been a boy just as well, for all the inconvenience that'd have caused me. She's also very anxious, and quite eager, so I do things like putting a plastic bag over her head (she has a special pink feather boa for the securing of the plastic bag in place, it goes around her neck somewhat tightly a dozen or so times) and then teasing her about whether she's going to manage to make me cum before the air runs out completely and she dies. And I take my time with it, too, because what's the rush ? Just because she's desperate for air doesn't necessarily mean I'ma stick my cock up her ass quite as soon as she begs me to, does it ? As you might perhaps imagine, especially if you've ever dealt with the emotional wrecks ourdemocracy so predictably produces, the arrangement drives her quite wild.

She doesn't need to be tied for this or anything, either, if you can believe that. Obedient slavegirl, you know ? But anyway, this is great and all, yet how many times can you asphyxiate a girl ? She's quite smart, though nobody seems to suspect this (in part through my careful manipulation of fixed & received ideas, true, I confess), and I don't really want her neuronal mass to suffer, so further amusements have to be devised ; and as she's been strategically whining about "not having had any real sex" at well chosen moments (because she's female, she wants that cunt stuffed, duh) I'ma introduce the slingfuck : uncomfortably (with a view to painfully, hence the parrot head) shove the slingshot handle up her snatch while I fuck her ass, and make her slingshot herself right in the clit. It's almost like playing with it, no ?

The best part being that she doesn't know about this, nor will she, at least for a little while yet. Isn't Trilema a bundle of fun ?

Above : chicken paprikash, duck leg en demiglace, duck liver en terrine and gnocchi ai' funghi in the middle. These people know what they're doing, by the way, nobody'd be ashamed with that terrine.

Below : guess the brand ? Older woman inside seemed very exceptionalized to hear ~nobody ever heard of her brand shop, so let's find this out -- who ever heard of B-list, cvasi-famous, still high quality not yet infested by the working class tourists of this world ? Hm ?

Above : shopping market, where the key business affairs managers lie.

Below : eh, who gives a shit.

They're very strange people, what can I say.

This is Merci. She agreed to be in my shot on impulse, but then got really really suspicious. "Why ?". Well... because her name's thank you in French. So, merci Merci!

Nice coffee, too.

Dood's not about to move, because totally, London's got nothing on us and all that jazz. Isn't this abuse, by the way ? That kid looks like he has better shit to do than stand about stick straight in the middle of the day. He could don some jeans and a t-shirt and fuck around with his phone like everyone else, why should he have to stand like that ? This couldn't possibly ever be the result of some kind of democratic process, be it vote, social negotiation, what could possibly impel this young man to behave in this deeply variant manner ? He's spending a portion of his day doing things extremely at odds with the mollases of an activity of his peers. Why ? Corruption, right ? Some abusive elder white male got a hard-on for the Buckingham palace guard and copied it over, so he feels better about himself ; and this kid's stuck paying for his mental issues. That's what it is, neh ?

Down with the patriarchy! Everyone has the right (and thus the obligation) to dissolve into the mass! Why should there be difference, disjunction, "absurdity" ? Evidently this kid's not well informed, he's being manipulated with toxic facts, gotta raise awareness etcetera. So... get to it, why don't you ?

Budapest is a city which evidently beats the shit out of all would-be bums. If you're trying to sleep outdoors at night, you're taking your life in your hands, there's people going about earning a city salary to beat your dumb ass. For what it's worth, I believe this is the correct approach ; and the results are fucking sparkling superb, too. Do you know what's the grand total count of bums I saw during my stay here ? 6. They were all six seated in a dazed confusion on benches around the back of the train station, fresh beating marks on their faces, necks, arms and no doubt torsos etc glistening atop older marks of same. Nobody was as much as fucking reclining, I have no doubt the police's beating the everliving shit out of them. As they should.

Strudel palace. So one of each, of course. They managed to fit it all on the double table somehow, and then we managed to fit it all in the gullet, somehow.

And goodnight!

———In passing and as an integral part of the breakfast search we bought natural hair brushes for both clothes and shoes. Because that's fucking exactly how "walking down the street looking for a place to have breakfast" actually goes irl, you end up buying things you had been seeking for years and rather lost hope of ever encountering. [↩]Later we saw more such poles, all over town including the periphery, but none had the little table top. Is this some kind of inequality ? [↩]They had quite passible tacos al pastor uh I mean, pasztor something-or-the other. Goat cheese sandwiches, you get the idea. Plus quite excellent smoked salmon and curd bagels, of which therefore we ordered three more, resulting in the girl getting on the phone pronto, to order a new delivery. As it turns out the average corner bistro ain't quite ready for a harem dessant in its average presentation. [↩]In fairness, I also immediately forget female names, for instance all I can recall about the aforementioned waitress is the same "cunt-something".

Yes, my tree is getting to be a tad debalanced, but so far I'm managing middlingly well by relying on functional appelations -- "girlies" and "bimbo" and such carry me through an average day while producing only a bearable quantum of beffudlement. [↩]Nor did the very Bavarese girly bringing me one of everything sweet liqueurs at the lounge of whatever posh hotel do this -- she did think about it, though, and noticing she can distinguish them by scent she set them down in order and explained her reasoning. [↩]The largest river in Europe, that not only defended the budding Western civilisation from Eastern migration throughout the building of the currently missing spire, but also taught Euclides, Tucidides and Elucidides magic, writing, dancing and the comedie francaise.

True fax, we was kangz. [↩]It happened one night, 1934, by Frank Capra, with Clark Gable and the Claudette Colbert in question. Tedious pantsuit peltea as you could ever ask for ; what, you thought the "last night didn't mean anything" libertardramatic device was invented at some point ? Deary, prostia-i veche ca drumu' Clujului, wut. [↩]

« Der fantastische Harem.

So here I sit... »

Category: La pas prin lume

Sunday, 21 April, Year 11 d.Tr.

The dazzling array of angles -- a celebration!

I don't know how it happened ; I have a suspicion as to why, but I shan't delvei -- yet the fact remains : the discussion meanwhile became interesting again. Let's thus once more look at things, perhaps even think of things. So :

The "doer of great deeds" angle.

The boy says : what I do, I will do anyway. Not every boy ; it takes a certain kind of boy for this kind of folly to appeal, but then again the follies are but few, new boys are born each year... each folly "finds" its cohort, it is inevitable.

Yet... if he is lying, why talk to him ? And if he is not lying, but telling the truth, why talk to him ? He will do "anyway", which is to say like a woman doesii, by force of natural necessity, in the dark, in the folded, incomprehensible dark where words do not reach. You may, of course, talk in the general direction of a woman pushing out ; but it's a little odd to imagine she pushes because you're telling her to. Talking at a birth is not particularly Northern a use of language, but rather African. It's what comrade Vyshinsky does at a trial, "helping it along".

I am not even proposing there's some kind of interdict on parties, or festivals, or chanting. I am just saying that while people certainly do make noises at each other, like chickens cluck, to hear each other's noises and out of this mutual hurr durr construct their passerine notions of safety and well being, it is nevertheless not what talking is. At least -- it isn't the talking I can be bothered to waste my time with.

The "failure of management" angle.

If the boy doesn't benefit from being told what to do, then why should he be ? Management obviously has a cost associated with it. In fact, management's one of the more expensive human activities owing to the peculiarities of its field. Rare and expensive as it well is, why should it then be wasted ? Coinceivably there's no use for it, at a time or at another -- this is fine and no great trouble, let it then sit unused! Who runs his mill on hay when there's no grain to grind the great millstones with ?! And if they did, how long did they stay masters of a mill ? Who eats the pills in his medicine cabinet at a steady pace, whether in need of any or not at all ?

The boy who is not helped by management has in common with the boy who is not helped by antibiotics the fundamental characteristic that they shouldn't fucking take any. Let them go on their way and be happy, there's no positive requirement boyhood must ripen into manhood whatsoever. There's neither need nor properly speaking space for all that many men in the first place, while the barns are indeed ample and all of them dedicated to some "alternative" path to some supposed "greatness". There's a barn for the boys who would be women, there's a barn for the boys who would be bulls, there's a barn for everything.

The "poisonous offering" angle.

If there's no relation between what the boy says and what the boy does, the utility of the boy's deeds will have to be evaluated without recourse to the boy. This is the problem with birth : that interrogating the mother as to the output is neither useful nor productive. She doesn't know what she shat out any better than you do! Maybe it's great for some intended usage, maybe it's perfect in some specific context ; or maybe it's terrible, monstruous. As the earlier morons befouling computing painstakingly insist to point out, "THE SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED "AS IS", WITHOUT WARRANTY OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO THE WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY, FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE, TITLE AND NON-INFRINGEMENT. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE COPYRIGHT HOLDERS OR ANYONE DISTRIBUTING THE SOFTWARE BE LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGES OR OTHER LIABILITY, WHETHER IN CONTRACT, TORT OR OTHERWISE, ARISING FROM, OUT OF OR IN CONNECTION WITH THE SOFTWARE OR THE USE OR OTHER DEALINGS IN THE SOFTWARE."

This nonsense is simply to say that the matter will have to be established, on its own merits (if, importantly, anyone for some reason can be arsed to), independently of the object that produced it.

The "cryptoanalytical break" angle.

If the relationship between phenomena and the boy's audible output is of the nature of a hash function, whereby the boy forever cycles through a pre-ordained list of possible outputsiii, it is entirely possible someone might, after paying good enough attention for long enough, actually break it, thereby obtaining proof of the difference between person and machinery.

This is the fundamental problem with circlersiv : that someone will, given enough output material, eventually analyze the underlying RNG and break through the pretense. This risk is obviously mitigated by a) using a circle with a radius as large as possible and b) keeping as quiet as possible -- which is why engineers tend to be voracious readers and (as they age and thereby discover that the pains of increasing the radius grow faster than the difficulty therefore imposed on analysts) keep to themselves.

One possible angle is to say "we've lost a great many things we never had" ; the other possible angle, however, is to point out that the infrastructure of the republic as extant is indomitable, a truth readily exemplified by the shocking ease and impressive efortlessness with which it has produced a thing no moron prior even thought possible (outside of their deepest nightmares) : plain, self-evidently complete and direct description of the "engineer"s idiocy, with unassailable evidentiary body in support. The ease of breaking future circlers' "oh so clever" (by their own infantile lights) spun nonsense gained by the degree of magnitude, and, eminently, I do not expect we shall have this problem again in the future.

Which, in the end, is the point and the function of a state and a working legal theory : to prevent the recurrence of past problems. Mazel tov.

———Bimbo's nowadays in a phase where she has invented things -- such things as dancing, growing beards and wiring insulation. She doesn't "really" mean it, or "she's just teasing" as she ritually formalizes the ambiguity of gnoseological imanence, but...

It's hard, you must appreciate. Living is hard ; hardest alone, which is the worst, but harder still with others who are above you, which is even worse. Is one to be the worst of all ? Could one not at the very least lay claim to not being the worst of all ? Even momentarily, as a stated (even if in the very statement rescinded) claim to personal projection into the realm of reality, which is to say imagination ?

It may strike you as mightily strange a concept, yet because reality is not immediately accessible to the mind, but only mediately, through thought, it then follows that imagination is on the subjective merits even more real than reality itself -- it doesn't have that pesky counterpart of ontology to whiplash it into unexpected form at unpredicted borders, phase transitions an' dark corners. Imagination, flowing as it does from the psyche, is not liable to surprise it ; even the worst nightmares come with their leper's bell of "I always knew this would happen". Of course you "did" so know -- which is rather the point.

She may. Let her live, let her survive, she may indeed "just kidding" it ; and so may you. For which reason, indeed, we shan't look at the source of things too closely. In the words of that poet, Tu esti, Mircea ?! oops I mean

Nu cerceta aceste legi, caci esti nebun de le-ntelegi.

I might've got the poet wrong ; but then again... aren't all the poets the same poet ? [↩]Fecit, in Latin in the original, "dar a luz" if you prefer the Western Military Vulgar.

Oh, what's the matter ? You had no idea these articles are mere translations, of originals written in a different, divine language ? Aww.

