Zig-zag

"I'm going to take a walk."

She was Chinese, born in China, here on an "achievement" visa. Best in her engineering class at Nanking State University. Best in her English class. Best in her family. Best, best, best... whenever she thought about it she saw a glimpse of USDA advertising.

"What ? Are you crazy ?"

Los Angeles. How strangely different, the thing is from a distance. She had seen so many pictures. How little can you know of a place, even the more pictures you've seen. A picture emerges in your head, from the pictures you see. Ever since she was a little girl she thought this Los Angeles thing, like a cartoon character, a friend in her head. If your parents give you a doll, a prince charming doll... if they tell you it's your future husband... if you call it John, and if you one day meet a John, will it be like the doll at all ?

"I'm not crazy. I'll be right back."

The door clicked behind her. Many Chinese came to work here. Over the centuries. Was it the same then ?

Many of them married here. She married here. Was it the same for them ?

The doll had a weak chin. She never noticed, she didn't know what a weak chin even was. It's not the same in China, somehow. Things are different there. Everything is different.

She was walking down the street, under the lamps, passing the small alleys, thinking. She gathered her robe about her tighter, even though there was no reason in the sweet Summer night. She perceived no reason. She perceived nothing, walking with her thoughts. Suddenly she was face to face with a man. She opened her eyes, wide. He was tall, his eyes were piercing right into hers, through her eyes, into her chest, where the heart beat. His chin wasn't weak, not at all, and his hand was around her throat.

"What do we have here!" he hissed, pointless hostility in his voice. She swallowed. "Little miss gone out for a walk ?" She nodded. He lifted her by the throat, little bath slippers almost lifting off the ground, dangling helplessly off her tiny feet. "You do what I say, bitch." he spat in her face. Her eyes fluttered and rolled back in her head. He set her back down, almost gently. She considered passing out.

"Say : oh mister, I hope you won't make me go into that alley."

"Oh... mister. I hope... you won't make me go... into that alley."

"Higher, bitch. Talk like a stupid whore. You know Marilyn ?"

Yes, you could say she knew Marilyn. So many nights of her childhood spent trying to immitate something about her. In her head, in bed at night, falling asleep she always dreamed herself Marilyn in some way. Maybe the hair, or at least the hairdo. Maybe... She fucked the President, didn't she ?

Marilyn always came to her before the mist in the dream. Is that how you call it in English ?

"Oh mister, I hope you won't make me go into that alley!"

Her voice was wilting and feminine, her consonants Jersey-closed... She suddenly looked incredibly saucy for a careerwife.

She walked into the alley ; waddled a few steps in just her left slipper, having lost the other during the airlifting maneuvers earlier, but then kicked that one off too. She paddled barefoot past the garbage bins, towards the dead end, looking at her toes. She was thinking of painting them, a moment ago, in the shower. Perhaps she should have had. A careerwife with painted toes, living the technically-minded family life of young professionals. She wondered if Mr. President walking behind her knew differential calculus.

"Oh mister! I hope you won't make me take my robe off and throw it in that dumpster!"

"Oh mister..." she cooed, as she disrobed, "I hope you won't make me take my robe off" she cooed on, as she lifted the heavy, square mile lid, "and throw it in that dumpster..." She turned to face him "I have nothing else on..." she continued, eyes on her toes, "I just came out of the shower." She clasped her hands behind her waist, knuckles white, pushing her shoulders back. "I'm squeaky clean, mister, please, I'm a good girl. I just shaved for my husband. I never did before."

"You married, whore ?"

"Yes sir mister. I'm married. I never did anything..."

"You never fucked around before ?"

"No mister, I never fucked around in my life."

"You will be fucking around from now on, is that understood ?"

"Yes mister. I will be fucking around from now on. That is understood."

He gave a hearthy guffaw. "Turn around and lift that thing. Put your small gook titties under it, there you go, that's the ticket. Now let it down on them. She squealed in pain as he moved behind her. "That's right, bitch, squal for it!" he said, as he impaled her in one hard thrust. She squealed again.

"Got any kids ?" he asked, grunting, pumping her from behind for all he had.

"Not any kids mister. We're preparing for it later."

"Ah... hahaha. You will have kids now, bitch. Is your hubby some kind of a cuck ?"

"Yes mister. My husband is a cuck. His name is John. And he's a cuckold. John's a cuck. He's..."

Her legs were turned, big toes almost facing, soles lifted off the ground by the force of his thrusts. Her hands were on the garbage lid, pushing it down, hard. Her breasts hurt like the world was ending, the nipples especially. She wondered whether they'll fall off before he's done, as she pushed the lid down harder, as hard as she could.

Then panic suddenly welled up inside her, like a dark horror, rising from within. Somehow she saw in the mind before she could even feel it, and then she felt his meat leaving her hole, and then she heard a juicy pop and she felt wet all the way down to her knees.

"Did you do it, mister ?" she sang, wiltingly.

"Naw, bitch. Time for you to suck it."

"Please come in me first, mister president. I'll suck it after, I promise. I swear I'll suck it as much as you want but first make it in me."

She felt his meat make its way of her insides again, a white wave of satisfaction radiating warmly within as without. She nearly passed out. Her breath was ragged, her vision blurry.

He took her by the hand, and lifted the garbage lid off of her with one thumb. She couldn't feel her breasts. She couldn't feel anything. She turned to face him and went on her knees.

"That's right, suck it, garbage girl!" Her mouth was too full to talk, but she gurgled.

She had never sucked cock before, she had no idea how it went, but his hand that had freed her from the lid gently bobbed her head and eventually she found a rythm of her own. His other hand was still holding hers, and she was holding his. Eventually his right hand got her by the scruff of her neck, his magic thumb pushing on her jaw, and he forced her hard in as his meat started making its way of her throat. She couldn't breathe. She didn't care. She lay there, helpless, a rag in his hands, as he fucked his own palm with the base of her skull for padding. She lay there dying for a while, not caring while she was dying, not moving, not struggling while she was dying, but eventually, just as everything was turning black, she found her breath again. It was different ; she couldn't hear anymore, her jaw felt like it was permanently dislocated, but she knew she wasn't dying now, and for the first time in her life she felt... useful. She felt used, the most wondeful thing in the world. She closed her eyes and waved inside with the waves of her tiny, nude body. It's better to be a garbage girl, she thought, over and over again.

"Come along now, show me where you live, whore."

They walked back, hand in hand, her knees buckling every step of the way, her bare feet paddling on the Los Angeles pavement, soles completely black with tar and dust and urban grime, her body covered in fresh bruises and streaks of filth. She was walking naked down her street, under the lamps. There she was, in plain display, with a perfect stranger holding her hand. Yet she wasn't in the slightest worried about it. Besides, she didn't think it possible anyone would recognize her like this ; and she wasn't worried anyway.

"Do you know what differential calculus is, mister ?" she asked at length.

"Naw bitch, I don't go for that fancy math stuff." he retorted, flatly.

He doesn't go for that fancy math stuff, she thought to herself, over and over, as they stepped down the street. Once at her door she turned to him frankly. "Do you think I should paint my toes, mister ?"

"Sure. Get your friends to do it, that's how it's done."

She thought about Daiyu painting her toenails. She's a physicist, solid state. Would it be the same for her ?

"Is this the place ?"

She nodded, silently.

"Go inside, and give me your keys. I'll check on you later."

"Yes, mister."

As she cracked the door a plaintive voice could instantly be heard, as if it were spring-loaded to it : "Hoooneeeeyyyyy ?"

"Yes John. It's me. I'll hop in the shower."

"Shower ?! Weren't you just in the shower ?" the voice inside wore on, but ever less audibly. She looked at her president as she put her keys in his hand, a long, sucking look, like she absorbed him through her eyes ; then suddenly she fell on her knees and kow-towed before him. She kissed the tip of his left shoe, and then dissapeared inside.

*

* *

Meanwhile at the sports bar down the road, on the other side of the wall closing the blind alley of her englightment, a buncha guys hung around a table.

1: Oh, shit! Man... fuck! If the Pistons win I'm gonna fuck my wife so hard!

2: The Pistons haven't won a game in like... forever, what are you talking about.

1: Yeah, I know. I like long odds.

3: Makes it better, huh ?

1: Oh yeah.

4: Never fucking her ?

1: Well...

2: Kinda.

3: Hell yeah!

4: I thought I was the only one.

3: Fuck no. I've not stuck it in the old lady for six years now.

2: Whoa!

1: Nice...

4: How do you do it ?

3: Oh, easy-peasy. At first I kindof started eating her out before, you know...

1: Yeah...

3: Then, by stages, you know ? We tried 69ing, then bit by bit got her more into 69 than fucking.

2: And you train her, right ? If she makes you sploodge, you stop. If she doesn't... you don't stop. She figures it out as she goes along, sooner or later...

3: That too, and also one day just left my pants on, you know. Kinda grabbed her wrist whenever she was trying to undo them, and then started going at her standing, and like that.

2: After peeing ?

3: That's an idea...

2: I did her like that once, a coupla years ago. We were at a cabin. It was pretty fucking boring... anyway, she went to pee then yelled for tp, that it was out. I went in there and instantly had an idea, you know.

4: I bet she liked that.

2: She fucken loved it, are you kidding me... when we got back home she beelined for the bathroom, then half a minute later yelled "honey! no tp!!!" with her feet up on the seat, all grinning. She hadn't even peed.

4: So what did you do ?

2: I ate her out till she had to.

1: That's not how I did it...

3: Weren't you just married last year ?

1: Two years ago.

2: So how did you do it ?

1: First wedding aniversary, right ? I told her I have a surprise, made a big deal out of it, bought handcuffs and blindfolds and everything the weekend before...

4: Hahaha.

W: Can I get you boys anything ?

3: How about a lapdance ?

W: Smartass.

4: What if she said yes ?

1: Then he'd leave his pants on.

3: Hehehe you betchup.

2: Don't forget what you were saying, you bought handcuffs and crap...

1: Right, and made a big deal, like it's gonna be a surprise, whatever. So I tie her arms up on the bedpost, and start working on her, you know... all the while this kid she used to date back in college is waiting in the other room.

2: Whoa!

1: Yea, so I kinda lead him into her, all smoothly and shit...

2: Did she suspect anything ?

3: I'm sure she did.

4: Yeah, they can tell.

1: She sure didn't let on, though...

2: Maybe she didn't, if she was into it.

1: Nah, she confessed later that she could totally tell it wasn't me.

2: How ?

3: She said it felt good.

4: Hahaha.

1: No, it's true. She said it felt like a real man for once.

2: Harsh.

3: It's the truth.

1: Man, that moment though... when I pulled her blindfold off and she saw him ramming into her...

2: What did she do ?

1: I don't know how to explain, you had to be there. Like it broke something inside of her, she kept trying to squirm away. But I was firm. "Bitch, take it!"

3: You said that to her ?

1: Oh yeah. I was all like "you have to take this" and she was like "but I don't want to" and I was like "you have to anyway, all the way" and she was like "but why ?" and I was like "I'll explain it to you later".

4: So what did you say ?

1: Nothing for a while. There a few more guys there, you know, I had some friends over.

2: Whoa!

5: But first he ate her out.

3: You ate out his wife's creampie ?

5: That's a positive.

3: Man, don't say that.

5: I just mean...

3: It's bad luck.

1: Luck don't enter into it, it's all skill. They weren't done with her until seven-thirty in the morning, she had to go to work.

4: She went to work like that ?

1: Yeah. She wanted to call in sick, but I wouldn't let her. I was like "you're not sick, you're just a whore that's all".

2: What did she say to that ?

1: Nothing.

3: Hehehe. What could she say ?

1: Right ?

2: How many dudes total ?

1: Three with her ex.

4: But not counting you.

1: Of course not. I don't count in that.

5: Preach it brother!

3: Wild, wild stuff.

1: She called me from work, around ten or so. I didn't even let her take a shower, I made her go in just a dress with nothing under it. She was slick from sploodge all the way down to her ankles, she was dripping as she walked.

2: Incredible.

3: So what did she want ?

1: This guy at work wanted to give her twenty for her to give him a handjob.