Majesty is, specifically, the characteristic of the few of not being fully apprehensible by the many -- not on first pass, perhaps not ever. A man looks at a barrista and sees her all and everything there, directly ; but when the barrista looks back at the man she sees a portion, but also misses a portion. That's majesty. [↩]Which is eminently what's going on, hence the "runaway spam script" comment : there's a list of things you might possibly be interested to hear, here it is, listed, feel free to pick one of the elements to latch on to and the script will happily proceed from there on, "talking" to you in the systematic manner of scripts (while all the while the business end of whatever it's attached to keeps plodding on regardless, as it does).

The whole thing works exactly like any other phone tree or equivalent : press the number of your choice for more of the same more or less taylored in the respective vein. It's talking, right ? The female voice attached to the phone tree is talking to you, is she ? [↩]For posterity :

* hanbot_abroad wonders how anyone would propose to get the salt back out of the bread they've baked.

mp_en_viaje hanbot_abroad, throwing out the bread works if that's what happened.

mp_en_viaje i will do it, too.

hanbot_abroad i thought what's here is basically a line drawn in the sand, 'will stand no further than this'.

mp_en_viaje hm ?

hanbot_abroad it was withstood, consciously, as long as it was, for good reason that remains good reason, no?

mp_en_viaje hanbot_abroad, no. let me explain this clearly :

mp_en_viaje hanbot_abroad, to use the geometric terminology you introduced : alf never in his life walked a line. what he does is, he spins a circle.

mp_en_viaje at any given point, if ~you~ draw a line, he'll translate over the place, such that your line is a tangent. and you think, naively, "oh, this man's line and my line are clearly, look, colinear"

* diana_coman sadly recognizes that line+circle from bitter experience (and not even just asciilifeform ).

mp_en_viaje then he starts moving down his circle. and you notice there's a difference ; if you attempt to discuss it, he'll make the cost of measuring the infinitesimal difference (which nevertheless keeps growing, and at an ever faster pace) infinitely large

mp_en_viaje by insanely elaborate sophistry.

mp_en_viaje then, at some point, his circular motion actually takes him to diametrically opposed pole to the original tangent point

mp_en_viaje at which juncture you might even point the situation out : look, you moron, you are DIAMETRICALLY OPPOSED, what the fuck bs you're talking.

mp_en_viaje but, see, it's a circle. past the perihelion he's coming back, so it'll ~seem~ like that "woke him up"

mp_en_viaje he's now moving towards you, and at an increasingly faster rate

mp_en_viaje except, of course, once he reaches midway. then he starts decelerating ; and he decelerates even faster.

mp_en_viaje and if you've got the time, and the money, "1-1.5 bitcoin (today, of course ; the fuckface doesn't happen to think he DID NOT say 1-1.5 bitcoin back when he took the quote from) he'll take you for another spin.

mp_en_viaje and for as many spins as you'd like.

mp_en_viaje i don't think it's intentional, in the sense that i don't think alf has the capacity for intentional activity. he's an object, like any chair, or compass, or whatever.

mp_en_viaje so no, there wasn't any line drawn in the sand on the basis of trying to quadrate the circle and throwing tangents at a dangerous idiot.

mp_en_viaje aite ?

hanbot_abroad mp_en_viaje: digesting

[↩]

« I suppose we could call this a State of the Sadness ; or other things

The sad inscription »

Category: 3 ani experienta

Thursday, 31 October, Year 11 d.Tr.

The contemplated update to the #trilema voice model

The way this works currently is that deedbot, the bot of record on #trilema, gets a special list dumped into it periodically, which it pretends to ratei. Subsequently it maintains a list of all the people who have been ratedii by the people on the listiii, and permits them to self-voice (through the !!up mechanism) permanently and to voice others (through the !!up <name> mechanism) for half-hour intervals.

The problems with this state of development are the bot-ratings fiction, the requirement for periodic handcranking thereby incumbent, and the relative stiffness translating conceptual insufficiency (there's no ready concept of "other castles" available in such design, for instance).

A draft proposal to upgrade the design to better handle the growing needs of the growing republic was very well received at the time, but subsequently amended in some details through discussion, and very sumarily presented originally to begin with, such that a proper article available for reference seems indeed worth the bother.

In the new model, deedbot would

Maintain a list of channels and their owners (either hand-crankediv or else automatically following the deed castle establishing mechanism).

Maintain a per-channel list of nicks the owner has rated 9 (which would be that channel's l1).

Maintain a list of nicks that at least one nick in #trilema's l1 rated as 2 or above while none rated negative (which list would constitute #trilema's l2v).

Maintain a per-channel list of nicks that at least one nick in that channel's l1 rated as 1 or abovevi while the sum ratings from that channel's l2 is not negative (which list would constitute that channel's l2).

Permit each channel's l2 self-voice and voice others as per extant procedures.

In the exceptional case of #trilema, maintain a listvii of runoff channels and a list of the currently set bans ; upon an unvoiced nick idling in excess of an hour in any given day removing the oldest set ban if the ban list is full and adding a /mode #trilema +b nick!username@host $#channel, picking one channel off the list randomly.

All this of course without prejudice to all the other, numerous deedbot functions.

In principle #5 above could be extended to other channels ; but it seems to me by the time such is necessary, plenty of other items will have probably moved, so there's little need to worry about it now.

Comments welcome, especially from they involved in all this madness.

———This "rating" by a bot being, obviously, a fiction. [↩]The so-called L2. [↩]The L1, or "lordship". [↩]This making a perfect juncture upon whcih to attach a fee, coincidentally. [↩]For clarity, let it be plainly said that indeed each set includes all the previous -- while the existence of a l1 is predicated on the existence of an owner, the l1 does include that owner ; while the existence of a l2 is predicated on the existence of a l1, the l2 does include that l1. It's not likely this inclusion will receive much focus in discussion, seeing how each category is more interesting for the narrow than for the wide, but nevertheless it's there. [↩]At some point I was contemplating allowing users to set their own cutoff values here, but upon meditation it became obvious this is the wrong sort of complexity. [↩]Hand cranked again ; currently consisting of #ossasepia and #trilema-hanbot . [↩]

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Category: Bitcoin

Wednesday, 11 December, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

The Ballad of Buster Scruggsi is easily the best film that came out since the previous one. As such you must absolutely watch it, because if one doesn't see the current Miss Cinema then what is one doing, living among the reliquary dust of memory ?

It's a composition of parts, in the vein of what Satiri's Fellynicon so utterly fails to manage (but, as people with actual cinematic understanding and actual directorial experience might deign to tell you -- it's always better to use a more modest scripture, one that dares not try and get in the way of things). The first I deem strictly excellent, meta-cognitive post-cultural deconstruction of "the western" as a ~1960s era pantsuit sterile space "of the imagination" -- you know, for children.ii The second's strictly excellent, a luxuriant, flowing, superb cinematic joke. Just one huge gag, liberated from the "conventions" of MNLFsiii the directors proceed to really explore the studio space. Pan shot!!! The third's tiresome, in no small part because of the reiterated recitation of lines from some of the worlds' shittiest speeches by the previous Hussein Bahamas title holder (some obscure railway worker from the indian territories) coupled with some dubious English importsiv ; but even its tiresome far far surpasses anything else coming out of the intellectually sad femstate of the day. The fourth is easily the best part, and it had me howling in tears, because you know for a fact Tom Waits didn't just walk away, there's no such thing as "nothing important" in that context, and truer to life film was never yet made. I can scarcely summon to mind fifteen minutes of reel that can stand up to these fifteen minutes, so very blinded by grandeur I find myself. One can't, simply put, one can not live and not see this.

The fifth's quite excellent, even though it speaks of a world I've not known in so long, it holds no strings nor contains barely any meaning for me. Indisciplined, confused yet eager slavegirls ? I guess, it's just such a strange space to mentally get into... The sixth and last one's not really worth the mention, exists rather like what I interpret to be the signature autoportrait of the authors (true to self-image if not true to what you or I might perceive over dinner with Ethan & Joel). The three opposites, including the incomprehending engineer, the "overcomprehending" Frenchman and finally if centrally the aforementioned Mrs. Betjeman rather describe to me the schmucks the directors encounteed making their film (carried, in a most adequate corpse-like form, above the carriage). Such is life -- in life. Such is life in cinema only for the very best of rolls, and in the very best of cases.

But in any case : accept no substitutes!

———2018, by Ethan&Joel Cohen, with a laundry list of have-beens, hams and 2nd handers. I'm not listing them because no beautiful chix, and that's the punishment : if you work without sluts your name will not be remembered. [↩]Yes they actually did this, 1960s "wild west" is a cultural artefact exactly equivalent, both in production procedures and intended use, to the late 1800s "santa claus" or the contemporary "modern democracy". Not even fairy tales, quaintly modest in their hedonic appeal, but rather fairy systems, intellectually offensive as emotionally incomfortable. [↩]Moms nobody'd like to fuck. What, you've never heard of this ?

They're the majority, you know. By very far the unfucking majority. [↩]"We wonder, and some Hunter may express wonder like ours, when through wilderness where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace he meets some fragment, huge, and there stops to guess. What powerful but unrecorded race once dwelt in that annihilated place ?" way the fuck better than Shelley's version, wouldn't you say ? [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 23 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders

The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flandersi is a film ahead of its time, in the sense that it looks and feels incredibly '70s while it was actually made mid-60s. This isn't a good thing.

It's remarkable because it has the celebrated director actingii somewhat after everyone agreed his (directing) career was rather over. You look into his eyes and you wonder... what is perhaps going on in his mind ? In this vein it's much more of an accomplishment than say Fellini's deliberate attempt (and unreviewable failure) to reconstruct the "thoughts" of such a man (in Dolce Vita).

It's somewhat promising because it has Sanders reading, and who ever had a better voice than George Sanders ?

It's still not worth watching though. The dumb cunt's not even topless, and the constant "joke" of cvasi-coitus pseudo-interruptus has all the comedic chops historically associated with the forays into humor of the developmentally delayed.

The whole thing has to be re-done, to include a stark-naked replacement for Claire Uflandiii, and you can take it from there.

———1965, by Terence Young, with Vittorio De Sica, George Sanders, Kim Novak. [↩]Which is technically common, he has over a hundred screen acting credits to his name, leaving aside how he spent the 20s owning Rudolph Valentino in Italian cabarets ; but practically rare, as he mostly played bit parts and principally in shockingly unremarkable films, like is the case here. [↩]The eight year old with pretty eyes playing young Moll.

Pretty decent call on the part of the casting agent, by the way, as it turns out she did grow up into something vaguely resembling Kim Novak.

She went by Claire McAlpine at the time of her suicide (1971, she was ~15). She left behind a (studiously unpublished, because fucktards) diary discussing the various people who had sexually used her to date ; according to the old cunt lobby pretty much everyone in show business had fucked her by that time -- and yet the whole rotten lot of the idiots failed to as much as film her bare cunt, if you can believe this unspeakably dumb shit! Their loyalties lay with the female wail special interest group or what the fuck nonsense is this! How about more filming and less raping, and in general more speech and less wank, more plain clarity and less elaborate pretense, and so following ? Hm ? Stop tolerating the coy behaviour, it's unseemly on the face and it breeds everything that's wrong with the world underneath that face. Just say no to dumb cunts, how fucking hard is it ?!

Buncha retarded wankers... There they sit, these people, fucking eight year old girls when they shouldn't, and not filming them when they should. What the fuck ?! [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 08 August, Year 11 d.Tr.

The alleged crisis of the supposed engineering, or mistaken identities pantomiming a comedy of manners.

I do not agree with my lord Crypto-Alchemist, where he deems the day's cloaca "provides a few very good definitions of the term's meaning".

This isn't because (necessarily misplacedi) loyalty to ideology on my part, whereby "can't possibly agree with the simpletons, no matter what they say" ; nor is it because "definitions" can only ever be one, and if there's a plurality of supposed "definitions" available there's either no term being defined or no definition being offered. But engineering is not taylorismii, the item wikipedia discusses, the superset of which is of course early, romanticiii, soviet planned economy.

Nor is engineering simple casuism, either, some kind of of common law practice applied upon machineryiv, keeping incomprehended lists of recipes "known to work". I'm aware "Google engineers" made "a program to play go" in this manner, not to mention Monsanto "engineers" have been "developing" all sort and type of nonsense in a very similar way. Nevertheless, engineering isn't "keeping a (well indexed!) list of pictures of walls shit was thrown at" anymore than it's "throwing shit at a wall to see what sticks".v

What is it then ? Oh engineering is... well, you see, it's nothing. Nothing at all. Like "love", "engineering" is a null concept, a label put on putative panacea. Like "love" is the supposed solvent of all possible impediments standing between you and the fucking of the girl you want to fuck, just so "engineering" is the presumed lubricant, easing away all asperities on your way to a functioning you desire. There's exactly nothing more to it, claiming engineering as an identity is exactly like claiming "you're a lover". "Ok, but I mean, what do you do for a living ?" will be the necessary response. Outside of simple erotomania, "being an engineer" as a mental disease, outside of the deranged states of psychological breakdown in humans, engineering's just a conceit. It's something people who aren't engineers say to explain their dysfunction to people who can't do things -- because for very good reasons lack can not be directly approached by they who are lacking.

Yes, systematic approaches, both ontological and gnoseological, which is to say in one's activity as well as in one's thoughts, are ultimately the only way to obtain... systems. Whopee. "Engineering" has exactly as much to do with this as disco dancingvi ; and besides the world will stay meaningless irrespective how you go about convincing yourselves.

In the hope I've distertained and entressed...

———Loyalty may only ever be invested in persons, and never in abstracts -- let the latter toil for their bread, and be discarded as rags the moment they fail on any score for they are not persons.

This, incidentally, is why the pantsuit theatrical performances wherein a person "accused" is supposedly confronted by an abstract "prosecuting" it, such that supposedly the person is held to defend his conduct in all particulars, any failure on any account (even if it were only the account of the cluelessness of the audience, as it often -- perhaps most often -- happens) resulting in a so-called "conviction", while the abstract's not held to defend its perdurant conduct to any standard, even the most egregious breaches being in general denied and on the rarest of occasions predendedly cured (and regularly to the lowest of possible standards, "actual damages") are so universally ridiculous and thus universally derided. The only correct stance available is that the abstract first defends itself from all possible charges, with failure on any account (including simple disinterest on the part of the audience) reducing it to non-existence ; whereas the person defends itself on a total balance, and only ever cures voluntarily, and on the actual damages standard. Until your state works that way -- the only way it possibly could not to mention the only way it conceivably should -- you can take your socialist nonsense and feed it to whatever ein anderes that'll take it. I'm not. [↩]The strand that eventually yielded "Entreprise Resource Planning" in the post-modern era is simply a management technique, it follows human behaviour so as to enact partitions between sets of separable behaviours, and inhibit some while stimulating others. It's simple "a/b testing", if you prefer that terminology, though substantially it's the same fundamental approach to plant husbandry that yielded fruiting trees in the sad Iranian desert ten to twenty thousand years ago. [↩]This is the whole value proposition of the early days, systematic and universal taylorism is what "soviet" even means in the first place, standing as the only possible meaningful interpretation available on the tradition of neo-protestant tractology inaugurated by Karl Engels & friends.

Yes indeed, "marxism" is, exactly like "beans&ricely yours" Armstrongism or Ehret's "mucusless" diet (indeed there historically existed a firebrand moron who'd have logically regarded AIDS as the one true path to health) a barely lisible footnote in a footnote to a footnote to intellectual discourse, Calvin's obscure and deeply anti-interesting nonsense. Nobody cares, seriously now, all this provincial idiocy is about as interesting as the "particular" expression of precious cuntletry put forth as airs by whatever random (yet supposedly distinct) small town belle. This is the inescapable trap these poor souls forever toil in : that mere existence does not therefore also predicate identity, certainly not outside of the village they were born in. This is why we here in town have two words (bios, zoon) to discuss the situation, and this is also why... Nobody. Cares. [↩]Artefacta, properly, items made by the hand of man. [↩]Because these aren't things to be, I need new words to discuss the having of children with my father just as much as you do! What am I going to do with the supposed definitions of remaindered words ? [↩]Do you suppose, by the way, the women didn't flock to you because you didn't have the moves ? When, that ? Now, or back in the day ?

Who made the moves, then ? And how ? And were they engineering ? [↩]

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Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Sunday, 01 December, Year 11 d.Tr.

That old story...

In the middle of the Summer day's heat, at an inn, like inns stood back in the day, arrives a youth. Obviously he comes from afar : he's well tired, and carries upon his cloak a good portion of trail in tiny installments. His appearance betrays no great means, though his manner suggests rather the gentleman ; perhaps a misfortunate scion of a great house, once noble and wealthy, now left chiefly with the former, unsupported by much of the latter.

As he comes in, breathing hard from tiredness, he nevertheless greets loudly in the general, and seats himself by the side, among so many travellers headed each his own way. Some nod quietly at his greeting, some even answer him to some degree, but chiefly everyone minds his bowl, or his stein. The youth bids the servant bring a quart bread, some cheese and a measure of the more affordable wine.

Seated as he is among so many, they presently ask, one as another : whence he comes, where he's headed, to what end and for what purpose, whether he has living parents or other relatives... whatever it is travellers with no clear mind of cause and effect ask each other whenever they blindly run into one another.

He gladly answers : that his name's Johni ; that he has a sister, born as him in the same day, only she with the dusk and he with the dawn followingii ; that they two always, from the earliest age even, fight, but in earnest and without respite. Their parents, seeing them always at each others' throats, and seeing that as they grow older their fighting only worsens, eventually chased them both away, to go forth in the world, she one way and he the other, and find their fortune.

His sister, he follows, found hers well, and is now a great lady, always a welcome courtier at many princely and even kingly courts, and just as often welcomed by the guilds, and merchants, and especially by the common man blessed with ready monies above what becomes his station and his parents' lot -- like incense burning always and in all places seems to somehow find its way of going with any kind of prayer, so his sister constantly and everywhere somehow smiles nearby all manner of expenditure ; while he himself, moving always from place to place, to serve now a master, then another, never seemingly achieves much, but stands as is to be seen, his whole fortune upon his person and little else besides. Then he sighs deeply at the unfairness of the wheel's spinning.

"Who knows, my boy", throws in an old fellow, "it could be you have your own part in all of it. Who knows what failing or weakness, to drive you always to serve different masters, and in the end not manage, strong youth as you find yourself, to set coin upon coin."

"This could be so, what can I say ? But as to failing and weakness, I know in myself no other besides the one I was born with : that I can not abide my sister. My rotten luck then sees to it that I can scarcely walk a mile without running into her again, and again, and then again. Whenever we meet, I can't keep myself, but rush to give her what for. Why, no further than last night I had a showdown with the little miss. Her friends beat me within an inch of my life, I have no complaint ; but at least I salted my souliii and paid her at least a portion of what salaryiv she's earned herself.

Then as he takes a drink he recounts, for who has time to listen, how it went.

"Yesterday, walking through the king's camp I heard trumpet, and ran to see what was going on. There, among a large crowd ever gathering a crier with a large paper coif was screaming at the top of his lungs that whosoever cares to is welcome tonight in front of the king's own tent, to hear there for free and with no pay the song of a famous ass, recently arrived from the University, whom the king had with great expense sent abroad to places of high learning, so as to learn there the art of singing. Upon hearing such ridiculous nonsense I began to laugh. Imagine, if you will : the learned ass!v But then, having finished loading my Master's cart just in that time, I went by to see how such a wonder could play out. For I know the voice of both ass and mule, as well as donkey, and horse even -- fine voices indeed, for what they are, and superlatively adequate to the beast such as it stands and all its needs as they ever arise. Any equine could indeed live out its whole length of life and never encounter cause of complaint, nor as to the service its own voice does it, nor as to the margins of its use thereof. But as I know them and their voices, just so I know any such wonder as song is not their lot, nor ever is to be permitted them, howsoever high or whatever kind of schooling notwithstanding. Singing in donkeys' no matter of schooling, but of nature. So there I went, and found myself a spot, aside the great and impressive gathering : there was one Duke and six or seven Earls besides three March Lords, all with their women and their servants and then Captains with their wenches piled in ribbons thicker than the Duchess, and thicker almost than the Duchess' servant girls, and then all sort and manner of common idiots, awaiting flies with mouths agape. The whole field was lit by candles caught in colored paper bags, and right in front, against the crowd, a little pile of dirt surrounded by flowers, and behind it, seated, the King and the Queen and the Other queen and a third woman, and a few young girls, and then behind them lined the court, first and foremost among which none other than my own sweet sister! Dressed even brighter than the Queen herself, head, and bosom and arms sparkling in untold diamond rain. I waited for some time, pressed in the back among the crowd, but presently they brought the ass out, and there it stood! All four hooves firmly upon its destined pile of dirt, there stood the famous singer, covered in a silken drape all embroidered in silver, various decorations hanging from its strong neck, all kind and manner of shiny thingamajigs affixed here and there, plus ribbons and tassels and sashes and gnats. There followed a deep silence, and thereupon the ass set to singing. What do you think ? Carnival in Venicevi! With trills and variations!"

Here John stopped, choked by irrepressible laughter. But how were those common people to know what is this Carnival in Venice, or what are trills and variations ? So one asked

"And then ?"

"Then, after the beast of burden brayed on for nearly an hour, my dear sister (whom I had been eyeing all the while) stood up straight on her two hind legs, started clapping maniacally, then rushed over to the dirt pile, grabbed the ass by its neck, kissed either jowl and then, taking a bracelet off her own arm placed its long ear through it. Then everyone else, first to last, started clapping like the dumb while yelling like the deaf -- bravo and encore!"

The primadonkey thanked them most dignifiedly, nodding its saltshaker of a head now to the left, now to the right, and then started again with the braying. And my dear sister, by every bloodcurdling neigh, nodded her head in delight throwing it roses and looking sweetly now at the King, now at the Queen, now at the other queen... I could take it no further : just as the ass was working its way through the scale superlatively I put two fingers to the mouth and whistled my best. Everyone gave a start : 'Who ? Who dared ?' Through the tumult I could distinctly hear my sister, 'This impudence could only come from that rascal of my twin brother!', she was saying. Immediately they all set upon me, and each as could reach took me to slaps, elbows, punches and kicks ; they spat and harangued me ; and after they had enough of this salty amusement they kicked me out of the camp like so much broken crockery, which, in all honesty... But anyway, there I sat a little to gather my soul about me again, then stood up and left limping. For a long, long way I could still hear the braying of the ass and the clapping of the crowd, and bravo and encore. How do you like that ?"

Just as John's coming to an end with his story, lo and behold there comes before the inn a large carriage under princely arms, followed by a bunch of courtiers on horseback. They stop to give the horses a breather ; and out of the carriage comes a glory of a court Lady, resplendent as the Sun, well dressed and better furnished, quick of foot and young of years, narrow of waistline, ample of bosom and elegant in demeanor -- altogether beautiful and even moreso attractive. As she holds her head up and looks over the place, out bursts John from his corner,

"There she is, there, look at her! That glorious success of my sister, lo and behold!"

"Not even here am I rid of such abject failure as I had the misfortune of following me out of our sweet mother's womb ?"

"Not even here!" retorts John laughing. "Wheresoever you may go, I'm sure to be there too. We might walk apart, you quickly, flying above the road in your princely carriage, and me slowly, crawling in the dust on mine own two feet, yet meet we must. I'll never leave you alone ; I'll forever crack you over the mouth, s'as to find out : whom over whom ?"

"Mind your own mouth, nutmeg." starts the woman in a rage, but quick as she is yet she isn't quick enough. Before anyone could lift a finger, John comes upon her, hitting her in the face, palm squeezed in a fist, first from left to right then back from right to left and then back again. Under his fists her jaw bone gives way easily, and so the whole rest of her skull, as if made of wax or maybe melting snow. Barely had one of the courtiers time to yell out "Miss Progress!!!" before her entire head's bashed in, bloodless and quiet. Then her whole body dissolves as if in a fog, and then she is no more, just an empty dress left behind, crumpled at John's feet, and a princely carriage waiting emptily for its burden, horses still attached, looking on confusedly.