2: Did you make her suck him ?

1: Half'n'half, all the way. I was like, "ho, what difference does it make to you anymore".

4: Hahaha.

1: She was like "oh, why do you make me do this".

3: What did you tell her ?

1: I said "I wanted to know if we need money some day, if I can depend on you."

2: That's fucking great.

1: Then I was like "and guess what ? we need money." and I hung up.

4: Pimpin'.

1: You bet. She came home with like three hundred dollars. That's like, almost more than her paycheck.

3: So if the Pistons lose... can we eat out your wife ?

1: Now that you mention it... twenty bucks a head should do it.

4: Smooth.

2: Smooth's right, this was the best pimp pitch I ever heard.

3: I'll tell you what -- I'll give you two hundred, if you have her train mine.

5: That's what I said!

1: Sorry, can't do it.

2: Aww, man...

3: If I pimp her, I pimp her. She's mine, not yours.

5: Yup, that's what he said.

2: So wait, you're gonna turn her out ? Like, on a daily basis ?

1: It's not a sure thing, some bitches are dumb. But that's the idea in general.

3: And I have to pay you for this ?

1: Five hundred upfront.

2: Whoa!

1: And one hundred a week, for rent.

3: What the hell's that for ?

1: You're living with my ho, aren't you ? You'd better be, I ain't taking any strays.

4: That's some live shit right there.

1: And of course premium rates whenever you do anything with her.

2: Are you serious ?

5: Yuppers, he's serious.

4: Is he pimping your wife ?

5: For like two months now.

3: So what's it like ?

5: I tell you, I think I coulda bought myself a chopper with the money that ho leeched offa me.

2: How much is it ?

5: Handjobs and eating her out are twenty a pop, but there's all sorts of rules and they keep changing, like if you go over five minutes there's overages. And of course she's always looking to upsell you on top of everything. Like a pro!

3: So is it worth it ?

5: I tell you I never fucked the old lady half as much the whole year as since she's been turned out proper.

4: That's something...

2: So what's the fees like ?

1: Basically you have to pay 50% over what the punters pay, because she's your wife. What the punters have to pay depends on demand though, you know, on superbowl night it's gonna be expensive. Or if there's a convention in town. Or a game, or whatever.

3: Crazy.

1: And then of course there's the fee for how much of a loser you are.

4: Do I still have to buy her jewelry and presents and crap ?

1: I mean... if you want to. But not really, she's a whore, who cares about all that anymore.

5: I care, man. I mean...

1: That's how you pay like the biggest sucker fee of all the guys.

2: You got more than yours and his ?

1: Yeah, I got a few.

2: So it really would be no problem for you to turn out another wife ?

1: Not usually. Everyone thinks his is different, but really, they mostly all go for it. There's exceptions, but... rarely.

3: What do you do then ?

1: Nothing, really. I just tell the guy to forget about her. I mean... they're really not worth anyone's time.

4: Isn't that what it's supposed to be all about ? True love and loyalty and all that ?

1: If you want to waste your life... sure, why not.

4: It's a waste, huh.

1: From what I've seen so far.

2: So... like...

1: You want to do it ?

2: I sure as fuck want to do it. I just don't know how to go about doing it.

1: Invite us over for dinner, tell her it's a very important client from out of town your boss told you to dine. I'll figure her out.

3: How about me ?

1: Same deal.

4: But how do you go about it ?

1: Oh, there's lots of ways. You can rape them in line, like mine went. Or you can you know, squeeze them in when they're "just trying to help", they have to go into this hotel room and take all the cock to save you, or get you a promotion or whatever, you owe money to the mafia. They're doing it for you, right. Or you can blackmail them, you know, first it's like "show me your tits" and then it's "if you don't suck it I'm going to tell your husband" and they just go from a small thing bigger and bigger. Many just fucking love that. Or if she's a herder you can just get her in with a bunch of whores at the spa or the beach or whatever, we did one like that and it was a lot of fun. First they'd take their bra off, you know, and made her do it too to fit in. Then the panties, then before you know it wifey was all naked in the mall, no clothes no nothing.

2: That's hot.

1: She was like begging, you know, "please, let me get in the car, I'll do anything, I'll do anything".

3: You're on.

2: Word. You're so on I have to go home now.

1: Fuck her freely while you still can, my man. It won't last very long now.

4: He's right. See you guys later.

5: Magic, the ungathering.

1: (Answering his phone) "Yeah ? How many ? Yeah, okay, I guess I can swing that. Where is it ?"

*

* *

"I want you to leave him, Marjorie."

"And marry you ?"

"What's wrong with that ?"

"And move to a new house, redecorate it maybe ?"

"Yeah."

"I like this one."

"I hate it. Every which way you turn, I'm sure it's 'oh, I bought this with my husband', 'I whatever with my husband'..."

"Well, inasmuch as it's our house..."

"And who's this other guy."

"You're the homewrecker."

"Fuck."

"You don't like that, baby ? Coming into another man's house and wrecking his most prized posession, his wife's cunt ?"

"O god."

"Like one of those Russian dolls, all wrapped into one another. There's a house, outside crane shot, panning. Then there's a kitchen inside, scanning shot over the counters. And there's a loving wife working on those counters. And under her skirt there's a juicy little cunt, just like this one, look." She took his hand and followed her body with it, using his limp index to accentuate her contours. "There's a cleft, and immediately in it a little hood. And on the sites, two little lips, ready to part. And..."

He was on top of her, panting, desperate. She lay on her back, her knees hooked over his, her arms extended limply to either side, her breasts swaying with his thrusts. Her head, to the side, gazing imprecisely in the distance, while she kept half humming, half talking. "Oh, that's great, baby" she mouthed slowly, with no discernible thrust behind the sounds. "Just like that, wreck my husband's home. Ruin my vagina for him, baby, yeah, yeah, like that, like that, fuck it up, fuck it all up."

He pumped her relentlessly, a cold sweat dripping off his back. He pumped her as if stopping for a second, for a breath even, meant she'd dissapear in a waft of smoke. She was very wet, from herself and from him, but his cock was still chaffed, blunt, like he had been pounding on it with river rocks. It felt like a bruise. By now the wet spot they had been working on was reaching well past his knees, but it didn't seem to do anything. It never caught, somehow. When suddenly...

"Fuck, that's him."

"What ?"

"Shut up." She was wide awake, suddenly up, her long nails drawn in like a tiger's claws.

"Your husband ?"

"Definitely."

"Shit, you sure ?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I know the car, I know what noises he makes. It's him. He'll be here in like three minutes."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuck..."

"Shut up."

"What do I do ?!"

"Here's what you do : you go into that closet like a little boy. And stay there quietly."

"What ? I..."

"No. That one. Don't cock this up, you hear ? Get in there, we don't have time for anything else. Put some of my lingerie on while you're in there, but do it quietly. Very quietly. If he finds you, the story is you're a pervert, and you broke in to spy on me and steal my panties."

"What ? I... I..."

"Don't be an idiot." she hissed, steely. Then suddenly soft again, womanly, motherly. "It's the easiest way, baby. He's not mean, he won't hurt a poor impotent weirdo."

"But but... I... I'm not impotent. You know I'm not."

"The fuck difference does it matter. Let him think what won't hurt him, jeesh."

"What if he calls the cops ?"

"He won't, I'll see to that. It's your ticket out of here safe and sound, now hold on to it."

"Hooney ? I'm hoome!"

"Up here baby!"

As the steps creaked up the stairs, she flipped on to the softcore channel.

"Game finish early ?" she kitty'd in his direction as he appeared in the doorframe, half-yawning and stretching her back, arms folded backwards, wrists extended on either side of her head, lifting her knees and spreading her legs to best expose herself.

"No, it's just... I was thinking about you, and... " his voice shifted gears upon noticing the copious wetspot. "What happened here ?!"

"I was touching myself. Thinking of you and touching myself. Ever since you left..."

He didn't say anything, just dove face first into her, sampling her once with his tongue, then going in for suckling the clit. She let out a yelp, then whispered "Easy, honey. It's sensitive. Lick the hole more."

He moved further down her street, wondering whether she knew he knew. He had been eating his own sploodge for a while, all of it. It wasn't easy, it took some doing, but he ate it all up now. He knew what it tastes like. All the while she wondered if his original hesitation was actually due to his tasting another man between her legs ; but no, it wasn't possible. He wouldn't move on to eating him out of her just like that, if he knew. Just with one word. Would he ?

She grabbed his head firmly between her strong thighs. He always loved that. Then she turned her hips, forcing him to the side, then after a few moments turned again and straddled him. His tongue was moving ever deeper into her, and she swayed and moved her body to help him reach. She could feel her muscles relax, she could feel her folds release their precious bounty into his mouth. Does he know, she wondered incessantly, like a yoyo toy dangling from the fingertip of her clit, always pushing and pulling one way or another. Well does he ?

She turned the other way, to face his balls. They had done this so many times it had whittled itself into a fine art. She held his shaft very firmly into her left. She moved it now and again, to touch his flare, but rarely, and slightly. Just enough to keep it hard. She lifted her ass off his face the slightest bit, and slapped his balls. That meant he had to change what he did, and he went into licking her along a line from her asshole across the length of her gash and back again. She could use his shaft like a gear stick to command her pleasure out of him every which way, and she'd slap or claw or cup his balls by whim or merit. She was thinking about his hair in her whore wetspot, and wondered if he knew. Did he know ?

Eventually she had enough. "Honey ? I have to pee!"

He separated himself from her with a wet pop. "Do it on me, honey!"

She turned to look at him, over her ass. "Ok... but in the kitchen. You can mop the tiles later."

She felt him nod between her legs, then lifted her right knee and unwrapped herself off him to the side. "Fix me some hot chocolate, I'll be right there. I just want to put some stockings on." He grunted satisfiedly. "You can handwash them in the sink later, too!"

As his steps creaked the stair the other way, she grabbed her phone. She set it to night time and then opened the door. Sure enough there was baby boy, looking pretty in her nighty. She machine-gunned the shots.

"Hey." he kept hissing, "Hey! HEY! FUCKIN' HEY!"

"Shut up, I want the memento. Lift the hem up, let's see what panties you have on."

He looked ridiculous in the get-up, but she didn't mind. She didn't mind one bit, she made him turn, and move and pose every-which way, telling him how pretty he looks all the while. Once she had enough for a whole album, "I'm going to take him out of here. Once you hear the front door close you wait a few minutes, then walk right out to your car. But..."

"What ?"

"I want you to go like that."

"In this ?"

"Yes."

"It's very emasculating, Marjorie."

"Good." she stared right into his eyes. "Good, let it be emasculating. Maybe that way you come to terms with your role in life. Maybe that way you'll stop pestering respectable married women about leaving their husbands. Anarchist!" she spat in his face, straightened her back and turned rigidly. Then, right by the door, "Fucktoy!"

"What's that, honey ?"

"Nothing, I just stubbed my toe."

"Oh, poor little toe!"

She went downstairs, got the cocoa mug off his hands, hooked her left heel on the counter top and nodded : "Kiss it better, honey!" Then, as he was suckling her toes and licking in between she released her bladder in a warm, overwhelming cascade. She loved doing it to him by surprise. She always aimed for the ear, and she really enjoyed it when she got him. She always could tell when it hit home, there's an involuntary twitch. Maybe that's what she liked about it, how absolutely true it is, she thought.

It always confused him, between whatever task he had and the new, deluvial development. He didn't know which way to go, or so it seemed, and she'd frown and nod seriously at him, imparting upon the matter all the momentuous gravity it could bear, and then some. He alternated between her toes and her issuing vulva until she was well spent, and well after.

"Look what a mess you've made!"

"Yeah, honey."

She flung the remainder of her thick, warm cocoa on his face. "You're a filthy, filthy boy!" Then, after a pause, "Honey, let's go out."

"Like this ?"

"Yeah, let's take the Toyota, drive around a little. Find a nice quiet spot, tie you up, maybe you get a handjob..."

"Sounds like a plan"

"Maybe I leave you there..."

"Gulp."

"Maybe I make you drive by the overpass, where all the whores are. Tell me, honey, have you ever eaten pussy another man came in ?"