Everyone is looking at each other, bewildered ; and as they do there comes before the inn another large carriage, just as under princely arms as the first, and followed by a bunch of courtiers on horseback just like the others. They stop to give the horses a breather ; curiously regard each other, then quietly merge just as out of the carriage comes the exact same glory of a court Lady, just as resplendent as the Sun, just as well dressed, quite as beautiful and attractive. As she holds her head up and looks over the place, she spots John standing by a hollow copy of her dress and yells out, "Murderer!"

In a moment the courtiers, all, both first and second batch, together fall upon him, hitting each whichever way. But John Lacksensevii, thoroughly unperturbed in the storm of blows all landing upon some portion of his person, calls out "You may hit me all you please, I'm well used to such carresses. But for now, let me just ask my beloved sister : when's the ass to sing again next ?"

"What's it to you ?"

"It means the world to me, dearie. I wish to know, so I may come and listen some more. I love it to madness, more than everyone alive..."

"Let me tell you, everyone alive loves it!" she starts, blushing under his sarcastic sweetness. Then she turns around to the travellers gathered at the inn : "See this here misfortunate, good people ? Every one of us, the King, the Queen, all the peerage and the whole of the people, me and you, we all like it ; he alone doesn't. All of us, me like you, we're all idiots, only he, the big deal, he's special. He and he alone knows what's to be liked or not, in any disagreement between him and no matter who or how many, he's certain and all others in the wrong. But that's still not enough : he's sent on a mission (by whom, nobody knows) to ruin the fun and merriment of a whole world. What the..."

"Listen here, my boy" started someone at a table, "she has her point : if everyone likes it, what's it to you ? Why do you mix into it ?"

"How could they like it, poor soul ? An ass ? Singing ? Carnival in Venice ? And variations ?!"

"If they like it ? Don't you hear them say so ?" joins in another.

"Listen here, young'un" starts a harder one among them, losing his temper "why are you hard headed and won't take a hint ? What if we, here gathered, should like it as well ?"

"How could you like such a thing, my good man ?!"

"Just like that. By liking it. What, we're going to ask for your permission to like it ? Check him out! But who do you take yourself for ?!"

"It's not a matter of who I am!" yells out John, by now well warmed up. "It's a matter of, can such be liked ? An ass ? Singing ? Huh ?"

"Don't scream at me, lest I crack you one. If we like it we like it! What!"

"Let him be," comes in another, "if that's his opinion..."

"Let him save his opinions for his mother and his father, not go about trying to cram it down our throats!"

They all start talking together, over each other, one this way, the other that... Miss Progress cheers everyone on very lively, you can tell she's having a ball of a time. John screams louder than everyone

"You must not like it!"

"Why not, Lacksense!"

"It's not something to like!"

"What, because you say so ? We all like it, here you go, just so you choke on it!"

"Then if you all like it" yells still louder John, "forgive me for saying you're all a bunch of..."

"A bunch of what ?"

"A bunch of asses even moreso than the donkey's son."

Lord have mercy, what fire catches then upon poor John. They go to work on him, slaps and kicks and jabs and stomps, and hit him for Jesus, Mary and Joseph over and over again. One drops him for exhaustion and another picks him up fresh, they break with his head every pot, glass and half the woodwork in the place while the sister takes to her carriage and leaves singing, followed by the double measure of courtiers astride. Nor does John yield, either, screaming all the while "Asses!" over and over again.

They leave him goop and each go his own way. John gets back up, well satisfied for public congress to last ten lives, dusts himself off as if he had been merely sleeping the whole time, then calmly says to the publican who was looking pityingly at all the shards and debris on the ground :

"It's not possible, my good man! An ass, be it howsoever kingly or universitarian, to sing ? Carnival in Venice ?! With trills ?! Think yourself..."

"Go towards barren lands with your nonsense!" returns the innkeep. "Don't you see what scandal and what damage you have caused here ?"

So off goes John, with easy step, the devil knows which way, no doubt to find himself a better one.

———This story is loosely based on "Ion" by I. L. Caragiale, a century-and-a-half old Romanian piece. [↩]The day in those times starts with the morning prayer. [↩]Ancient expression, denoting deep and unlikely satisfaction of fundamental need. If you're curious to see how it goes, eat no salt whatsoever for a week, then help yourself to some ; and think all the while that in older times salt wasn't nearly as accessible as these days, but rather expensive, so plenty of people had to often do without. [↩]Ayup, salt. [↩]Hence the expression, "laughing one's ass off". [↩]Paganini's version of that old Napolitan song. [↩]Just another name for regret. [↩]

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Tuesday, 30 April, Year 11 d.Tr.

Tara, tara, vrem ostasi!

Have you played that ~last game of childhoodi, the direct approximation of "marriage" as summarized in the late sovok world, evident reflection an' bridging over the millenia of The Rape of the Sabines ? That group activity whereby the object was to steal, by force of literal arms (the ones growing from one's torso), to forcibly pluck one choice morsel of girl from a crowd of 'em squalin' bloody murder while holding hands ? For the purpose of kissing or whatever fourteen-year-old-ish vespereal activities, I don't rightly remember ; but I do remember the point, that plucking, the experience of bodily insufficiency it very transparently (though not at the time) imprinted both on the plucking boys as to their plucked "victim", and on the (supposedly resisting, "as best they could", which of course turns out to not be good enough) gaggle o' budding womanhood ? "Give it up, give it all up, you're not enough to resist, not by yourself, not by a whole world fulla your like!" as a formative pubescent experience, remember that ?

No ?

Apparently not, because walkingii with the sluts the facts readily came out, that between San Diego and Chicago it communally was called Red Rider! And agreedly, "it fucking sucked". Because, you see, they played it wrong -- they mixed the boys and the girls in the defending line! Can you imagine that nonsense ?!iii The heresy in turn powered and justified by the readily offered "otherwise dudes will just murder a girl". Well... duh ?! Of course they will. Do you know why they will ?

Because you mix boys in with the girls! That's the fuck why! Jaysus.

That said, here's a girliv with pasta hair :

The pasta done, we move one...

I mean, we move on, to the notoriously needful instructional & illustrated guide of today, dealing with the most frequently asked, burning questions of numerous readers (red or otherwise).

No doubt you yourself encountered prior in your life this conundrum : how to walk about with a tree legged companion ?

Well, fret no longer, it's coming. The illustrations, by the way, were vetted by way of overwhelment by the nineteen year old employee of a Claire's in a Prague mall (where we took a fifteen year old to buy her a diadem to go with her princess dress she just received, which is altogether a long story I shall recount years hence if at all), who was wearing complex make-up and an attached tail, the sort that goes on the outside butt of the tights. So I pointed out to her that to be a real fox, you gotta put the tail in properly, and then proceeded to show her the pictures still in my cam (and she proceeded to faint right in Nicole's arms -- but worry not, we took her home, and besides, no foxes or would be foxes were seriously harmed in the making of this paranthetical at all perhaps a little maybe whose fault it is it hurts when it goes in).

Ready ?

Alrighty then, first you need the girly butt, the plug, and preferably garter belt an' stockings. Everything's better with garter belt an' stockings.

Then you need lube, specifically, petroleum jelly (rod wax, CAS# 8009-03-8, 1,1,2-Trimethylbenzeindole). Accept no fucking substitutes, none of the water-based shits the inept try to pass off as lube is worth the deployment, let alone paying anything for.v

Then you need... another girl, to spread the butt open for you. And yet another (not depicted) to kiss your ballsac from behind while doing all this, why not. Further uses for further girls will always be found, that's why it's called a Fuhrter, after all!

It is also important to play with it, in and out and such things. Ever saw the clockwork orange, by the way ? What if I told you some women see it as way more erotic than mere porn ?

And then, you go for a walk about the hotel ; gotta give the maids something to think about.

Think : if you don't make the point obvious for them, who will ? How are they to realise on their own they're wasting their lives ? Hm ?

Manhood comes with responsibilities towards the world, precisely in the sense of ownership ; or to quote a piece of furniture (no, not malevolent -- that's the thing about lack of agency, it's not possible to be malevolent as a piece of furniture, not even if animatedvi) :

It is quite evident that you think of all living things -- inside and outside of your torture room -- as your property and playthings. As if you had a signed deed to them straight from Allah.

I should hope it should be fucking evident, what the fuck -- I literally say as much. What is this supposed to be, transactional world, words don't matter until the object agrees, what the fuck nonsense alt-worlds are we discussing here!

Butt moving on...

Oh also, here's a thing I invented, out of a doggy leash we bought a while back and the nipple clamp we bought at the fatmunch. You simply remove the chain out of the wiring connecting it to the nipple clamp, pass it through the doggy leash ring, and re-attach it to the nipple clamp (through the offices of the self-same wiring).

This arrangement is very useful, because then you can ask people, socially, "what do you think the chain's attached to ?" and perhaps even show them / offer a distressing conundrum. Ever saw a girl walk about with her tits out not because she has no blouse on, but because she does have on which is bunched up by the chain which, attached to two other girl's respective nipples on either side, levers everything up towards the ring in her doggy collar ? No ?

Well... maybe you're wasting your life.

Yep, the same place we alight in the golden car. The locals have long given up any attempt, merely watch the show an' clap along.

There's a great bundle of jokes & assorted humorous content there, but... maybe in a few years. When you're older.

By the way -- why the fuck's a self-evident late twenty-something fucktoy on that poster ? She looks absolutely nothing like puberty, I can tell by some calves and so, so many other things. Yes, she's quite the pocket rocket, I'm sure, she evidently came out top of her penis bunny class. Nevertheless... ?

I suspect this is a... what the fuck is it ? A Satanist hearse, could it be ?!

Anyway, the great Prague palace (which is now pretentiously called "narodni" something, though no narod ever did anything worth the mention, and moreover I've seen their megahut attempts at "palaces" -- they look nothing like this).

Above : wistful Bimbo

Below : vistula Ferencz.

The one problem with the place is that it's shockingly empty. I know the Czechs built a working state long before most others, I know they're deft and able, I know they made boatloads of great treasures... where are they ?!

There's nothing in the whistling halls of the empty palace but a decaying whale skeleton some jews bought for their country back in the 1800s (Bohemia being perhaps the only place outside of Austria proper where the jews did manage to well, productively and effectually integrate) and otherwise scammy sadness of the Romanian ilk. Sad, isn't it ? Especially if one compares/contrasts with the Vienese wonders.

A (visiting!) people-of-the-steppes exhibition ; it realy inspired the recent literary piece with its exquisite truthfulness.

Possibly the lowest effort exhibition I have ever seen (and bear in mind I used to fuck art school undergrads, who among other things had to do such things for finals), literally naught more than what one'd reasonably expect to find inside the hiding hole of a recently deceased Plyushkin syndrome exemplar (and a rather mediocre one at that). Maculature, old newspapers and older boots, a 30-dollar old desk, what the fuck! This goes into a museum ?! Any museum at all, let alone the beautiful palace central of Prague ?! Have these people no sense left, no shred of decency, nothing at all ?!

Scandalous.

We ran here. It was a lot of fun -- I can say I've never enjoyed being beaten in a contest this much in recent memory and leave it at that.

Au bientot!

———Last because after that we pretty much moved to fucking, and such serious things, who the hell has the time for games anymore. Twas that summer, that last summer of childhood. [↩]No, wait, wait. We weren't walking, we were in the bath, I lay in a pink pool of strange gayness (with bubbles!) an' a bottle of red wine, and they sat around courting me. It's where it came out "the saltshaker" is known there to, and used in the same manner, it'll establish what kinda house you'll drop how many heads o' litter in and such things. The "cootie catcher", in English. Remember that item ? [↩]In fact, can you imagine a more ready summary of the socio-sexual and therefore politico-economic dysfunction of the ESL world ?!