As the door slammed behind him, Mr. Four knew there was no going back.

"You mean, yours ?"

He knows, she thought, just as she cooed sweetly "Any pussy, honey."

"That's what just happened back there, isn't it ?"

"Yeah" she nodded gleefully, barely able to contain her excitement, hopping quickly from one foot to another. "Yeah, that's right. You ate him out of me, cucky. How was it ?"

"It was... it was great!"

"It's even better now, huh!"

"Yeah."

"I knew it! Hey, you wanna see him ?"

"Alright."

"Quickly. Get in. And be quiet."

Not a minute later, a silhouette (named thus for Etienne de Silhouette, a man famous for petty economies and shocking cheapness in general) snuck out the door, half bent at the middle, landing on their well-lit porch and scurrying away.

"What the hell is he wearing ?!"

"My nighties you bought for Christmas last."

"The ones with the chaffing panties ?"

"The very same! His choice."

"Why is he wearing that ?"

"When you came in you surprised us. I didn't know what to do, he was in a complete panic..."

"He was ?"

"Oh, yeah. He keeps asking me to divorce you. He has serious intentions, don't you know. This very grave tone, 'Marjorie, I want you to divorce him.' he says."

"Are you ?"

"Hell no ? You're not getting rid of me as easily as all that, bitch boy!"

"Oh honey..."

She cuddled into him happily for a second, even started with "You wanna see his..." but then she stopped, and turned, pregnant with realisation. There was more in there.

"What is it ?"

"You first, see his what ?"

"Oh, I took pictures while my secret lover was secretly in the closet. Did you know he was there by the way ?"

"Nope."

"Not a clue, huh ?"

"None at all."

"I guess a lot of wives get away with it, huh. Anyway, you wanna see ?"

"Sure."

They thumbed together through her collection of pictures depicting a crossdresser in a closet somewhere in suburbia. Then she turned to him. "Well ?"

"You know honey... at the game..."

"Yeah ?

"There was a guy there."

"Aha..."

"He specializes in turning wives out."

"What ?"

"He's like a pimp, for married women."

"You want me turning tricks, is that it ?"

"Oh honey..."

"What honey!"

"Think about it, Marjorie. You're already doing it. You're already a whore, a married whore. Why not pick up a little cash with it ?"

"You mean, 'why not have someone's livelihood depend on keeping you stuffed, Marjorie, always fulla cock, Marjorie'. That's what you mean. That's it, huh ?"

"Oh honey... it's... it's just..."

"That's fucking it. Get the fuck out of the car."

"But honey..."

"No buts! You're walking back home, asshole. You're walking back home as you are, fucking NAKED!"

"We're parked right next to the house."

"Don't fucking talk back to me, bitch boy! Out! OUT!"

She kicked him out the door with her excited little feet as he was getting out of the car, then followed him into the house on the motive power of the same. "Well ? Aren't you calling your pimp friends, setting it all up ? Whoring out your wife ? What are you waiting for ?"

"Oh honey..."

"I hope he'll make you pay through the teeth if you so much as try to lay a finger on me."

"That's the idea."

"Now clean this stinking mess out. I'm going to bed. You're in the cage tonight, Ruffiano!"

"Oh honey..."

"Don't oh, honey me!"

*

* *

"I don't understand why you needed another shower."

She was laying across on him, at an angle. Not quite 120 degrees, but not really that far off. Her bare ass was resting in between his thigs. Her left hand, no longer clasping a stranger's, was stroking his penis slowly, disinterestedly. He really loved that. His head was turned towards her feet, and he'd kiss her toes occasionally.

"I told you already. Sometimes people get dirty."

"But you just had another shower."

"Yes, that's true. Do you think a lot of people know about differential calculus ?"

"Don't try to change the subject!"

"Okay, John. I won't change the subject."

"Hot water isn't free, you know. We're on a budget here, we have to make our bugetary goals."

"Our bugetary goals", she inganna'd along with him.

"You agreed to them! When we talked about it!"

"Yes. Besides, it wasn't a shower, I took a bath." she said, her mind's eye reviewing obsessively flashbacks of her, on her back in the tub without a stopper, knees clasped as hard as she could to her very painful chest, warm water splashing happily, harmlessly around. She felt so full.

"We agreed not to take baths. Taking a bath takes twelve times more water than an efficient shower. Don't you care about the environment ?"

"Yes John, I care about the environment."

"May I open my eyes now ?"

"No, don't open your eyes. Keep them closed."

"Will you stop stroking it if I open my eyes ?"

"I'll stop anyway. Then start again. Maybe. You're supposed to be patient. And don't open your eyes."

"Okay. But... what did you do in there ?"

"In where ?"

"In the shower."

"I told you, I took a bath."

"Where are you going ?"

"I'm going to have to tie you up."

"But why ?

"Because you ask too many questions."

"I don't! Please don't stop..."

"I'll be right back."

"Will I have to sleep like this ?"

"Yes John, you're definitely sleeping tied tonight."

"But why ?"

"Because you ask too many questions."

"Is that the only reason ?"

"No. You'll have to sleep tied because the stroking will get painful also."

"You mean after I... after I... ?"

"Yes."

"Will you make me eat it ?"

"Definitely."

"How painful does it get ? Does it get very bad ?"

"Oh, yes. Very, very bad indeed."

"Worse than that time ?"

"Much, much worse. So, so much worse..."

"Oh, no! "

"Actually, you don't work tomorrow, do you ?"

"I'm night shift. I have to sleep to have good efficiency in the workplace."

"Oh, I don't think you'll be having much efficiency at all."

"Are you keeping me tied up tomorrow, too ?"

"Definitely."

"But why ?"

"Because I'm hoping something will happen ; and it'll be easier that way."

"You just don't want me to see you, is that it ?"

"That's right, John. I don't want you to see me."

"But why not ?"

"Because I think I'm pregnant."

"Oh... oh... that's... I thought we agreed..."

"We're agreeing right now."

"We are ?"

"Definitely."

"But... when did it happen ?"

"Just now, John. It just happened."

"What do you mean, just now ?!"

"Are you ready to eat your ejaculate ?" she asked, just as she was straddling him.

"But I haven't done yet!" were the last words out of him, and for a little while.

"Yes you have, John. Don't you remember ?" she cooed while stroking him lightly, while her womanhood was depositing the spurious leftovers, the unnecessary extras on his eager lapdog tongue. "You just did it in me, right after I took my shower. I shaved down there for you, and it excided you so. Then we made love, remember ? You were so great, the perfect lover, John. And now you're eating it out of me, for efficiency. It's better for the environment this way, John. And then, after you're done, I will have gone for another shower, but you won't let me, will you ? Because we agreed, we have budget goals, we can't waste the water willy-nilly. So I won't go shower like I wanted to, and I'll be pregnant."

"But what about the bath ?"

"Shh. There was no bath. The stopper wasn't even in."

"I know, I heard."

"Shh. Focus more on the flower. That's where all the sweet nectar is."

"But what about tomorrow ?"

"What about it ? Tomorrow's just like today. It only hasn't come by yet, that's all."

"But you said something will happen."

"Something always happens. It's nothing to be concerned with."

"It isn't ?"

"It isn't. You just have to do what you're told, and all will come out well in the end."

"Is that why I have to be tied up ?"

"Yes, that's it. You always do what you're told when you're tied up."

"That's true! So that's why it's going to be easier ?"

"Yes, that's why. Maybe tomorrow some people will come over for a visit. We'll wait for them, anyway."

"How many people ?"

"I don't know how many. We'll see when they get here."

"What do they want ?"

"Who knows what people ever want ? We'll see when they get here what it is they want."

"And will we do whatever they want us to ?"

"Definitely."

"Together ?"

"You and me."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

« The contemplated update to the #trilema voice model

Minutes of their lives »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Saturday, 14 December, Year 11 d.Tr.

Zece mii de kilometri de filme, or Ten Thousand Kilometers' worth of movies. Either way.

Yesterday I crossed the Atlantic yet again, this time in the reasonably uncomfortable uterus of one of these modern Airbus whales they have now.i What do you do to fill 10.5 hours' worth of flight ?

You weren't there, so I don't know. The people that were there mostly tried to sleep, or otherwise busy themselves with their gadgets. I count among this last set : while we flew, I reviewed Avianca's selection of movies. Here's the results :

If Beatle Street Could Talk (directed by Barry Jenkins (heh, I know right ?), with nobody in particular) is a fucking intolerable piece of shit, in the "niggers are white inside too" Oprah tradition. You should see the dumb bitches in this thing, with their impossibly intolerable "perfect" hairdos and shit. Jeez.

You can pretty much tell which way the fakeitude is gonna go the moment the intro credits roll by, "oh noes, every black person was born on Beatle Street" gimme a break. Integration is the name of the game, it's just not a game that includes any kind of future for black people ; or for any other fucking people. Pantsuit only, and they're cockroaches.

Vice (directed by Adam McKay, with Christian Bale and, to quote my ever helpful editor sitting this time quite physically on my left, "no one you'd know") is a tediously sad lump of hullaballoo. It reads exactly like it was written by the empty shellsii of social media, in a ridiculous if unsuccessful attempt to imaginarily reconstruct the world in terms that don't outright exclude them. The intensity of wank is indeed staggering, "the power" that bla bla etcetera... the whole production's amusing in this vein, I guess, but if you don't give so much of a shit about the never-really-was-all-that-great-America, the coulda-woulda-shoulda-but-sadly-missed-howsoever-closely-America, well... I can't imagine why you'd try and watch this.

PS. The white nigger female's just as nigger white as the nigger white female in the prior sadnessiii. The same exact pepsi's coming out of her mouth, too, it's like the only Hollywood notion of female's ~soda fountain, "all the variety of indistinct fizz you can imagine". As the Romanian expression goes... fis.

I'm not watching either Spider-Man: bla bla nor Mary fucking Poppins remakes. Nor Bernie the dolphin, what the fuck. So I guess we're left with

Creed II (directed by Steven Caple jr, with the hero of Paradise Alley and some Jordan dude.), which is a romcom in "boxing" flavouring. It has entirely nothing to do with boxing, beyond a (rather doomed from the start) attempt at hijacking some audience verticals. Who knows, maybe Joe Doe who dun give a shit about pantsuitism but likes boxing mistakes this for some kind of GED training video ?

That notwithstanding, it's still about some random precious cuntlet and the oh-so-overpoweringly important spawn thereof. I suppose we could say this movie's the cinematic equivalent of the chick that pretends to be interested in sports so she can get herself married into dependopotamus status. The very old Stallone is midly entertaining, I suppose. Remarkable how little five decades have changed that dude, he's still the same cheap hustler he started as. I guess simplicity breeds simplicity or something like that.

Ben is back I refuse to watch on principle -- I never watch anything with julia roberts in it, nor will. I'd rather watch Rosie O'Donnel's sex tapes. Besides, the thing sounds vaguely like that stillaffleck atrocity might be making a comeback, Erato protect and defend us!

Robin Hood I'm not fucking watching, it's a gimmick thing. You know how these idiots go about things when they figure they've got a gimmick -- and if you don't know, anything from the 80s with Anna Kanakisiv in it will serve just as well as this crap. Did you see the cool cars they had in that future btw ? Almost as good as the smooth lingo from this past, I'm sure.

The exact same also goes for Incredibles 2, Hotel Transylvania 3 (holy shit wtf is this, who can be fucked in the head enough to imagine this can be "a franchise" ?!), Avengers: Infinity War, leaving us with ~9 hours to destination and

Bad Times at the El Royale (directed by Drew Goddard, with Jeff Bridges), a movie rather preoccupied with locks. Locks, and the little bell for which bellhops are named, and other small mechanisms ; but unlike the foregoing tripe at least it's an actual movie. I guess one'd expect I'd say something apart about the revolutionary leader wannabe-etc, but I'm not so keen on repeating myself, and as I've already said, small mechanisms...

Jeff Bridges is indeed a great actor. It's all in the eyes. There's a momentary flash of the old man's blue eyes that definitively settles the point. The women do exceedingly well, both the magical child and the cynical loner, the Jackie Brown inexplicably caught here without her dirty red bandana.