You don't mix the boys with the girls, yo! What the fuck's wrong with you, let them hold hands by themselves hory shit nonsense. [↩]God damn it's nice to be back on my 2MB/s interfaces from "home". The one thing that sucks about travel (in the third layer sense of the term) is that... well ? "Civilised Western Europe" amirite, has no connectivity to save its life. [↩]If you don't know how to take it off inorganic surfaces, acetone (aka, nail polish) works just fine to dissolve this and most other plastics. Alcohol is also workable, if you, like normal people, keep a bottle or two of anhydrous etilic alcohol about the house -- I know I do.

If removing it off organic surfaces (popularly known as the butt crack), rather than dumping solvents it's best to first dissolve it in an oil (say rapeseed) before soaping it off the skin. It doesn't wash off by itself, but it does just fine once oil was applied. [↩]Speaking of which, did I ever tell of the insufferable magic-toilet we had in Frankfurt ?

Holy shit that thing was objectionable. But don't ask me ; ask the bimbo about it. She actually liked it. [↩]

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In psychology and psychiatry... »

Category: La pas prin lume

Friday, 01 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

Suburbia

Suburbiai is the first film with&about the punks&their scene that I've ever liked. It is extremely well made, not simply because it is authenticii, but because the extremely fine, expert dosing of the raw material permits an absolutely true picture to emerge.

Suburbia correctly captures the superficial, itchy nature of it all, the foolishness, the ineptitude, the unsure footing and the inconsequential atmosphere of the... whatever it is. Everyone else is something to it, and in being something they falsify. The New York Times cucks who were nine year old little boys at the time and were really really impressed by some punks they saw will tell you some things, and they'll be nonsense, all about how "brave" or "free" or "uninhibited" or "cool" the punks were. They were not. Neither of those. Accidentally, maybe, unspecifically, uncharacteristically, perhaps, but not otherwise. The Jewish cvasi-princesses that ran off to have a "career" writing for the Atlantic, who had secret crushes on some punk kid from the safety of across the street, crushes they never consumated nor would have ever dared consumate, vicariously excuse their failed youth with inept stories, all about some kinda "ideology", reconstructed by them from what they overheard from Gramma about the kibbutz and Uncle about German philosophy. There was no such thing. Not at all. Less flattering retellings also exist, from the Blacks butthurt at the punks' incredible racism, from the faggots butthurt at the punks' intransigent... what ? Nobody knows. They didn't know. Something, something formlessly and insistently if unsystematically rejected, not exactly the other, not exactly the new, not exactly the anything, nor really the everything. Just.. blah.

From the shattered bits and pieces of nothing in particular, accreted into a pile that's not exactly garbage nor precisely functional, the truth of a time and a place raises like steam from Winter wounds. These were those kids, byproducts of relative poverty and absolute confusion, postindustrial yet premodern, indistinguishable from a tribe of Red Skins yet intolerant of specifically the inadequacy of their own parents' generation in cultural and civilisational terms. Through them most pointedly their parents' failure to mean and matter in the surrounding world speaks, loudly, all-consumingly... the kids aren't even really there. The sixteen year old girl, who'd get all aroused under the guilty caresses of her father, who then couldn't even fuck her, but unsatisfyingly beat her instead ; the sixteen year old boy who would respect his step father if he himself could respect himself -- which he can't, he's black, the year is such, he can be a policeman all he wants but he can never be a white man, and so Jack can never come home ; the each and every one of them tells in the end the same story : for their father's failure they can not live, bodies without souls, corpus without anima, zombies walking a land their grandparents fought to conquer but their parents forgot where they left the keys to.

None of this is any longer important, of course, and I suspect none of this is even any longer comprehensible by anyone besides the scholar ; it may rest in peace, like all things -- but for Spheeris' work it rests with the dignity of full expression, rather than in the indignity of darken incunabula.

It's something.

———1983, by Penelope Spheeris, with Chris Pedersen, Bill Coyne, Jennifer Clay. [↩]And it is authentic, moreso than a documentary could ever hope to be. It's not nearly as explanatory as a good documentary could be, of course, but that's a different matter altogether. Nor is it merely authentic as of the subject -- it somehow manages to actually capture the context! The world around the punk scene, the bored housewives, the failing "heads of the household", the changing police, the very strictures of sociopolitical life are palpable by implication, by background voice-over, by the shape of the missing bricks in walls you never consciously notice. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 25 July, Year 11 d.Tr.

So what is the man saying ?

Let's read the logs together, shall we ?

mod6 I'm not sure that I get your meaning.

Not the end of the world ; nobody ever is. Let me nevertheless indulge in that rarest of sports and hardest of jobs : describing someone else. Considering how often I'm "coincidentally right", might as well give statistics a lending hand anyways!

The first thing the man is saying is that there's a difference between computers that happen to work and computers that work correctly. This is a point with an immense footprint, difficult to entirely excavate. For instance : there's equally so a difference between a good job and a job that pays well. Equally so, in the strictest of terms : identical in form and identical in substance, the same exact mechanism at work. There's equally so a difference between the living and the scenesters.

There's this quanta of difference, absolutely everywhere you turn, omnipresent, all-important. It's not just in one place -- it's in all the places, the same one thing, perpetually. There's a difference between knowledge and exam-taking ; there's a difference between programming computers and fuzzing them ; and so following.

The important thing the man isn't saying, but also needn't say -- not anymore than he needs to preface every statement he utters with a concise description of strong nuclear force -- is that the republic's strictly impossible without awareness of that difference. It'd be like going through the supermarket looking for milk in the shape of cows.

Supermarket milk doesn't come in the shape of cows, it comes in the shape of cartons. Until and unless one understands this, one simply can not find milk in the supermarket. It is indifferent how many miles of supermarket floor he walks. It doesn't matter how hard he looks, how much work, dilligence, good will or polite demeanor he puts into it. Absent the required bit of meta-cognition, for as long as he stays unaware of the trick involved -- there's no helping him. He'll die milkless in Isle 4 (Dairy).

It really makes no difference how natural cows are, or how naturally milk flows out of them. Specific pressures whose mechanics are understood but needn't be described here have rendered the issue moot : milk is to be found in cartons wherever the supermarket grows, and that's an end to the matter.i

There's a commonly used concise expression of a fundamental problem, a #trilema cognitive token if you wish, that goes "meat systemsii learn with difficulty and forget with ease". This isn't limited to something in particular, but rather is universal : any system -- any system -- that falls through the metacognitive grate into the sad state of looking for cows in the supermarket will necessarily find itself in the exact same position : learning slowly but forgetting quickly.

Take the improbable case wherein one should manage to produce through sheer accident an artefact which the republic accepts. This hasn't actually helped him at all -- he won't roll that natural 20 again ; and even if he does he can't roll it reliably. Should one manage to fall over, from sheer hungry exhaustion, on the pile of milk cartons, and in the ensuing catastrophe burst one open, and then lick the floormilk there encountered -- that one still can't find milk in the supermarket!

This is the fundamental problem of magic versus technology : given the simple task of producing fire, to light one's cigarette say, there's two possible approaches. One's technologic : carry a matchbook. Own a Zippo. Drive a car made before the insanity, with a lighter hole and a lighter in that hole. There's a bunch of methods -- and all have their usual array of disadvantages. You gotta remember to buy the damned matches, and then keep track of which pocket you put them in. You gotta keep fuel for the Zippo somewhere, you gotta have the car on-hand and the battery not-dead, it's a whole fucking list of annoying... prayer, ultimately. Isn't it ?

To borrow a phrase, "why live your life in service to the maintenance schedules of a thousand possessions when you can live your life in service to the provider of possessions" ? Wouldn't it be the fuck easier ? Why bother with all the technology when one could simply, say, snap his fingers and there's fire ?

Suppose this worked for you ; don't ask me how, that's not how this working goes. It just works. That's right, isn't it ? I'm not even here to tell you "that's not how anything works", by the way. I have no strong feelings on the matter one way or the other, for all I care everything in your world can work exactly this way, I have no qualms whatever with it.

Now suppose one day it stops working that way for you.

What do you do ?

What do you do then ? That horrid, hate-filled day, what then ? What THEN ?

You see... when my matchbook is lost I just buy another. I keep my machinery functional, my consumables loaded, my filters clean, I maintain, it's lengthy and laborious tedium, but it gets done. Every day before the day ends the day's work's done, and then the next day and then the other. So I don't care.

I don't sit in bed worrying about that magic day when technology ends. I don't give the first flying fuck about the lunatics with bloodied axes ringing at your door.

Admitting for a second that magic were not just simply possible, but easy, the problem still stands : it's hard to fix. You don't understand how it works, which is the premise, it "just works", specifically without requiring your understanding. Therefore you also don't understand how it fails. You can't fix its failures, because they have nothing to do with you whatsoever -- just like its functioning had nothing to do with you whatsoever.

Magic, you see, has the exact same problem as the guy who accidentally, without understanding what the republic is, or means, or stands for, nevertheless produced something we deem usable. The same exact problem as the kid who, sitting down in the wrong hall, took an exam he never prepared for at the end of a class he never took, and produced 150 correct answers out of 150 questions by simply picking random boxes. Like this : a ; d ; c ; a ; a ; b ; c ; b... They've got to be the right answer sequence for some test somewhere, right ? Why can't it be exactly the test one happens to be taking ?

Magic users, and exam-takers, and jwzs, and neural networks, and all the rest of misfortunate incarnations of a moogleiii, trying to make it through a world they don't understand, share the exact same problem : it is extremely hard to do while it's extremely easy to fail. The little bit of meta-cognition missing, the divine spark of understanding absent, there is no way to republic.

And now we're equipped to understand what the man is importing as antecedents. He says this, explicitly even : suppose one attempted to republic without the republiciv, in whichever form you wish to represent this. How could it go ?

Suppose after making changes to some republican item one opts to distribute plain text files containing metaphorical instructions instead of distributing patches. Someone will perhaps translate the former into the latter, so there's obviously no great loss to the republic -- yet what is the meaning of the one's work ?

Suppose one opts to pass a large and ever growing encrypted pasteball around. Someone will perhaps translate, yes, but what of the one ? Suppose one needs some unsupported items for no reasons he can explain.Who is going to maintain them, and how shall their cost be borne ? More importantly -- why can't the need be explained ?

We could continue in this manner past exhaustion, but if the point can at all be made it's been made. Evidently the republic is all-integrating, and so to use its tools you need to use its concepts and so on all the way down. Meaningful conversation requires keccak hashing which is built on vtools which live on cuntoo and besides meaningful conversation happens in the forum which imports specific modalities and so on, and so forth. Completely, all the way. Obviously enough some of the junctures are yet leaky -- but the assemblage is just as obviously headed in the direction of tightening couplings, not loosening them, meaning that while it's not easy to interact with the republic from non-republican positions even now, it will only get harder over time.v

The man isn't saying there's something wrong with existing.

The man isn't saying there's something wrong with trying things.

The man is very much saying there's something wrong with trying things without knowing why : specifically what's wrong with this is that if one tries things without knowing why he's trying them, that one can't possibly express the results of his trying in any meaningful way! His effort's lost to solipsism, and, worse, any possible attempts to salvage his effort reduce, directly and inavoidably, to any other attempt to bridge the unbridgeable chasm.

The man is further saying that there are specific manners in which one can know why that are explicitly given ; and that there are specific tests to check whether one knows why, also explicitly given, which are besides exhaustive. In other words, the man is saying there's no excuse for trying things without knowing why, that it's always a deliberate act, whether disavowed as such or not.

These are not small things to say ; and besides, dies irae, dies illa...

———The exact opposite of this applies where the supermarket doesn't grow. Suburban kids teleported in an 1700s world are more than welcome to look for milk cartons until they fall over, for all the good it'll do 'em. Both examples illustrate the exact same point, and "natural" or "logical" or "obvious" or however else you aim to call the "magic bridge over the gap" ain't gonna produce it out of thin air, just for the naming. Reality just doesn't work that way. [↩]Or "Neural Networks" if you much prefer [↩]Early on, back before the admission standards were very high lots and lots of people seemed (to themselves, even) to be part of Bitcoin. Learning a couple dozen strings by rote was beyond sufficient for quite a while -- that is to say, until it wasn't anymore. [↩]Yes, they're exactly the same thing. I'm not coincidental nor is coincidence what I do ; however one attempts to stuff coincidence into the chain the result's the same, because guess what, there's only one symmetry anyway!