I watched the whole thing (first time this occured with this list). I do not regret it. Quite the contrary : I recommend it, the movie's a little jewel in the style of Romanian neorealism

One'd expect Juliet, Naked (directed by Jesse Peretz, with nobody in particular) to be yet another tedious americanism about "making a porno" or something like that, on the strength of current mainstream "conventions", let's call thus the indolent imbecility petrified in turd form vaguely redolent of long rotten wood. Why the hell not, what MP did in the 90s was (inter alia) making pornos, so every two bit nitwit from Tucker Rogen to Seth Max is gonna be filming some verbose retard that showers with two pairs of panties on while she postures importantly. What, saying and being ain't the same ? What, existence fatally denies itself to the wallflowers idly pretending to existence by themselves in the corner ? What, feminism isn't the coming true of the inept dreams of all the pubescent morons ? What do you mean girls ain't women, what do you mean girlism is a sort of retardism ?! And etcetera and yet more etcetera, the budding precious cuntlets got yakkity yak to "say". On like, totally topics and shit!

Anyway, I suppose in a sense it is, exactly that, the grating pretense to an absent nudity once-removed and therefore only grating when you attempt to write the review. Who wouldn't be simply charmed to follow the blather of a herd of inept but indisciplined females ? With a couple of derpy dudes thrown in for good measure, of course, utterly failing at the self-obvious task of putting the bitches back into line. Because what'd a herd be without a coupla steers, or something. Whatever, if you're dumb enough to watch this crap, you're dumb enough to watch this crap. There's worse fates, of course (but perhaps a firm belief in reincarnation is a prerequisite).

Smallfoot noty, "a bright yeti" herpitty derp, something tells me it'll about how "even yetis think pantsuited atrocities are great [if they're smart, or at any rate if they're the sorta morons pantsuited atrocities make movies about]". No Kin either, no The Little Stranger, by now it's code, if "family" is mentioned you know the damned thing's gonna be of by and about dumb cunts. The Predator's utterly not worth watching, I'd rather watch Battlestarwars Galatiquetrek or w/e the shit's called. O look, star wars is next in line! Moving right along, to...

The Greatest Showman (directed by Michael Gracey, with nobody in particular) is an honest musical, I suppose. This is a term of art in our colonies, it denotes overgrown ads. The automated photochopping (of the faces in particular) gets rather tedious rather quickly ; the massacre of chords (and musical phraseoloy more generally) to produce "catchy" tunes or whatever the crap jingles these are becomes intolerably repetitive in short order. But the costumes are nice, I suppose, the decors interesting, it's a piece of work, whadda ya want.

Like a keg of salted herring, or #5 nails, or whatever else in that vein. Three fucking hours of it, too. Neeext....

It ain't gonna be The Shape of Water, that's for sure, "high security government laboratories" of 1962, gimme a break, what's this, The World According to Cosmo Kramer ?

I suppose we have to give Phantom Thread (directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, with Daniel Day-Lewis) at least a cursory glance. Meh, twenty minutes' worth of tedious tediousness later we'll pass, and gladly forget this nothing was ever made. You've seen one of those Alfred Nubsv porcherie, you've seen them all.

Pitch Perfect 3 (directed by Trish She, with some unremarkable chicks) is a steaming pile of horrible with that grimacing dumb whore whatever her name is. The one from the film with the moron wanna-be secret-agent-killer-batman with the clown nose. Bleeergh, made all of seven minutes through this very Hot Uncool Topic.

Assassin's Creed meh, wasn't this a computer game ? Wtf is it doing in Avianca's movie line-up ?

But Fracture (directed by Gregory Hoblit, with Anthony Hopkins, Ryan Gosling) is absolutely fucking great. Have I even reviewed this ? Seems not ; definitely worth one, and definitely must-see, too!

Needless to say "Marvel's Iron Man 2" ain't fucking happening, nor is "Harry Potter and the this or the other". Then Crazy Heart (directed by Scott Cooper, with Jeff Bridges) is mildy interesting, I suppose, but by the time he's hanging out in bed with that "reporter" chickvi specifically dressed so she can appear naked if you film her portrait-style, three inches below clavicle and no furter... well, the plan's landing and I got shit to do. I doubt I'll have it sought out, and so...

Here ends our little cinematic escapade. Let's count together now, 26 movies while crossing the Atlanticvii. You know... it occurs to me everything about this is incredible luxury. I think of the sad Romanians of the 80s, plenty of whom lived their entire wanna-be "intellectuals" life without seeing two dozen "capitalist" movies, and then never crossed the Atlantic at all, not even once, and then if they had it'd have been more like thirteen to fifteen hours, and so following. I think of them, but I do not weep. Every lord his fate, right ?

———I must say the new, soft, flexible, plastiplanes are visibly better than the heavier, rigid full-metal planes of three decades ago. Much unlike the plasticar, that doesn't work, the plastiplane works, and works well (and cheaply, too!). The reasons have to do with ye olde discussion of the sea (because no, the ocean of air's no different and nothing besides the ocean of water), and with the impermanence of the object : a plane only has to be in flight a day or so at most at a time. As it turns out, chaging a third of the parts every third flight is a better approach than hoping the all-metal, CNC-milled jesus bolt holds up the decade -- and especially so if the plastiparts cost a cent the dozen.

In any case, computer-assisted thrust vectoring has advanced to the point where the dual jet system palpably enjoys hysterezis, a situation that'd have been simply unthinkable in the older days. What, seriously, asymmetric thrust from the engines, as a going concern, and pulsating back and forth ? Holy hell, on a plane ? Yet with the more tolerant designs of the day, not merely flexible but tolerant of that flexibility being actually put to use... well...

There's been a revolution in aeronautics sometime in the past decades, plain and simple. There's no hiding it. [↩]The original Russian expression'd be "dead souls". [↩]Particularly offensive is the sheer hatred for any productive activity whatsoever. By the lights of Pantsuited Hilarity's accursed spawn, the only respectable activity and the only legitimate enterprise a male may engage in is the wondering in wonderment at the "miracle of life" while awaiting the scrip Goddess Inca cuts his way. That's fucking it, and don't you go around affixing wires to poles or anything. Not anything whatsoever, ye hear ? Any one thing no matter how small, insignificant or inconsequential that the male may find fulfillment in, is StRiCtLy VeRbOtEn!1!1!1

Vorwarts etcetera, warts and all. [↩]Warriors of the Wasteland, 2019 After The Fall Of New York, there's plenty of options. What, you thought Mad Max is new ?

PS. She even has a site. Yes, it's official, what, you thought I peddle cheap substitutes here ? I don't, I leave that to her & comp. [↩]Albert Nobbs, n. ed. [↩]With a kid in tow, of course, of course, it is after all made in soviet lands -- but at least here it fits, what the hell else is an ex-star with ten dollars in his pocket gonna settle "down" for ? And the way they mention it, too, perfunctory, throw-away line, oh rezistenta prin cultura, your current name's Jeff Bridges! [↩]This wasn't their limit, either. They had plenty more lined up for my vita brevis. [↩]

« The saddest thing in the world...

Pe-un franc poet. »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 03 April, Year 11 d.Tr.

You know me, all!

So I wake up this morning, to find... but really, I am no man of literature and such things, so better yet if I let the pros handle it for me. Here, let's have a lis'n :

But I have not told you the worst of it yet Al. When I come back to the flat Allen and Marie and Florrie was busy packing up and they asked me how I come out. I told them and Allen just stood there stareing like a big rummy but Marie and Florrie both begin to cry and I almost felt like as if I would like to cry to only I am not no baby Al.

Well Al I told Florrie she might just is well quit packing and make up her mind that she was not going nowheres till I got money enough to go to Bedford where I belong. She kept right on crying and it got so I could not stand it no more so I went out to get a drink because I still had just about a dollar left yet.

It was about 2 oclock when I left the flat and pretty near 5 when I come back because I had ran in to some fans that knowed who I was and would not let me get away and besides I did not want to see no more of Allen and Marie till they was out of the house and on their way.

But when I come in Al they was nobody there. They was not nothing there except the furniture and a few of my things scattered round. I sit down for a few minutes because I guess I must of had to much to drink but finally I seen a note on the table addressed to me and I seen it was Florrie's writeing.

I do not remember just what was there in the note Al because I tore it up the minute I read it but it was something about I could not support no wife and Allen had gave her enough money to go back to Texas and she was going on the 6 oclock train and it would not do me no good to try and stop her.

Well Al they was not no danger of me trying to stop her. She was not no good Al and I wisht I had not of never saw either she or her sister or my brother-in-law.

For a minute I thought I would follow Allen and his wife down to the deepo where the special train was to pull out of and wait till I see him and punch his jaw but I seen that would not get me nothing.

So here I am all alone Al and I will have to stay here till you send me the money to come home. You better send me $25 because I have got a few little debts I should ought to pay before I leave town. I am not going to Milwaukee Al because I did not get no decent deal and nobody cannot make no sucker out of me.

Right ?

Exactly the same thing exactly. Except of course for some stuff.

Like the implication that there'd be some guessing involved, which immediately marks the difference between the man who owns the harem and the others, men or otherwise, who do not own it : I know who dun it directly.

But let's move on, pick up some chicks.

An' now that we picked 'em up ("hey babe, you workin' ???") let's buy them some shoes, specifically bubblegum pink 8 inch platforms.

You know, to go with the schoolgirl outfit we picked up in a large department store right amongst the rafts o' mothers & fathers getting their post-pubescent dollies dollied up for school. Needless to say it took some doing, what with finding pinskirts large enough and matching them to men's shirts because guess what, "hay diferencias entre chicas y mujeres, los chicas no tienen tetas".

As my topless sluts were coming in and out of the pair of dressing rooms reserved for our expansive needs while a small mousy girly squirmed under the pile of various she was holding up for us, either to be tried or to be paid or to be refolded or whatever else, everyone got a right-proper eyefull & earfull (no cuntfull so far, as of yet). Kinda funny to watch the bare midriff collegiate chicks all smiles at the gent sitting by himself on the bench in the middle, only to turn stormy around the eyebrows as the doors started opening.

But I didn't have to order anyone on her knees, at least not this time. And it wasn't even that expensive, either!

To be perfectly clear : 1`238.94 colones (aka 2.04108731 USD) plus 161.96 in tax (a further 0.26533772 USD) comes to a round figure of no money, no problems.

I am also proud to report that the platforms in question already, as to the time of this writing, saw in excess of 15 miles walked, or twenty hours' usage, which makes them 15 cents to the mile (or a dime to the hour). I defy you to find any woman anywhere that owns a pair of heels that can live up to this standard.

Come on, big boy, ten cents an hour!

Is they is o' is they ain't the cutest ?

Signed,

Your pal,

the most humble jack of all horrors.

« Qntra (S.QNTR) January 2019 Statement

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

Category: Zsilnic

Sunday, 03 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Wild is the Wind

Wild is the Windi is yet another run-of-the-mill Tennessee Williams play (this time written by a certain Arnold Schulban or Schultan or whatever). It sports the usual whack-a-mole portable Universal Story Board, including the family fortune, the loose woman, the assortment of holes she could go into -- much like you'd expect a pinball machine include the three flags and the four bumpers, or how you'd expect a highschool chemistry set include flashpaper and whatnot. Writers, these people, like Zuleika Dobson's an "enchantress".

Nevertheless, the assembly line product's not without its charm -- even assembly lines must live out of some kind of reality, and somehow fit within finite energy footprint. This means in practice ever so often some reality makes it in, not molested beyond all possible recognition. The usual ham, for instance, produces a character that's quite coincidentally authentic, as the literary character of Gigi Becaliii would most humorously, across the oceans confirm. A shepherd's a shepherd, at least if taken out of his environment and caged at the city zoo. Have you seen, by the way, that all fish have epilepsy ? It's just in the fish nature, what can you do.

The product makes in passing the obvious point that our North American colony spent its formative years importing A-class women and breeding D-class men locally... but then again that's not the sort of point an audience's expected, or even intended, to notice. Unless you're a scholar studying these disgraziati I can't imagine what could possibly impel you to watch this thing.

Boredom, I guess, the listless sort of boredom that gets one started smoking.

———1957, by George Cuckor, with Anna Magnani, Anthony Quinn. [↩]Somewhat famous Romanian TV personality of the 90s -- perhaps the most important thing that could be said about the fellow would be to point out that

mysql> select id, post_title, post_category from tril_posts where post_status="Publish" and post_content LIKE "%Gigi%" and post_content Like "%Becali%";

+-------+---------------------------------------+---------------+

| id | post_title | post_category |

+-------+---------------------------------------+---------------+

| 909 | Twitter, sau placerea de-a ciripi. | 0 |

| 24965 | Wikileaks - MDCXVIII | 18 |

| 24872 | Wikileaks - MDXXV | 18 |

| 24868 | Wikileaks - MDXXI | 18 |

| 24862 | Wikileaks - MDXV | 18 |

| 24719 | Wikileaks - MCCCLXXII | 18 |

| 24674 | Wikileaks - MCCCXXVII | 18 |

| 24550 | Wikileaks - MCCIII | 18 |

| 24242 | Wikileaks - DCCCXCV | 18 |

| 24235 | Wikileaks - DCCCLXXXVIII | 18 |

| 24228 | Wikileaks - DCCCLXXXI | 18 |

| 24163 | Wikileaks - DCCCXVI | 18 |

| 24101 | Wikileaks - DCCLIV | 18 |

| 24094 | Wikileaks - DCCXLVII | 18 |

| 24069 | Wikileaks - DCCXXII | 18 |

| 24068 | Wikileaks - DCCXXI | 18 |

| 24030 | Wikileaks - DCLXXXIII | 18 |

| 24017 | Wikileaks - DCLXX | 18 |

| 23970 | Wikileaks - DCXXIII | 18 |

| 23892 | Wikileaks - DXLV | 18 |

| 23873 | Wikileaks - DXXVI | 18 |

| 23822 | Wikileaks - CDLXXV | 18 |

| 23785 | Wikileaks - CDXXXVIII | 18 |

| 23755 | Wikileaks - CDVIII | 18 |

| 23494 | Wikileaks - CXLVII | 18 |

| 23725 | Wikileaks - CCCLXXVIII | 18 |

| 23726 | Wikileaks - CCCLXXIX | 18 |

| 34089 | C-asa-i romanu' cind se sumeteste... | 0 |

| 35089 | I'm in a transitional phase right now | 0 |

+-------+---------------------------------------+---------------+

29 rows in set (0.14 sec)

Twenty-six out of twenty-nine references to the character on Trilema coming from my inaugural leak of USG.Blue "encrypted" cables that you've come to know later as "wikileaks" should make it plain enough who constructed it as part of "the conversation" (constructed out of an extant, physically existing fool, of course, captured in the environment live, of course, yet nevertheless) and perhaps even why. [↩]

« The Secret of Santa Vittoria

The Rose Tattoo »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 19 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Why the females of any sexuate species are necessarily going to be lazy, stupid and annoying.

Importing here by reference the earlier discussion of what sexuate reproduction forces upon you as a design choice in your species.

Now let's look at the matter from a different angle.

If you've made your species sexuate, and thereby it followed you'll have a female, and thereby it followed the female will store fat and be slow and physically ineffectual as her bones will be optimized for parasite support rather than locomotion and so on and so forth ; while the male will be comparatively (and not even necessarily by much) faster and physically more effectual, it'll necessarily be the case males will seek out females for copulation, rather than the other way around.i

If males seek out females for copulation, they'll be keeping double accounting. First, they'll keep a set of books for each female's objective circumstances, as informed by their own taste and preference (which mostly reduces to scalar answers to the question whether she is a juicy fuck) ; second they'll keep a set of books for each female's female-subjective circumstances, as informed by their own understanding of female taste and preference (which mostly reduces to scalar answers to the question whether she's got enough slop in the trough).

If males keep double accounting, necessarily male mating strategy will be some variation of a very simple algorithm : approach all females with higher 1-value than 2-value, and offer an improvement in 2-value. This is significantly cheaper than the traditional approach (as seen for example in waterbugs) ; and the realizationii of this cheapness is the principal benefit as well as the direct causative agent and main supporting mechanism of the development of language as a behaviour.iii

Unrelatedly, hardship is the only mother of improvement. And what is hardship if not a situation where 2-value drops below 1-value ?

The fundamental beta mating strategyiv insulates the female from the very possibility of improvement, as inseparable part and substantial parcel of its mechanism of action. Therefore -- and necessarily -- the more beta mating occurs in a group, the less actualized the potential of the group's female subpopulation, on average.v

It's a balance -- meaning : the females of any sexuate species are necessarily going to be lazy, stupid and annoying. Exactly how lazy, how stupid and how annoying they're going to be is somewhat of an open question, but as a matter of certainty they won't be nearly as harnicevi, smart and pleasant as they could be, nor as they would've been if they were born male.

———No, this isn't a cultural matter ; even if you can culturally castrate males to try and outcompete females in fat imbecility, resulting in sad lols, you still haven't solved anything. [↩]Realization as in the financial term of art. [↩]The reason for language even existing in the first place is strictly what the Italians call discorsi da letto.

Specifically, for very good reasons the female will "mate" (as the social superstructure -- you know, holding hands, performing court, etcetera -- built atop actual copulative mating) with the strongest, best male available. She'll be the wife of the alpha, which is why and wherefore the majority of children born in stone age villages are the offspring of the village chief. People are not unlike goats, remember Natalie Wood's character in Rebel Without A Cause ? How she could barely wait for her previous husband's corpse to cool back down to anything resembling homeostatic range before proposing marriage to the kid who killed him ? That's precisely it.

The problem with this arrangement is that genetic diversity still holds some benefit, and nature's not about to leave any of that on the table. So, from the point of view of sexuate reproduction optimization, the ideal situation is where the female walks down the endless path, hand in hand with the alpha, and as she walks she turns her ass to the side, so some or other beta hiding in the bushes can fuck her a quick one. Who knows, maybe ?

The reversal of post-retardism is of course amusing. Supposedly these days the "alphas" are the erstwhile betas hidden in the bushes on the side of the road, and the "beta" is the dude walking the herd of cunts. Aren't the eventual if necessary fruits of pantsuitism lulzy indeed ?

Anyways, language, that's its function, its point and purpose, and how it came to be : you hafta coordinate your impalement of the female, she has to turn her ass just as you jump from the bushes, otherwise the alpha might notice. She has to be "persuaded" to even try, in other words.

Now go, whisper sweet nothings in her ear like you invented sweet, nothings and ears. After all you did. Didn't you ? [↩]Alpha mating's something entirely else, as the betas are quite annoyedly aware. [↩]Conversely, the less beta mating occurs in a group, the less potential altogether in the group as a whole, owing to diminished genetic variety. [↩]Why's English not blessed with an antonym for lazy ?

I suppose "industrious" is the best horse at the glue factory, but come now. [↩]

« The slut, and the whore.

Sadly Frankfurt's fucked. »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 12 October, Year 11 d.Tr.

Where da party at ?!

Let's get this party started with a clear frontal shot of the plantoctopus.

Just like his marine ancestors from which it somewhat differentiated some time ago, the plantoctopus has plantentacles. (The party is in Japan.)

Moving on, you might recall the story of a certain unicorn.

Its time had recently arrived, and, being stuffed full of homemade confections (in whose confection I confess having had a hand, for which I was privately if insistently dubbed no lesser thing than a genius!) and other delectables we armed the bimbo with a chunk of wood judged best for the purpose (which is to say, capable of enough damage to actually render the enemy, but not so much as to render the house) and set her to it.

Admire the duct-taped goggles, and believe you me that we enjoyed a most delightfully amusing half hour watching her fight the dangling beast. She makes little noises! And small motions of self defense! And "hey where is it", and etcetera.

If you've never done a pinata party, do try it once, I'd say eminently worth the hassle.

Moving on : to properly celebrate such a thing as a bimbo's birthday, one needs to buy himself some genteel accoutrements such as natural fiber full length pijamas and socks and whatnot other things they have at the gent store.

The nine year old depicted turned 26, and also got glasses, resulting in her for the first time truly taking in the faces of people passing by, stopping to give her dressing advice in the street, and issue dire warning as to the scandalous state of her blouse buttons etcetera.

In this country, you see, tweens and teenagers wear school uniforms (only to then move on to "corporate" jobs where also, except pants instead of skirts), and so the young adult set tends to be very very alarmed by her appearance. The boys somewhat, but the women without exception, and the mothers among them to a boiling pitch.

Yet... what can you do ?

You can immensely bother people, what the hell else.

And speaking of people : notice anything missing in this image ?

Yeah, that's right, they do "dangerous tricks" here at the Hooters barn, stuff you're well advised to not try at home. Because trained pros and whatnot, you understand this, don't you ?

I have no idea what they're trained in. For one thing, hooters or no hooters (mostly textile-compensated no hooters), they're so fucking short as to put any concern to rest : I've fallen out of taller beds without even getting bruised, girls this tall simply can't hurt themselves falling no matter how they fall or what else happens. Gravity only works at all if given some space to work in, you understand me.

Besideswhich, not only do they all wear pants, as apparently latinoamerica yahveh hath at some point ordainedi, and flatsii for shoesiii, but (in what's apparently becoming the latinoamerican sex worker tradition) they never fucking lift their feet off the ground, not EVER, not for ANY REASON WHATSOEVER. It's starting to connote womanhood in these parts almost as much as the damned jeans, and certainly way above tits or anything else you'd expect on the natural basis.

The sittin' she-paladins, what the hell more can be said.

Meanwhile in life,

At which point the waitress comes running -- this is the chick whom we've asked "where's da party at ?!" and she helpfully inquired (no doubt with a view to giving the best possible answer consisting of the most adequate selection out of a vast and otherwise impossible to handle diversity & abundance cum variety) "que tipo de fiesta".

I helpfully clarified that "el tipo que hay gente", to aid in the apparently confusing if overwhelming task of sieving out all those many and numerous parties of countless inennumerable types which just so happen to not include any people whatsoever -- to which clarification she happily returned that other than going home, there's of course Santosiv.

But of course. "There is", and for as long as you don't start curb stomping the idiots for going out in the street decked in jeans "there" will continue to exactly in this manner "be" exactly nothing at fucking all.

So this chick comes running, because her "companera"v really really desperately wants to have her picture took with the loose women that (inexplicably!) blew in one day.

Think about it for a moment or twelve, if you will. There's this franchise built on the concept that yokels will come in to gladly overpay on shitty food, in exchange for at the most having a picture taken that somewhere vaguely in a corner includes them too while centering on these free and wild and uninhibited sluts doing free and wild and unhibited but incredibly and mindblowingly dirty never seen before sexy things.

That's what Hooters actually is, right ?

Then I come in with my sluts and the staff wants its picture taken with them. The relationship between the male as imagined by the cucks and Hooters waitresses is about the same as the relationship between Hooters waitresses and my sluts. I outhootered the Hooters, what! And it didn't take much hooting to do it, either.

Are you ready for the coup de grace ?

That's right. Not the same relationship.

Not the same relationship at fucking all. Not at all.

Da party is wherever the fuck I happen to be going. Wherever I bid the flags unfurled, wherever I pitch the standards, wherever my banners and cockades fly, whatever spot I pick to make a stand -- that's where the party's at. Wherever my and mine is to be found ; and nowhere else.

What can you do ?

———They even approach my sluts, to "among girls" inculcate their bizarre cockroaches about how great jeans are and how fundamentally important for a cunt ensconcement is and whatever else nonsense [↩]Seriously, how are you going to fall off flat shoes ? I mean, tall and cheaply made espadriles going downhill on a steep grade with construction debris for a "sidewalk", that I can understand and I've even seen, especially if a crying girl is walking home in punishment after being chewed out and #excluded. But off flats in a room !? [↩]I do not believe it is socially acceptable for reproductive-age female to appear socially without high heels.