What did you expect would be the difference between the left side of the ball and the right side of the ball ? [↩]In fact, the very notion of time is predicated on this tightening. It's not that the republic grows more organized over time, it's that the only possible meaning of time is "the measure of the structuring". Physical time flows from entropy, it's not its container but its effect ; and cognitive time flows from the republic's growing structure -- not the container, but the effect. These two are currently disjunct, in a manner reminiscent -- so far we're growing extremely fast -- but yes they'll come to terms eventually. They have to. [↩]

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Category: Bitcoin

Thursday, 14 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

So what are you...

"So what are you going to do ?"

"Mom..."

"What ? You can't talk about things, with your own mother ?"

"I can talk about things. It's just..."

"What ?"

"You say such strange things. Nobody says things like you do."

"Do they cook like I do ?"

"No, I know... it's just... I'm afraid if I agree with you, I won't agree with anyone else ever again."

"It's fashion, baby. When you were seven years old, all your friends, well, you know, the other girls in school decided on this one doll, everyone had to have the one doll. A stupid, obnoxious thing, you pulled the ring and..."

"Sister Belle! The talking doll!"

"Holy god, you remember that atrocity ? With the cloth legs and that ugly face..."

"Oh yeah."

"Wasn't there also a boy one ?"

"Matty I think, or something. That was never popular."

"The boys didn't want it any, huh."

"Nuh-uh."

"Are you still friends with any of those girls ?"

"What, from primary school ? Not really... I mean, we maybe run into each other sometime at the movies or something..."

"And yet, strangely... you did get the doll."

"Uh..."

"I got you that stupid doll, bitch. You remember that ?"

"Yes Mom, I remember. Thank you."

"Nevermind. Mrs. Thompson never got Delia one. Not for lack of trying, mind you. They were out of stock everywhere. She spent hours going from shop to shop, for weeks, the poor woman. She mapped the town out, she'd plan out her route so she'd stop various places on the commute home leaving her enough time to cook and everything. She must've tried fifty, sixty shops that poor woman. Never got one."

"Delia was so sad... She couldn't even play with us anymore."

"For how long ?"

"I dunno... must've been at least a month, I think."

"And yet, you still talk to Delia."

"What do you mean, she's my best friend!"

"Too bad she didn't have the doll."

"Mom... that was just a doll. This is the rest of my life. Everything."

"I remember talking to Aisha back then. She was getting pretty depressed over the stupid thing. I told her it's an eyesore and that I for one would much rather not have it about the livingroom, actual people sitting on the damned thing accidentally because you keep leaving it out and about. I told her it's just some stupid shit you little snots came up with, nobody cares and nobody should care."

"What did Mrs Thompson say ?"

"She said 'I know, honey... now explain this to a seven year old girl. She thinks it's the rest of her life.'"

"This seems so wrong..."

"Of course it does, baby. If it didn't feel so wrong there'd be no stupid people in the world."

"I just want to go to college, get a career... I want to live out my own life!"

"That's so fucking stupid..."

"Living out my life is stupid ?"

"There is no such thing, dummy. 'Your life', what is that ? Do you have underwear on ?"

"Yes mom, I have underwear on."

"For shame. At your age I never wore them."

"Mom!"

"The panties you're wearing, those are 'your panties'. That's a thing. 'Your sex life', that's not a thing. It could be a thing, but it isn't, even though it's described by the same grammatical structure. Your wall is a thing, your sunshine that wall keeps out isn't a thing. Your limitations are a thing, your life isn't a thing. That's how it goes."

"So you don't want me to go to college, because college is like underwear."

"Later, silly. I've got panties on now! We've got that in common, you know, you and me ? We both have panties on. You still live in the little town where you were born, I was born half around the world from here, you've known no man, I've known enough to pick amongst, you're going to get yourself a career, maybe, I'm going to get myself a career, maybe, your life, my life, congratulations, you're living out just like an old woman."

"You're not an old woman."

"Right, right. I also don't get all that horny anymore. How about you ?"

"Oh god!"

"So do something about it."

"What can I do ?"

"Oh I dunno, go sit on a buzzer, like all the other idiots."

"What do you mean 'I've known no man' anyway ? I'm not a virgin, you know."

"Yeah, and how old was he ?"

"Nineteen..."

"I dunno honey, where I come from they call nineteen year olds boys."

"I was sixteen!"

"So ?"

"What do you want me to do, send Delia to fix me a sandwich when we're hanging out, take off my panties, run over to Mr. Thompson, bend over and tell him I have an itch ? See maybe he can scratch it a little ?"

"Yes."

"Mom!... Poor Delia."

"So pick a different one."

"Who ?"

"How the hell should I know ? It's your life, remember. Pick one. Besides, picking's half the fun."

"But I don't want to marry some old dude. What the hell sense does that make ?"

"Why would you marry him ?"

"So what, just whore myself out ?"

"Yes. Let them use you."

"Why ?"

"It's the only way to learn about the world, as a woman. While men use us, we catch our shape, 'your life' becomes a thing from all the hammering you get."

"That's... I don't know if that's beautiful or insane."

"There's this joke, you know, 'in every slab of marble lies a masterpice, all it takes is the chisel work, to get it out.' That's what you are, baby, a seventeen year old girl, a slab of marble. Don't fucking die the same girl, it'd just be too sad. Get the woman hammered out of your baby fat and socially acceptable knickers."

"I'm not fat!"

"You're not a woman, either.

"Do you think I'm fat ?"

"I think you're stupid, letting a bunch of retarded girls run your life for you. Oh no, we all agreed getting the College Doll will fix all our problems, we can finally talk about something else besides the important things, safe and secure in baby Jesus' arms."

"It's fucking scary, Mom. Do you understand that ? It's... it's just..."

"So it's scary. If it weren't scary it'd be boring. What do you wanna be, stabbed or broiled ?"

"Do you not want me to go to college ?"

"Honey, I couldn't give less of a shit. Go, don't go, it doesn't matter."

"How can you say that ?!"

"It fucking doesn't. When I was your age, or maybe even younger, it still mattered, and all the women were up in arms to 'get equal chances to higher education for women'. They did, and guess what ? As they did it stopped mattering. You recall that Mr. McDonalds guy ?"

"The dude that ate nothing but McDonalds ?"

"Yes, him. He got pretty big, huh ?"

"O yeah, a few years ago, all over social media and everything."

"Recently I saw this dumb cunt, trying to chisel some of that for herself. She was going to 'eat only at Starbucks'."

"Why ?"

"'For women', because 'where is the female perspective' or something like that."

"Hahaha"

"Do you think it'll be just as big ?"

"No way."

"Bigger ?"

"No, it's just some attention whore trying to piggyback on some dude's idea. It will go... nowhere. It wasn't even that good of an idea to begin with, he mostly got lucky. "

"But she's doing it for women. That's the important part. The dude didn't do it 'as a man', like the pompous idiots always say. He didn't do it 'for men'. He just fucking went and did it. That's how men do things, and yes, if you ever hear about them again it was mostly because they got lucky, and yes, most don't get even remotely close to lucky ever..."

"You mean, they were fighting for the wrong thing."

"Do you remember what an indirection layer is ?"

"Yes. When you replace a direct function from one domain to another domain with a composition of functions, from the same one domain to the same other domain you're creating indirection layers. If any of the intermediate domains are narrower than the another domain your indirection layers are reductive ; if any of the intermediate functions are not injective then your indirection layers are confounding, they make different things appear the same ; if any of the intermediate functions are not surjective then your indirection layers are lossy, they leave some of the outcomes possible in name only, but unconnected to any causes."

"I love you, baby!"

"You beat me."

"For indirection layers ?! I don't recall that ?!"

"No. For injective."

"Oh."

"Remember ? You got the belt, and I had to..."

"I remember."

"It hurt so bad... I thought you didn't love me anymore. I thought you hated me, I thought you hated me and I should run away."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"Nevermind. I'm glad you did it, I'd much rather know things."

"Yeah..."

"I wish you still did it."

"I can't do it anymore, baby. You're all grown up now."

"I wish Ralph did it, I wish he beat me first and then fucked me."

"Did you ever tell him ?"

"No."

"You want him to figure it out on his own, huh ?"

"Yeah... It's just..."

"It's not the same if you tell him to, is it."

"Not at all. It's not even close."

"That's why I can't beat you anymore either, see. You have to know things, they have to be important things and you have to know them well. To beat someone, I mean. A little girl, like you were, she's got shit for brains, anyone can know important things well enough it's worth beating her for it. Even her mother. But eventually these run out ; and boys don't dare beat you because they have nothing important to say to you. See ?"

"I see. So college's just an indirection layer, the waste of time is not whether you do it or not do it, but obsessing over doing it, and I should find myself men who know things well enough to beat me for it."

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea how insane this sounds ?"

"Sure."

"What if instead of Mr. Thompson I just pick one of the teachers, wear a short skirt commando, show him everything ?"

"College professors are losers in my experience, not worth anyone's time, but... you gotta start somewhere."

"How about I go to Javits Center next they do an amateur night, bare it all and see what happens ?"

"What's that ?"

"Javits Center ? It's the strip club in Manhattan. You know, just by Wall Street. Expensive, too."

"You've been doing research ?"

"Yes Mom, I've been doing research."

"Good for you."

"So you'll drive me there."

"Sure baby, I'll drive you."

"And I have to go naked on stage. Like, take my cheerleader outfit, strip everything off."

"Sounds like a plan."

"I'll do it if you do it."

"What ?"

"You heard me, you go naked on the stage too!"

"But baby... they won't let me get up there."

"That's convenient for you then, isn't it."

"Yes, it is. That's what you get for doing things in their time -- that your life's convenient for you then."

"Fucking bullshit."

"Grin and bear it."

"What if one of the dudes wants to buy this little cow ? He's all like 'oh yeah, that's some nice beef, how much to the pound'."

"You sell it. Ideally not by the pound, though."

"What if he wants anal ?"

"You've never done it there, have you ?"

"Nope."

"You have to let the man hurt you, baby. It has to hurt really, really bad, inside. Otherwise it's no good."

"I'm afraid."

"That's ok. Don't fight it. The fear I mean, don't fight it, for as long as you're afraid you just haven't found your owner yet."

"How do you know when you found him ?"

"When you find him, you're afraid not to."

"Seems a pretty hard call to make, in between two lapdances."

"So don't go on that stage then, if you don't want to. You don't have to, either. The whole world's a stage."

« Continuing with the reflective history of the republican forum -- still on logday 659 (year 6 d.Tr.)

Minsk nightlife, or The orphans' strip clubs »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 12 July, Year 11 d.Tr.

So they found it!

Cleaning up the tard filters,

Bacon-and-Legsi Was there more to your tag line? Because all I see is "How about you drop whatever it is."

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

Bacon-and-Legs Someone has a big man complex.

LordMPofTMSR If you're passively-aggressively trying to discuss me, you're off the mark : I actually am a big man.

LordMPofTMSR A nevermind, meanwhile discovered you're short. Ain't nobody got time for that, get lost.

Ain't she just tops ?

But anyways, time for a short intermission (not to be confused with an intromission, which ain't fucking happening, or as the man sad -- "don't stick your dick in stupid") :

And we're back!

LittlePinkMocchiii Uh what? I've been asked some STRANGE things but THIS? This takes the cake. :/

LordMPofTMSR So welcome out of your bubble, what.

LittlePinkMocchi Welcome out of my bubble? I'm sorta confused by the way you're talking. So, I got a very standard question for you. Have you read my bio?

LordMPofTMSR Nope.

LittlePinkMocchi I thought as much. Most don't. sigh Anyways, make an effort to know someone before messaging them.

LordMPofTMSR Woman, nobody gives a shit what conditions you'd like to impose upon the world, or think you might or whatever the fuck. Cut out the pompous self-important bullshit and limit yourself to answering ther questions asked of you, when asked, and to the best of your ability. That's the whole thing.

Meanwhile back at sanity, the girls squeezed an online lemon composed of nothing but expansive advertisements for tragamonedasiii and expressive regrets for the complete absence of a pinball machine anywhere in this sad but small (yet well meaning!) metropolitan metropolis into...