You may think differently -- but if you do I do not believe it is socially acceptable for us to mix. You may still serve me drinks, I guess, though honestly I'd much prefer you were not be permitted on the premises even in that capacity. [↩]A piddly bar everyone insists is the bee's knees except we never saw it in any other shape than "overrun by middle aged dweebs", and in any case was strategically locked when we went by, a few minutes after eleven that night.

We had been bar hopping, see. After a number of bottles of fine Montepulciano imported straight from Abruzzo gave their blood so that the local (excellent!) watermelon and grape and apple and whatnot could make sangria (imbibed at home), we went out -- to enjoy suntan lotion (mis-sold as Pina Colada), mouthwash ("Cuba libre") and finally furniture varnish ("Manhattan"). This is to certify that the above denominazioni di origine controllata were issued as reported here by the misfortunate girls stuck with the respective items.

Nobody goes out, not anymore. By the time a bar finds it a practicable business strategy to ship out Manhattans that taste like furniture varnish, you know they can't possibly have any repeat trade, which necessarily means nobody goes out anymore. [↩]Generally rendered in English as "my friend who's not me" [↩]

« MiniGame (S.MG), January 2019 Statement

So they found it! »

Category: Zsilnic

Friday, 08 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

What the fuck is this, then ?!

Going through archives produces mysteries ; as it happens some birdsi are easier to identify than others, yet what the fuck do you do about the fisheaded microbird with no legs but a trunk ?

What, you think I'm kidding ? I'm not fucking kidding, look :

There's a honest to god butterfly trunk right there, worthy of standing by the best of 'em, and what bird ever had a fish head ?!

Any help in elucidating this latest mystery profoundly appreciated, thank you in A. D. Vance.

———Tat ce zbuara se... maninca. [↩]

« The TMSR-OS implicit clients

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

Category: AICMF

Thursday, 28 November, Year 11 d.Tr.

What is meant by AI ?

bimbo do bots self voice?

Me to "self voice" means they do the stuff needed to get voice themselves (as opposed to, having a human !!up them).

bimbo hmm okay, i suppose what i was wondering if they have a feature which allows them to communicate to deedbot in order to self voice

Me well yeah, they gotta be able to pm it and know what to say

bimbo thats pretty cool

Me yeah. whole thing is modulary like that, deedbot treats bots and people exactly alike for instance. so a bot that can voice itself simply emulates what you do.

bimbo interesting, and i also have no idea about all of the bot possibilities

Me i guess not. but in general the idea is that we'll destroy any hope or possibility of a future for dumb people by simply making bots good enough they can't be distinguished.

bimbo lol. isn't that AI?

Me nope.

bimbo so wheres the line between bots and AI?

Me i suppose from the idiot's pov the distinction's not worth making. an apocalypse in which "everyone" dies and an apocalypse in which "everyone you know" dies are not that different after all.

bimbo lol am i the idiot in this case? i mean in an apocalypse youd still need people to rebuild, regardless if you know them or not . idk maybe im looking at it the wrong way.

Me i meant the general "you". "One".

bimbo ah okay, i didnt know if i had enough to understand this conversation

Me you know how a large number of dorks go about "their lives" as if trilema didn't exist ?

bimbo indeed lol

Me if those live or if they die, it only matters to them. world history had a large number of such faux apocalypses, where say neanderthal man died off.

bimbo i see.

Me the world didn't END once the dinosaurs were wiped. though, from the pov of a dinosaur, it "might as well have". same thing.

bimbo ill buy it. i understand this idea but not how it relates to ai and bots.

Me from the pov of a moron, a bot that repaces him is "AI!!!". it's not, but the difference is too subtle to make, and in any case irrelevant to the moron.

bimbo ah i see. maybe ishould read about ai to understand the technology part of it

Me do you know what a turing test is ?

bimbo no i dont : /

Me so look it up

bimbo lol i already did but i felt like i was cheating.

Me the turing test is defined by libertard morons (in this case, that faggot turing), and it misses the only important point : there is no "people". a bot that passes the turing test as administered by some random moron may ~seem~ "ai" to that one moron. however, in that it will never pass a turing test administered by me, it therefore isn't going to be ai to me. it's just going to be my bot, talking for me to fetlife tards.i

bimbo lol. makes sense. more simple than i though it was going to be. so do you think one will ever pass your test? havent they developed better technology to test this anyways?

Me keks technology. what fucking technology. and what fucking "they". we're the only "they" involved.

bimbo lol. i mean a better test. im sure you capable of designing a more advanced test then one that was developed in the 50s.

Me lol mkay.

bimbo lol why mkay? i thought you were the one were talking about. i guess whats the point though when people are less intelligent and more automated

Me just as soon as i'm done designing a more advanced pythagora's theorem than the one that was developed in the 500s.

bimbo lmao. well if the test goes right, you can just send a bot to do it

Me what do you think this "technology" is, juju ? it's ~called~ THE turing test because it's definitive.

bimbo so the test is definitive but not the administrator?

Me exactly.

bimbo why cant bots administer the tests then?

Me they can lol.

bimbo ah okay. kinda seems like feeding the duck chicken

[...]

bimbo dude! these computers they used to try and beat the test is kind of funny. parry designed after a paranoid schizophrenic.

Me aha. their problem is this nutty idea that "people are all the same, ultimately, fundamentally, somehow ALL ONE". not even encountered anywhere but the nonsense tracts of the neoprotestants.

bimbo definitely. although i think its more than protestants

Me notrly.

bimbo especially if the person designing the test is technically advanced then they probably lack a certain level of social functioning (ie the manager conversation) it seems easy to pick out a schizophrenic as the biggest outlier. idk i think its partly why people dont think you exist

Me hm ?

bimbo most people think people are all the same, hence why your life has to be made up since no one else is doing the things you are.

Me a right.

———This is factually what's already happening, you understand this. Do you ?

"Russian hackers" my left foot. [↩]

« I don't get it...

Qntra (S.QNTR) December 2018 Statement »

Category: Meta psihoza

Thursday, 03 January, Year 11 d.Tr.

What is a blog ? Complete spec inside!

As per billymg, find below the first draft of what aims to be a full and complete specification of the notion of a blog.

I expect this item may be changed over time ; but in any and all cases conformity between this and a blog is sufficient answer to "why does your blog do/not do X ?" inquiries.

blog

.read

..header image, lowest layer, with title and byline superimposed, topmost layer.

..left text column, 2nd lowest layer.

...article title, thicker face

...article byline including time of publishing

...article body, limited to a, i/em, b/strong, blockquote, ol, ul, li, table, img, code, pre tags + footnotes.

...span field as per url selection.

...article footer, including category/tag.

...responses, boxed individually, comments first, trackbacks after, historical order. admin comments decorated.

....response byline, including date, autor pic and author name on left, comment count prominently on right.

....response body, limited as article.

..utility columns, right, left side

...recent comments, at least 12 items.

....name, anchored to comment, followed by leading excerpt.

...fixed page links.

...blogroll/fixed outgoing link list.

...archive dropdown

..utility columns, right, right side

...recent articles list, at least 12 items.

...article categories ? (honestly this is the weakest spot of the entire thing)

..special pages consisting of lists of articles sorted by some criteria (time or category/tag).

...article title, thicker face

...article byline, including time of publishing and category.

.write

..article title box, future computed permalink url underneath.

..toolbar

...media upload tool

....uploads arbitrary list of files from user's disk,

....scales all images to pre-selected sizes

....dumps everything in appropriate, month-based directory

....presets for populating alt tag and caption wrapper ; left, center and right allignment of picture in text

...programmable tag presetsi

..article body box

...word counter at bottom

...automated draft saver, producing a reviewable/diffable list of available drafts

...category selector

...publish button, with time-deferred publishing mechanism.

..."save draft now" button.

.admin

..comment queue processor, permitting ham/spam marking of selected new comments.

.meta

..no javascript

..all links in article produce pingback at time of publishing.

..rss

.../feed serving feed of most recent published articles.

....article title followed by byline including date and time.

....leading base64 encoding of string including caller ip followed by length-limited article body.

.../feed/comments serving feed of most recent accepted comments.

...awstats as per discussion.

...force missing pingbacks tool, as described.

———One-click shortcut to inserting lengthier fixed forms such as <blockquote></blockquote> or <p style="padding-left: 30px;"></p>. [↩]

« thelastpsychiatrist.com - Bipolar Rates Are Increasing As Long As You're Willing To Call Everything Bipolar And Defy God's Will. Adnotated.

thelastpsychiatrist.com - Birth Order: Are First Borns Always Older Than Their Siblings? Adnotated. »

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 14 August, Year 11 d.Tr.

What amused me last night : selected romanian ruralia

Permit me to exercise my playwright muscle as Romania's only living playwright worth the mentioni by retelling... well, nothing in particular. But then again that's what divine talent and human industry are altogether for : making whips out of the pressed shitboard all around. Without further ado, we therefore begin!

The place. To quote the everlog of this our Most Serene Republic :

mircea_popescu asciilifeform, timisoara dorks, they're very self important. can you imagine this glorified rural shithole actually imagines itself "the european culture capital 2019" ?

mircea_popescu it's like if evanston, wyoming thought itself the center of intergalactic trade.

I'm not sure it could readily be put into words how inadequate this African tribe actually is ; what shocking gaps yawn bottomless between what they imagine themselves to be and what they actually, factually and in reality are. I shan't attempt the impossible task, either ; we'll leave it at that.

The persons. Well... these'd be, first, foremost and in all other places me, and my sluts. Oh, oops... wrong pair. No, no, wait... that's not right either... What the fuck shall we do ?!

Good thing there's where to choose from, amirite ? I just walk into the tit closet and pick something for that evening, like Charlie Shrem exactly whishes to misrepresent himself.

So, to sum up, an' not to put too fine a point on it : me, an' my sluts, those are the persons.

Action! We went to town to pick up some chick the Whoremaster General sniffed out (different from the girl she picked up yesterday night, and from the various other ones, aaaite ?). On a lark, as we were headed out the door I picked up the chains for the bitches, and attached them (yes, they wear the collar all the time, to much amusement & merriment in casual social situations, why not). This is how shit works for us, I come up with some random shit giving just about zero heads in and everyone struggles to cope. It's fun -- and besides, I wouldn't have it any other way.

There's this tiny square in timisoara where they usually play loud music -- of all whitey's inventions, the one Africa's most thankful for is the cheap amp. This time they had some people doing zumba sorry, bachata. It's hard to keep the despacitos straight, you know ? Among them, a decent looking chick juggling her generous udders (hey, you -- you know who you are, drop a line maybe we fuck sometime if I feel like it). We sat on a bench to watch her jiggle them juggs (and discover that -- nice ass, too!) at which point this beta orbiter that had been sneaking pictures with his phone went into complete creepazoid mode, implanted himself in the field of vision and demanded "What is this ?"

I told him this is me sitting and he talking to people he doesn't know, so leave it at that. He took three or four more orbits while processing the phrase and then made himself scarce. To be perfectly clear : I have absolutely no problem with the spurious cunt byproducts left idle since nobody can be arsed to organise killing fields for them anymore (they call this "peace", while posturing about as if to convince any and all this is some kinda good thing). They're more than welcome to admire / wank / whatever it is they do from a respectful distance. But the basics still apply, you can't just find yourself talking. Aite ? It's inappropriate, and the fact that everything else about the shithole you dwell is equally inappropriate does not constitute an excuse.

The aftermath is, entitely, this article. Obviously the sad victims of their own inadequacy that earlier lost the war with the president went into overdrive, "discussing", "controversying", herpy-derping all over themselves. As a factual matter, just about every newspaper in the country "covered it", but when I looked at Trilema's statistics earlier their collective impact is indiscernible, a fraction of a percent if anything at all. Meanwhile if I were to deign to link any of them, everyone "working" there'd be getting bonuses. I'm not about to : the only bonus you sad lot will ever get's right here.

This is the whole story ; as you might notice, not really all that interesting. The curse of the lost herds of mediocrity that pseudoscientists call postmodernism is that every bleating moron perceives himself for no reason an adequate and sufficient substitute for the actual phenomena. The only possible mental image doing justice to the sad lives of the tribes of sadness would be this situation where a rock concert consisted of twelve people in a room, of which half the band, and half "reporters" who went on to describe "what they saw", in "their own words" of course, meaning "from their own point of view", to... other roomfuls of a dozen people, who in turn continue this game of psychotic telephone.

Nobody cares, obviously, chief and foremost on that list the very rockbands in question. Yes you could end up at the public restroom sink right next to some guy much better than you ; but this circumstance, purely coincidental and entirely devoid of any possible teleology therefore says nothing about you. The circumstance that you perceived my grandeur as much as you could, which is to say altogether negligibly, does not make "how you felt about it" at all interesting, or even faintly important. All the wank about "oh, what does all this mean, my nine year old daughter" etcetera etcetera is just that : wank. You're no part of it ; if and when I and your daughter decide to do things you don't understand, it'll be between me and her. You won't be any part of it ; and until we so decide, her seeing that the world's way wider than whatever fits in your spurious noggin's the best thing that could possibly happen to her.

I suppose this'd have been the one alternative title : The Best Thing That Ever Happened In Timisoara. Sadly however, timisoara's not actually important enough to warrant nominal inclusion. Deal with it.

———1, 2, 3, etcetera. Mult, mult etcetera. [↩]

« thelastpsychiatrist.com - China Needs Fewer TVs, Or A Billion Of Them. Adnotated.

My cacke dough is bustin' at the trims. »

Category: Breaking News

Monday, 23 September, Year 11 d.Tr.

Well, since I started, might as well...

It happened by accident, but... what can you do ?i

slut Master, is analytical philosophy in any way like mathematical analysis?

Master "Analytical philosophy", as the currently preferred endonymii for "typical anglo provincialism", ie the attempt at naive extension of "common sense" and broadly dysfunctional medieval solipsisms is methodologically sound, but unfortunately fundamentally rotten, and in the most laughable ways at that. "Postmodernism", as the anglotard xenonymiii for, mostly, post-structuralism, is fundamentally sound, but unfortunately methodologically rotten in most applications you're likely to encounter. As it stands, between the "mechanical birdwing" that never could possibly take off and the early aeroplane that generally crashes and burns, you're stuck picking the latter.

slut I couldn't say then "analytical philosophy is the systematic study of limits in gnoseology"?

Master You could say anything you wish. As a much younger man I attempted to restructure and thereby revive the dead on exactly these lines, "nevermind the nonsense, reform it into a study of the limits of the possibility of knowledge". It went nowhere, coincidentally just about the time I first retired.

slut I always thought that was driven by political and business considerations, "the dying 90s" I call it for myself.

Master The 90s died in more ways than just the mob.

slut Why do they call it analytic, then?

Master I suspect someone from a Math department was printing fractals, strange attractors and the like in the late 80s somewhere in Leeds or w/e, and someone else saw them and liked them, went "Good sir, what do you call the kitchen making this delish dish???"

slut So it's analytical philosophy in the sense FOSS could be called Happy Meal Computing, or java could be called Starbucks Internet?

Master Rather.

slut What would you call it then?

Master I dunno, being extremely sad ? "Dowager philosophy" probably appeals more to their sensibilities, soon they'll all be knighted and they can retire to mourn their loss somewhere, pe o stinca neagra, intr-un vechi castel....

slut What exactly did they lose? Was something lost?

Master Yes something was lost. Consider : "The simulacrum is never what hides the truth - it is truth that hides the fact that there is none. The simulacrum is true."

slut It's not like Baudrillard killed it.

Master They're not mourning a murder, they're just mourning a loss. Like all loss, it's a loss of illusion, it has nothing to do with anyone or anything else.

slut What was the illusion?

Master Something like this : Mary Jane is a seventeen year old straw-blonde suburban princess, living at about the same time, mid 80s say. She believes her dad is smart and her mother pretty, she believes she'll find her true love and have a happy family and she'll also have a career and support her husband in his, and he won't cheat on her nor will they ever divorce because that's something that happens to other people nor will they ever be in a car crash because they drive carefully and the government jails everyone else. The most there can be hope for, event-wise, is cancer, and everyone knows cancer has the decency to limit itself to retirement homes.

slut Like her?

Master That'll work fine, sure. Now one day, a van full of... what do you prefer, Mexicans ? black people ? Muslims ? Whatever, she's walking home from whatever practice, the van pulls over and they fuck the living daylights out of her. And she fucking loves it, because seriously, what's not to love, a lot of unexpected cock up 17yo snatch, as naturally correct a fit as mountain spring water. Then there's a night, and a day, and in that day if she Mom ? she's the running kind and if she Butterfield 8 she's the mourning kind.

slut You went with 18-1 rather than 18+1 just to bother people, didn't you?

Master It's just a number. You expect truth in numbers or something ?

slut So you are basically saying that analytic philosophy does not exist as such, but the analytic philosophers, as a group, simply make very poor postmodernists and that's all there is to it. Like say the people who go to the Opera with their wives but spend the whole time in the smoking lounge chit-chatting among themselves -- they're still at the Opera, they just don't know what to do there. Maybe poke fun at how "that chorus line could never win a REAL war with that other chorus line in that armor" or whatever.

Master Maybe watching girls' tennis on the TV screens or something, also. But yes. A REAL war, you know...

slut Did it ever exist?

Master Yeah, right. Looky : at some point watching TV was a central, respectable family activity. "TV" didn't existiv, but the behaviours surrounding it made it look almost as if it had. Alchemy also never existed, but for a while the only way to talk to the smart people living while you did was to at least mimic a cursory interest. They're fashions, though I suspect the preferred word's "paradigms".

slut So it exists as "the worm's path" -- after the worm ate through, you can see where it went ; but before the eating there was no path, and there's precisely nothing the reader of paths can tell the worms of the future.

Master Not precisely nothing. It's not a matter of telling, anyway, the funnel's plugged at the other end. Nothing your experience of myriad worm paths tells you is interesting to the worm. You wanna talk to the worm, you'll have to talk worm.

slut What if there's exactly no way to communicate anything I'm interested in within the constraints of whatever language worms use ?

Master Then you mourn.

slut What if I don't care about worms to any degree anyway?

Master Then you carry on doing whatever it is you're doing. The wives at the Opera also don't care what smartass nonsense the beer bellied morons are exchanging among themselves.

slut What if they really want to care?

Master I guess they'll sooner or later manage to make themselves unhappy.

slut Caring is the basis of unhappiness?

Master Caring borne of wanting to care, definitely.

slut What if I don't believe truth doesn't exist?

Master You believe it does ?

slut No, I just don't believe it doesn't.

Master So what's the problem ?

slut Shouldn't I do something about it?

Master Should you do something because of what you believe ? Why not believe something because of what you're doing ?

slut That seems wrong. Actually, it seems exactly backwards.

Master There's exactly two kinds of people, the kind of people who does because of what they believe, and the kind that believes because of what it does. Your personal ethical choices make you welcome among one or the other, is all.

slut Shouldn't we kill the others?

Master What, "we don't like your kind around here" ?

slut Exactly.

Master Meh. The groups aren't predicated on any life in being, they exist independently of whether "people" even has any meaning to it. If you exterminated all cheats, thieves, morons, Florence Keefes etcetera you'd therefore have built what, "a perfect world", one that'll last just as long as two babies are born ?

slut Then what, segregation?

Master Seems a sufficient solution. Put a shingle above your business, "we don't tolerate that other kind on these premises" and be done with it.

slut So basically... truth is in no way a hard requirement for ethics?

Master Indeed.

slut Then the whole "postmodern intellectual revolution" is barely a turn of the worm, about as important in any general sense as a shift in bedroom mores, from fucking missionary style to fucking doggy style?

Master Yes. The other group keeps hoping "the future" will deliver on its hopes of equality. When Einstein came out with some advances in physics, you couldn't traverse the Opera fumoir for all the din of "omaigerd did you hear everything's relative ?!?!?!". Nowadays truth ended up where it had to, once the whole medieval thought tree starting in God began unravelling. What the fuck universal truth you gonna have without a prime mover to underpin it ?! The charlatan cave's brimming in excited ebullution, "oh, finally, we can get out, thinking because of doing will finally be able to walk with its head held up high on main street!". I tell you I don't see it, I don't need truth to crack their skulls wide open anymore than I need anything else.

slut Thank you, Master.

———Understand this perpetually pluriformious yet universally ubiquitous question properly. "What can you do," right ?

Does it inquire what you, he who reads now, could do ? Does it inquire what I, who wrote this once, could have done then ? Or could do now ? Is it metaphorically proposing an equality between such an us, contradictory as that would be to auctorial pronouncements of the same source in other places, that were never contradicted but left standing ?

Am I therefore purporting to suggest I and you are one by saying "you" when I mean "I", and therefore proposing that those problems here encountered or supposedly discussed are objective, and thereby liable to be encountered by "anyone" sufficiently qualified in whatever manner objectivism requires for them to be able to encounter them ? (Because obviously the blind man won't meaningfully encounter the red pole, but this "aside", somehow a magical ability to "this aside" is available, don't ask me how, I didn't design this object system, nor did I ever sign off on it -- but apparently (supposedly ?) it has undocumented universal procedures for all classes.)

Yet as the question repeats, is it... is it an earworm, that piece of music that just won't quit ? It does have a certain melodic quality, but if it IS indeed a worm (as the term of art) then what specifically is not the worm ? The "words on the very paper" do not exist, it's pixels all the way down, none of this was ever written in any other form than what you call "postmodern". Trilema, unique amongst the artefacts of its period, has no modern counterpart.

Or is it perhaps a stage ? Does the inquiry "what can you do" reflect a stage of the inquiring of what you can do ? Well... which is it, the inquiring of what you can do or the inquiring of what can you do ? A stage it may be, but a stage of what ? Is it, this question, of dubious unclear form and apparently inaccessible substance, is it then endurant or perdurant ?

And leaving that aside for a second (right ?), why is it the case I'm asking you, both "of all people" -- and not at all ? Shouldn't I be able to tell ? Am I merely playing around pretending I can't tell, like an imaginary Shylock (o look, reference -- now... what's referred ?!) asking "tell me what wands the skilful shepherd peel'd ?" instead of saying plainly, "the skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands," (is this plainly ? how is "certain" plain ?) or am I in fact signifying thereby, and if so what, and should you disagree with you, who will you go to settle the dispute provided I'm not interested (and could I be ?).

My how the punctuation signs multiply, is this an affectation on my part ? Am I pretending or merely playing around or is my hand forced by lack of option for as long as I'm not willing to hallucinate myself some ?

Do you like being asked questions ? How about answering them ? Because I suspect the true mark of an "analytical philospher" is merely "he who enjoys answering questions more than being asked them". Now what was this, clever as it might've come accross, was it useful or useless ? "Rational" or otherwise, to quote perhaps the maximal extension of that tradition, buried in '95 before the indignity.

O look! The links are back, the signs diminishing to their zenith, who knew the one thing holding back the flood was the crystalline discipline of Trilema referentiality! Who knew without articles linking other articles by the dozen you'd be "s(t)uck" in French ?! Wait, wait... and which you is that ? [↩]The name for something from inside, what rando orcs prefer to call themselves. [↩]The name of something among they alien to it. [↩]Think about it, the acronym stands for "tele-vision". You're watching a... [whatever] VISION ? How the fuck do you watch a vision, and what the fuck sense does this make anyway ?

It was a behaviour rather than a thing since day one, it even says so right on the fucking box. You don't care about any of that and for your own reasons, sure, fine, but phenomena don't become objects through phenomenological means (the converse of this problem, whereby objects don't become phenomena, is traditionally called Zeno's paradox). [↩]

« Word by fucking word, you understand me ?

The working philosopher and the what-if philosopher »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Monday, 25 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Wayne's World

Wayne's Worldi is a well made and rather entertaining piece of 1970s nostalgia, as seen through the lens of 1990. This is an "America" that wasn't ever gonna be great again, looking upon an earlier time, back when it hadn't yet known. That's the fate of decay : to every generation, it seems as if their parents had much more drive than they do, much more optimism, much more spunk altogether. This is simply because to a child's eyes, the incomprehensible activity of adults appears in last instance motivated by some kind of metaphysical consideration. As they age and find simple answers for all the incomprehensible contortions of daily life, that hypothesis is no longer required -- though their children will in turn similarily imagine that some kind of teleology is animating Mom and stringing Dad along.