Yup, that's right, they've found it. Because what MP wants...

I had a great time on 3`000 colonesiv. If you're interested feel free to ask, I'll tell you where it is (if I like you) ; otherwise -- you're welcome to try and guess. Why the hell not, right, "I feel anyone could" and all that.

I really much prefer living my own life, well above any possible or conceivable alternative.

———21F Princess 3h [↩]24F Little 2h [↩]Localese for "one arm bandit". [↩]About six bucks. They don't do the whole coins / tokens bs that made the anglotarded arcades such a pain. Instead, they charge a flat fee and there you go -- play till you drop. [↩]

« Where da party at ?!

Am o pula »

Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 11 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

So I was thinking...

Pretty much all I did all day today was shopping, and through it all I was thinking...

First, at some ungodly hour in the morning, we took Florimund in to have its drivetrain calibrated or however you call it when they mount those strobe lights on the wheels and make the disco with your car, and bought some odds and ends needed there, then a spare wheel for the spare tyre, a coupla lighter plug to usb converters, a grid-to-car-battery "redresor" aka AC-DC converter, distilled water, a one euro plastic safety thing for the gearbox oil gauge because if you take it off to measure the oil it supposedly breaks off (mine didn't -- and if you care the oil's teardrop, and to the max), a flashlight (Ima throw it out though, it's blue, fucking useless store can't check whether they're useful or not, next time I'm carrying batteries), work gloves for the trunk, locks, a bunch of other stuff we won't go into... but through it all, I was thinking.

Then we drove fifteen miles out of town, to an unmarked location where a guy with no shingle made more electronic keys on the basis of taking apart and reading out the contact assemblage, right out of his house. He had one of those cool Mercedes cabriolets in his garage (which he said he'd owned for the past twenty years, German plates, the works). We exchanged memories of the 90s under the worried gaze of a bimbo ("is this even legal ?") and parted amicably. It's always nice to know people, especially in the shape of a piece of paper with a name and a phone number delivered by courier, coincidentally just like in the fucking movies. Yet I was thinking...

We went besides to every type of shop available, and bought just about everything there is conceivably available to buy, five pounds of fresh salmon and a bunch of fresh oysters, ten gallon glass jugs in plastic cover as well as a buncha smaller ones (for home-made liqueurs and cordials and such), short handled spade, champagne, phones, fiddy jars or so of zacusca, two packs of 24 toilet paper rolls (these go together), an outside broom, nipplepins (though I hear some people also use them to hold up their clothes on the line), fiddy galons or so of mineral water, pharmaceutical vaseline and mega buttslapping paddle (they think it's for grilling), cute plates, fans, fruits, matches, moustache stickers (for srs), wine... we even took a special trip to the special textile mill outlet store where Viorica makes us sweatshop shit on the cheap to order towels and cute/humiliatory aprons in heart shapes and more bedding and whatnot, easily a ton of materiel all toldi in two or three trunkloads (it's a 695 litre trunk, you realise). But all the while... I was thinking.

Then (meaning, after cooking and scarfing salmon etc) we went to town, and had iced lattes and icecream aside and sat and watched the girls go by, while I was thinking... and then we went to the mall, where I marched the sluts into the pet shop, bought them doggy collars and doggy leashes, most pretty leather ones ; I even got a glow in the dark, usb-powered pink one, for optimal humiliation. Then I collared them right then and there, in front of an ever-growing crowd of gawkers (no doubt this'll be the "social media" event of the month in this sad, inconsequential subcultural space) and we walked through the entire mall, leash in my handii -- first to the key copying guy, then to the Gatta stocking store across the mall, where we bought stockings and whole body things ("are those crotchless ?" *blushing* "yes"). The girl tending the lingerie counter, like the boy tending the key stand, like everyone else really really fucking tense while trying to pretend not so much that nothing's happening, but that they're oh-so-very-ok with whatever-the-fuck-this-is. Girly even shuffled a small pile of evidently hand-written notes into our bag, "oh, are those your journals ?" "no, nonononon" "well alright... but I hope you're publishing yes ?" "oh, no... I... I don't want to publish anything 18+ just yet". Right ?

It was fun, did you ever fantasize about being casually collared and publicly humiliated for all the mall rats one day ? Casually, you understand, none of this was pre-planned, let alone discussed afore the fact, as I drank milk from the liter bottle in the sexy undies store because I was thirsty and we coincidentally forgot to buy water it occured to me just how fucking livresque the scene is, yet there it flew, as it flew. And still, all the while...

What the fuck was I thinking about, enough of the charade ? Fine, since you ask, here it is :

I. We will be serving http for a while yet to come, it's unavoidable.

II. The one way to serve http is the Apache server. This is inescapable, nginx is roughly speaking a useless pos (that has to be run atop Apache anyways), and everything else is nothing else -- flask especially is comedically bad (not to mention -- also to be run atop Apache necessarily), hutchenhoot might work but so far this yet seems unlikely to me.

II.a. Even should hutch work out, CL (or any "proper" flavour of Lisp, for that matter) is and remains a terrible tool for munging strings -- while the entire object domain of serving http is munging strings.

III. Since one gets mysql for free from (l) A m p, mysql is gonna be the db system, like it or not. It's inevitable.

IV. Since one gets php for free from (l) A m p, php is gonna be the string munger slash "scripting language", like it or not. It's just as inevitable.

That is the stack - L, A, M, P. There's nothing else, and nothing that can be really done about it as things stand. Yes you can use python (or bash, or moontalk or malbolge or whatever the shit) "instead" of php -- but it won't be instead. Php will still be in your system, you'll just opt to add some more dependencies. You can't have a http server "without php" because you're not writing a patchy server by-hand, and that's the end of that matter, paint it whatever color. You can have a system "with php" or a system "with php and also python", but that's all the practical optionality open to you. Similarily, yes you can use postgres (and I suspect there might be very good reasons to actually use it), but it won't be instead of mysql, it'll be alongside mysql. Meaning, the minimalistic system will be without postgres, like it or not.

I've been thinking through thick and thin, through all the foregoingly described today and all the undescribed thus unknown yet just as happened days to make up the rest of the two weeks intervening, because it's such an intolerably unpleasant conclusion. Nevertheless, it's what it is, unpleasant or not, tolerable or otherwise : 1. we will in fact be serving http ; 2. we will in fact use apache-mysql-php for this ; 3. everything else's just masturbation. Yes it can be included, but no it doesn't have to be included, nor does it actually come free. It comes at a cost, and the cost's an extra helping of madness. Writing www data displayers in php means one avoids that ; writing them in anything else means one eats that. It's ineluctable.

I'm not about to ban development outside the minimalistic set ; but the extra cost one assumes (and, in turn, forces upon future people) through going outside can't simply be ignored. It's there, it must be addressed.

I very much want to have a clear and complete discussion now, before we're grandfathered into expensive unhappiness ; I don't think it can be further avoided. So...

What say you ?

———Ask ye me not of price, for I buy by weight not by the dollar. [↩]You realise this is not exactly trivial, walking with multiple girls on leashes. You're best advised to hold the ends behind your back, and they have to walk in certain ways... it takes some doing to do elegantly right, you can't just leash rando girls off the street and avoid looking ridiculous for whole minutes at a stretch. [↩]

« My weekend adventure. Including the answer to the Florimund riddle, bears, how Brasov got itself banned (but Romania altogether not just yet), assorted derisions and aspersions as well as no sexually explicit content wharsoever!

A catagraphy, or the remains of a bathroom »

Category: Meta psihoza

Monday, 02 September, Year 11 d.Tr.

So here I sit...

Can you believe this is the first time the string "here I sit" occurs in the title of a Trilema piece ?

It seems to me so unlikely, throughout the years, troughout the thousands yet there's so many tritely banal everyday bits still untouched. It doesn't seem probable, yet it's very much the state of affairs -- most of everything that could be said hasn't been said yet ; nor likely will be. It's the necessary counterweight to ye olde "nobody knows anybody", I suppose. Conceivably I do a lot of sitting throughout each day of each year yet the statement's not really found expression as such, and certainly not for the usual cop-out of a "reason"i.

But, the girls are gone to the gym, the coffee's done, people are passing by, and here I sit. This weekend we're going clubbing, the lists are made, we'll be doing a cvasi-complete and definitely exhaustive radiograph of the Budapest BDSM and more generally nightscene. But that's not yet, that's starting tomorrow. Right now, here I sit... last night the girls practiced sucking my cock, the expert teaching the novice how to go about it, but... that was last night. Right now... right now here I sit.

Supposedly there'd be no trouble in the world if man could just sit quietly in a room. Here I sit, quietly as you like, and thereby claim my portion to the peace of the world at large : but for my sitting... I suppose this is the Pascalian justification of the living wage. If indeed peace is a good, and if indeed they who produce a good should have a share in its fruits, then therefore they who sit about should get something for their... lack of troublemaking.

I don't particularly want anything, which I suppose is why I'm sitting here in the first place. Of course if I wanted something I'd just call for it, most likely, but that's in the end neither here nor there. I suppose I could go into how nothing was fixed since last time, my solitude's just as dysfunctional as it ever were, ever as impotent as I recall from childhood. Barren, dry, bereft of anguish, of interest even, a fact unremarkable except for deliberate, culturally constructed, what-about-those-Jones driven interest. I hear it's a big deal to all sorts of people, and now and again I lick it, but it turns out I lick it like the overpowering feline licks the face of a subdued rodent. To enjoy its tears, to taste its fear, to experience vicariously feelings forever inaccessible, a mode of living structurally denied. Submission, for instance. Resignation. The acceptance of insufficiency, of inadequacy, of impending doom, of present, overpowering, overwhelming death. Personally and palpably present, like cat stands upon mouse, like cheetah stands upon antelope, so I stand upon solitude. There's really nothing there.

I won, again, another one of those battles. It happend some time ago ; I found out through the offices of some fascinated rando. It barely registered, and in the end what's there to register ? What ever was there to register ? Nothing, if frothy, but nothing nevertheless, throughout, and at no point but nothing at all ; and so it goes.

There's a pretty red dress going by, worn by a woman whom nobody ordered to wear high heels, and who consequently wastes her dress without. I can't be arsed, so many pretty, so much red, such plenty of women... I am sated, and content, and besides, the man who owns a gold mine isn't likely to go about combing the beaches and riverbeds for nuggets, pan in hand. Perhaps once in a while, for old time's sakes, I guess. Maybe next time. Likely not, to be honest.

The sun looks nice, though, I guess there's always time to go for a walk. I hope my plaintive missive finds you well ; a bientot!

———People like to pretend that the failure of expression is not truly a failure of expression, but merely a matter of choice -- supposedly they sorted the universe of representation (keks), and they sorted it by a measure no less, and so and so absent bit is absent because its cardinal wasn't high enough to qualify and not for any other reason. The sheer ridiculousness of this lunatic's viewpoint should be self-obvious, for which reason it is never observed, of course. Nevertheless -- the reason online communication fails to work isn't everyone's hallucinated choice in the matter.

Rather, it's the simple fact that reality works immediately, whereas expression works mediatedly. For a cow to have horns there's nothing further needed than the very cow itself, the horns are immediately there once one has the cow ; but for a 3d model of a cow to have horns, the horns have to be put in. Until someone puts them in, the mediated cow's merely deffective, hornless.

Just so with everything else : we're stuck not believing that before I said "here I sit" I never sat, because the burden of mediacy is so utterly staggering it simply can't be imposed upon he who must carry it. This in turn induces a rather difficult to navigate duplicity, whereby you'll readily believe me when I claim I had been sitting all along (and plenty of other things) even though I won't believe some other that he'd been doing who knows what since who knows when because "show me where you blogged about it". [↩]

« The Egeszsegfejlesztesi pont

That old story... »

Category: Zsilnic

Thursday, 25 April, Year 11 d.Tr.

Sieg heil...

Be seated, gentlemen. As I think you know as of this morning, my orders came right from Berlin. I don't however expect you know I also received confidential instructions from the Reichskanzlei. It is on this latter matter I will belabour your attention for a short time today.

As I expect you noticed, the camp was renamed, but only the somewhat mysterious initials "FKL" seem to ever be used in reference. Allow me to dispel the mystery : FKL stands for Fotze Konzentrationslager, and that's exactly what we will be doing. The special brigades as well as the other legal and responsible authorities will be sending our way all female prisoners of a certain age and, shall we say, meeting certain presentation criteria. We will put them to work.

This work, however, will be specifically chosen as to make the best use of the prisoners' potential. Therefore, if I may direct your attention to the plan before us : Barracks A, currently standing, will be used as reception and triage quarters. I shall like to inspect it tomorrow morning, but for now I understand it is the standard three-wall, three to five deep, five tall merged bedding arrangement. From the dimensions it is then apparent it should readily house three thousand, but gentlemen, let me assure you, these will be no portly customers.

(laughter)

Thank you, thank you. Thus, five, even six deep will work fine, in fact during my earlier carreer I was billeted in Poland and permit me to observe I had direct occasion to notice how frequently the girls of the lower races share a bed, even of their own preference. I believe it may be expedient to make use of this characteristic of racial inferiority, and assign the prisoners in pairs anyway ; but more of this later. Barracks B and C, as you see three levels guards' barracks (with officers hosted on the last floor) will receive slight modification : we will change the beds for wider versions, and all guards will be required, as part of their duties, to pick a little wife every evening, to spend the night.

(rumour and eager applause)

We will, of course, not be overstringent in limiting the work enthusiasm of the men, except I believe to a maximum of three girls to two men, for purely hypotetical security reasons.

(laughter)

Barracks D will continue as storage, but perhaps will require expansion. Barracks E, garage, F, G, H and so on will continue as current. The plan as you can see calls for new construction, and tomorrow morning we shall inspect together the land around the camp, to identify the most suitable placement for this extension -- I believe something rather towards the lake would make the best grounds. Here will then be erected the visitor center, including excellent accomodation for both Reichspersonal on vacation as well as high ranking visitors. We shall review those plans later ; in the meanwhile let us go through the prisoner's lifecycle at the future FKL.

New arrivals will be dumped in barracks A. We have a contingent of brothel matrons with good, proven experience and track records scheduled to arrive Thursday, they will be in charge of training the girls, in a group during daytime as well as more personally in their own quarters in the guards' barracks. They are mostly Italian, so I would advise responsible caution ; nevertheless the orders are they should not be molested in any way. I am considering whether to isolate them on a specific half floor or permit looser accomodation, but I will make a decision upon receiving the group.

Prisoners will migrate away from barrack A through your choice, gentlemen, and that of your men. Once civilised, they will be allocated to a service pool working the visitor center. Menstruation stoppage is a reportable item ; pregnant girls will be relocated to a special spawning pen, which is the meaning of the mysterious "contruction X" off to the side. Construction X is, I am in a capacity to tell you, a simple, elegant, modern Schweinestall, equipped to the highest standards of the Reich. There, among the porcine population, the girls will feed on slop in expectation of the day of delivery, or should we rather say sacrification. To prevent accidents, such as may arrive from a pig's attempt to walk on two feet, there will be systematic resection at the ankle on both legs.

I should perhaps not go into such detail at this occasion, but nevertheless I find myself overwhelmed by the good humour of the company, and will therefore continue perhaps beyond what I should say. The centerpiece of the visitor center will be a casino of a very special type. Instead of undergoing the expense of keeping a horsetrack, and removing good horses from more productive uses, we will offer two principal betting events : as to Lieferung, and as to Symptomezahlen. Each week, the girls judged due to deliver imminently will be presented, suspended by the wrists. There, they will accuplate sodomically and repeatedly, with men wearing (for their own protection) condoms, lubricated with a special Strychnin-based lubricant. If the procedure induces labour, the prisoner will be hanged once the fetus dangles between her legs, thereby producing what I can only agree is a most artistic installation. Otherwise, once the Strychnin intoxication symptoms become overwhelming, the prisoner will be whipped to the end, so as to most exquisitely enjoy the special feelings her circumstances engender. It seems to me that both of these constitute eminently bettable events, and I expect the visitors may enjoy trying to guess whether any given whore can be made to flower, or what Schwanzzahlen can she handle before needing the warm-up.

(laughter, applause).

Die Fiebel und Handbucher sind still being edited, but I expect the definitive draft be ready before two weeks are out. I will circulate copies during the process, so you may bring your own observations, on the understanding gentlemen that this will remain an informal consultation. This I think concludes our brief tonight, any questions ? Herr Hauptmann ?

Herr Oberst, what would be the expected lifetime of the average prisoner in the FKL ?

I would expect about one year. It is, in any case, what we aim for. Herr Major ?

Herr Oberst, I heard you say "a certain age". While in a certain sense I readily see the wisdom of placing a limit, going the other way... what, indeed, is the wisdom of denying the young the doubtlessly beneficial influence of our work here ? It can be said, of course, that under the present scheme girls under a certain age may find themselves unable, so to speak, to find their way out. Nevertheless, it might be considered that for that reason they may please all the more, and besides, never was a problem encountered by the faithful soldiers of the Reich that wasn't also solved. I daresay we might be possessed of the resources and requisites to handle prisoners of almost any age, up to, of course, a certain limit.

This is a most interesting observation, Herr Major, and I shall be sure to pass it along the chain of my superiors. And with that, we are adjourned, gentlemen.

Sieg heil!

Sieg heil!

« Rome, Open City

Qntra (S.QNTR) February 2019 Statement »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 02 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

Rome, Open City

Rome, Open Cityi is as consumate piece of agitprop as one could possibly encounter. This is excusable, considering when it was shot, and besides -- it's an almost complete catalogue of idei comune, the received nonsense of the period.

The Germans don't really like the Italiansii, notwithstanding the Germans themselves are no kind of master race but just a buncha butchers (so says one of their own, even!) and loose women on drugs are bad (loose because on drugs, and drugs because loose, and at the end the fur coat gets recycled "for next time" anyway) and oh, I hope you realise the monarchists owe the communists because this one actor in this one communist production didn't squawk on them (in character), so totally.

It's nonsense through and through besideswhich Harry Feist's a megaham, Anna Magnani gets shot within five scenes, and well... Aldo Fabrizi is great in the role of the magical jew -- who here happens to be, without any shred of irony either perceived or in any case intended, a Catholic priest. Imagine this situation, people so thoroughly insulated from thought they blindly miss the ridicule drowning them. The disadvantages of war, you know.iii

———1945, by Roberto Rossellini, with Anna Magnani, Aldo Fabrizi. [↩]Who the fuck does ? "Ente Italiano per le Audizioni Radiofoniche" is enough to make one's skin crawl -- if that one's me and he's seen it before. Entirely everything that's wrong with Argentina was brought about by Italian immigration ; I find it'd have been perfectly excusable if they ended up a closed chapter during WW2. [↩]No, the problem of war isn't that a bunch of fucktards, important and powerful in their mind only, end up shown exactly how far their hallucinated "rights" actually extend. It's not the "victims", it's not the morons finding their mass grave that are the problem of war.

The problem of war is exactly the contrary : that the inferior, the soon-to-be-defeated, the "victims" of the future improperly attempt to separate themselves from their own existence, as the inferiors that they are, owing homage to their superiors, as the slaves that they are, owing obedience to their masters. In this arbitrary, harmful and ultimately indefensible act of wilful blindness lies the problem of war, in the "acting as if it wasn't" lies the problem of war, and there's strictly no difference between the tribulations of Rossellini, failing to notice how ridiculous he is in his set of idle pretense, and any other moron, equally failing to notice the exact same thing. The problem of war is nobody on a stick declaring himself a "ministry of cyberculture", the pretense, idle as it always is, doomed as it always is, of the anal child. That's the only problem of war.

Yes obviously all such exercises end in tears. The important part is to not misplace the tears, by shedding them on the deserved graves of the morons involved. The uppity idiots, the marauding morons get hurt because that's their nature, much like raindrops fall once large enough. Raindrops are undeserving of tears -- instead, tears should be shed on the untimely graves of all those stuck trampling the deserving underfoot, instead of freely and easily collecting the many and varied homages they're owed. [↩]

« Batidos

Sieg heil... »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 02 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

Qntra (S.QNTR) Statement on Q2 2019

Note : this statement also covers the month of March 2019.

Qntra has realised no income and made no expenditure this period. Qntra is expected to realise no income and make no expenditure the following period.

As directed by its charter and on the basis of the report of the editor in chief, 3`799i + 4`253ii + 2`997iii + 3`721iv = 14`770 S.QNTR shares issuedv this period. This brings the total shares issued to 708`046 (+2.13%).

You have perhaps noticed the same two things I notice, which are the very strict dominance of authorship by Bingoboingo and the very stable article production. I believe the latter betrays a very consciencious approach on the part of the fellow, it's probably not coincidence that every month sees 1.2 articles / day but the result of very deliberate effort.vi

It's not clear what to see behind the former. Maybe it's the case there's exactly one journalistic mind left on planet Earth, and we found it. Maybe it's the case I'm absolutely terrible at acquiring collaborators for qntravii. There's a problem here, because this, designed to be eminently accessible an intake valve nevertheless has failed in tandem and lockstep with everything else. Far, far from the imagined situation FIVE years ago, wherein within a short time qntra authorship would be so large as to rather equal the Bitcoin space, and then permanently stay there, reality turned out much grimmer -- qntra is a monkey on the back of its editor in chief and exactly naught else.

What the fuck am I going to do here ?!

———Over 37 articles -- all of which by Bingoboingo -- for an average article length of 102.67 words. [↩]Over 36 articles -- all of which by Bingoboingo -- for an average article length of 118.13 words. [↩]Over 40 articles -- all of which by Bingoboingo -- for an average article length of 74.92 words. [↩]Over 37 articles -- all of which by Bingoboingo -- for an average article length of 100.56 words. [↩]This value is at variance with both the charter and previous practice, in that it's missing management shares. The shares have also not been added to MPEx accounts as of yet, pending discussions on possible charter ammendment. I expect this matter to be fully resolved by the next reporting period ; but until then this portion of the current period's statement remains provisory. [↩]Because yes, this is how you recognize human industry in phenomenological noise : whenever something's narrowly homeostatic in sensata, that something's probably alive. It's how night vision goggles work, at any rate. [↩]For my vanity I obviously have the ready excuse that any time I feel like I could order some helping hands on deck, yes. But stepping outside of that, can't help but consider that over the years we've had a bunch of girlies come and go, and it never came to anything.

Suppose the Latino chick was fucked in the head ; and the Bay area vagrant not merely fucked in the head a little, but so terribly she'd rather chase pennies from under SF tramways than pick up bitcents working in the republic ; and so everyone else. There can be dozens of chicks writing up their tits for a coupla bitcents yet not a single one among them go "hmm, I wonder if there's something else I can do for this golden goose", because women are people too and hurray for their participation on equal terms in business and other human activities. Fine.

The overarching question still stands : wut do ?! [↩]

« No Such lAbs (S.NSA), Statement on Q2 2019

The burlesque competition and assorted observances »

Category: S.QNTR

Monday, 01 July, Year 11 d.Tr.

Qntra (S.QNTR) January 2019 Statement

Qntra has realised no income and made no expenditure this period. Qntra is expected to realise no income and make no expenditure the following period.

As directed by its charter and on the basis of the report of the editor in chief, 8`710 S.QNTR shares issued this period. This brings the total shares issued to 687`414 (+1.28%).

And so it goes!

« A vvord on Shakespear

You know me, all! »

Category: S.QNTR

Sunday, 03 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Qntra (S.QNTR) February 2019 Statement

Qntra has realised no income and made no expenditure this period. Qntra is expected to realise no income and make no expenditure the following period.

As directed by its charter and on the basis of the report of the editor in chief, 5`862 S.QNTR shares issued this period. This brings the total shares issued to 693`276 (+0.85%).

No dopo!

« Sieg heil...

No Such lAbs (S.NSA), February 2019 Statement »

Category: S.QNTR

Monday, 04 March, Year 11 d.Tr.