There's very much in there that's directly meaningful to me, and it'll be directly meaningful to you, if you were around back when the Gord was writing, for instance, the certain and unmistakable "metal" worldview, selfview, I can almost taste it like you can almost taste electricity in a storm. Piles upon piles of implicit reference, why do they do the "sell-out" thing in preference of any other randomness, you can see that Stratocaster even before they show it, of course there's one. These are the original geeks, by the way, this is what the term meant before Hot Topic got a hold of it -- yes he does things "with satellites" but there's no direct relation, there's no meaningful progression, "America" hadn't yet started "running on science", it was still running on something very much like spunk, so he does things with satellites like he'd do things with his boogers, "weird", that's it. No connection with the greater, more important "facts" of "life" (not that the reptilian's schmooze is any better, either). This is an America that ran on faith, basically, if you're Wayne the film's about you and if you aren't Wayne, well...

Not a bad way to waste a coupla hours in 2019, that's for damn sure. Especially if you have 16 yos around.

———1992, by the unquestionably cool and back in the 70s even hot Penelope Spheeris, with Mike Myers, Dana Carvey, Tia Carrere.

Two points of that line are worth delving upon. Firstly, Tia Carrere :

Secondly, Penelope Spheeris. In the late 70s she was shooting the Los Angeles punk scene, wholesale, bands and their fans -- but not "as a woman", nor as a groupie. Arguably her expert eye captured more of that milieu than actually was there in the first place. A decade later (metal), she was doing the Sunset Strip. By the 90s everyone was bowing to her, but she went back in the street for the "gutterpunks", which she dubbed "The Decline of Western Civilization". In a word, she's the sort that you shut up when she starts talking, and yet "they" always seem to forget her name when they do those "influential women" junklets.

Perhaps "they" really don't want influential women, what can I say. [↩]

« thelastpsychiatrist.com - An Observation About The Current Election. Adnotated.

thelastpsychiatrist.com - Another Diagnosis Of Schizophrenia, This Time With Cats. Adnotated. »

Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 22 July, Year 11 d.Tr.

Wall Street (1987)

Wall Streeti is an entirely forgettable piece of crap. The writing's substantially worse than the cringefest one'd encounter in run-of-the-mill made-for-TV Italian softcore of the period. Except, of course, naked women don't grow in America ; not to mention any sort of relationship whatsoever between the supposed subject and its cinematic treatment. I have no idea who the fuck was doing their consulting, but Kenyan street urchins'd have gotten it about as close.

The film's strictly notable for delivering the simple truth that "America is now a second-rate power", which was strictly true back then. Things haven't worked out all that well for them in the interim, either. There's also some coincidental capture of period artefacts such as a trading pit from before the Internet. Uninteresting as they may be to those of us for whom daily practice has reduced their appeal and dulled their magic while expressed beyond the tolerable all the nagging imperfections, happy as we might be to never encounter them again because we've seen enough of their dumb shit for ten lifetimes, nevertheless for the young they're fascinating. They never lived, and most of what'd constitute a human life's long gone by the time anyone asked them anything. What can you do ?

Preferably not have to show them this, it's atrociously bad. Women gifting doesn't work like this, seduction doesn't work like this, nothing fucking works like this. Charlie Sheen's father's pretty cool, I guess, and certainly an archetype ; then watching Shitglass try and deliver the speech that made De Vito famous and then fail could be entertaining, I suppose. But all in all, this piece of shit's much less worth watching than bad porn.

So go do that, instead.

———1987, by Oliver Stone, with Charlie Sheen an' his dad, Hal Holbrok and an anonymous moron -- hey, can you name a not-terrible film with Shitglass in it ?! [↩]

« Il corpo della ragassa

Get lost, dumbo! »

Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 15 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Uccellacci e uccellini

Uccellacci e uccellinii is transparently Pasolini's vehicle for the pushing upon the innocent public of some indistinct boytoy he was infatuated with at the time. Notwithstanding the meanness of the impetuus, the film enjoys the best credits I've ever seen, anywhere -- a sung takeoff on the Commedia tradition, and rather better done than the average offering in that field. There's a few otherii such kernels in the soup, but... it's still the usual minestrone de mierda.

It could be said that it's slightly better than the shit coming out of Pasolini's shithead during the subsequent decade, yes. Nevertheless, it could equally be said that if they just kept him picking cotton all his life entirely nothing'd have been lost, and a few rolls of film'd have been saved. I think this is the more important moral of this sad misadventure : denying resources to idiots, victimizing socialists, oppressing the inferior is the only moral duty of man ; a duty which one should never shrink from, lest everything around turns to shit.

Go and do likewise, gents. Go and do likewise.

———1966, by Pier Paolo Pasolini, with Toto. [↩]Take as for instance the streets being named after nobodies, reversing the traditional trend (of naming streets after somebodies) in an exercise of deliberate and demonstrative histrionism that equally deliberately and equally demonstratively pretends to ludicity, as an implausible "plausible defense". Prove he ain't!!! And what do you mean, "the simple fact that we don't remember the nobodies' names he used dispells the whole socialist-idiotarian charade all by itself" ?! What do you mean "it turns out the fucking point of naming streets after notables is memotechnic, not some kind of opression, systematic-blabla etcetera" ?! Why should it be that notables are more likely to be remembered than bums ?! Why can't it be that reality couldn't be exactly backwards from how it is ?! Huo! Boh! Ingh! It is unfair that unfairness' unfair!!! [↩]

« The Rose Tattoo

Word by fucking word, you understand me ? »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 21 February, Year 11 d.Tr.

Truth or Dare (in bed with Madonna)

This will be a complicated piece with roots deep in the very core of the world you're interested in, which is why it's Lifespiel rather than say Trilematograf, even though the title follows the conventions of that category.i It is not possible to proceed without crediting the proximate node of the process that leads us to this discussion : had Anthony Kiedis not killed Louise Ciccone, we wouldn't be here.

So then : I participated in (not one, but) two successful revolutions during my stay here so far. I guess the only fair statement of the facts would be to say I'm a professional revolutionary, because god knows I never could summon the interest in any other occupation.

The saying goes "you don't choose your family, but you do choose your friends", and it bears some relevancy : I was born in a communist Romania pregnant with its very own death. Pretty much every known tribe, no matter how uselessly primitive, nevertheless carries through the world the legend of the little boy who, coincidentally, shook his little fist at some great and incomprehensible evil that had wrought havok for generations upon the people, only for it to fall dead at his very feet. The reason for this communion is purely psychogenic, of course, children are born with scant conception of the difference between the outer world and the inner world ; but even after the first inklings of the human condition a difficulty in evaluating downstreams lingers, which is why every small child whose parent dies will forever carry through the world the vague notion that perhaps he'd done it. It is possible, right ?

Certainly, it's possible. Out of this stable failure of the human mind therefore arise standard stories of the human species -- because the defect is so reliably present therefore it drives predictable outcomes, precisely like any other broken RNG.ii I don't claim, of course, that I personally ended communism, in either some Iron Curtain place or all of them. Nor can anyone else claim this, it's a ridiculous claim by its very nature, of the exact substance of claiming to be "setting the Sun". But I was there, see ? I was right there, as it happened, I was the boy living in a world that invented horses and dogs and Red Ryders just as I said it should. I wasn't a boy introduced to a world pre-existing, I was a boy who witnessed the world -- not "his" world, THE world -- change, painfully, deeply, to better accomodate his views, leaving the adults all around in a lurch, and markedly less capable to adapt, or to compete. Reality is subjective experience, and well... that was my subjective experience, what can I tell you. I was a child adults bowed to, so coincidental was the world ending that the ruins it left behind consisted of grown men and women coming to a little boy for guidance. Total coincidence, right ? Except... with coincidences like this what ever is the meaning of work ? Ever told the hairstylist looking at your paycheck and muttering something with "luck" in it that it's skill, not fucking luck ? Well then ?

Yet you can choose your friends, and that's precisely what Madonna was in the 90s -- a perfectly stalwart ally. The confused little girl (aged well over 30) with nice tits that "wanted to push people's buttons" and "be political" was exactly the pillar needed in that corner of the grand edifice. We were doing the whole sexual revolution thing back then, we were, and it was a genuine revolution -- unlike, say, the "black liberation" lulz. A natural defense of "freedom of speech"iii and getting filthy rich went together hand in hand, but the whole construction needed a Madonna right there just like the last year's pantsuits needed an Obama. So there she was, just like Obama, made to spec but holding her own. With her in her place and other people other places and other things in dispositions, once the chips fell "as they may" indeed the world burned down. You may perhaps say that the world was just as pregnant with blowjobs, and anal sex and latex dildos and girl-girl scenes as the sad soviet dominions were pregnant with forgetting about the idiocyiv. You certainly can trace earlier roots. You may, perhaps, point to the orcs and say "o, look, so and so obscure tribe still doesn't get free sex and slutty female teenagers". You may say many and sundry things, and they'll all be nonsense nevertheless. You lack one important reagent in all this : you weren't, actually, there. I was there for both of these, and as such I can tell you with an authority extremely difficult to impeachv that they were quite different things ; not superficially different but substantially different. They tasted different, not like how chocolate tastes different from cake, but how pickles taste different from sorbet. "It's all just vegetal matter in goop", right ? Wrong.

After all that, now, I look upon Madonna, and I wonder : why did she ever think she was part of things, one of us, somebody ? Why and wherefore did she arrive at this utterly indefensible notion I couldn't begin to retrospectively guess. I look upon the confused little girl, singing "say no to harems"vi while kneeling at the feet of a boy who is neither a man nor her Master (but at least he's not gay, hey)... What the fuck was she thinking, exactly ? I look trying to ascertain the difference between Ciccone and Gaultvii and come up empty. This one got the part because better tits/nicer waistline, exactly like Obama got the job over ten thousand other black studs because taller. There's absolutely nothing inside that puts Ciccone onstage and Gault backstage. I know, at the time it looked like there was. Well -- show it to me ?!

The complete disorganised chaos of the production, sporting the least competent managerial team I ever laid eyes on running into the sorts of problems highway fast-food fry cooks and obscure brand pizza delivery boys run into... why the fuck is this woman trying to direct her team while getting her make-up on ? Why is that bald inept fuck even there in the first place, the girls were cringing in bed while watching the horror unfold because at every step their brain yelled "holy, hell NO! Do not DO THAT!! MASTER WILL BRING DOWN HIS WRATH!!!" yes it's a film, but no, slavery doesn't just switch off -- it's a proxy for competence, after all.

The truth is the truth. The dare's up to you.

———1992, by Alek Keshishian, with Madonna & crew.

It should be perhaps noted that the item's rather the jumbled remains of a crashed delivery van containing footage, than either a film (which is always a tree constructed towards a view) or a documentary (which is always the opposite -- a view deconstructed along a tree). Alek Keshishian's work is not either kind of tree, but just a flat morass, closer to what "comedians" or those schmucks filming themselves while driving and talking (an intrinsically unsafe behaviour) tend to produce (because the means of that production are cheap and accessible -- always and forever the cause of widespread stupidity (aka socialism). [↩]Remember the many bits of this lengthy discussion ? [↩]Noticed how the pantsuit luminaries ditched the traditional garb of their nominally revered fore-runners, and are now kinda ashamed of the very tools that pushed the "queer revolution" ? Freedom of speech is not nearly as good for today's generation of gentrified dorks who pretend to countercultural filiation, exactly like it was not nearly as good for yesterday's generation of gentrified dorks, who pretended to "all that's right good and proper" then as ever.

"We're queer, where' here, get used to it" happened because prostitution, and as an epiphenomenon of our sexual revolution. Not the other fucking way around -- which is to say, in very plain terms, that if the faggots fail to align themselves behind the current revolutionary process, they will forthwith meet the fate the Arabs contemplate for them.

A place for everyone and let everyone know his place, I say. [↩]While, magically, and "totally impredictably", the world's never been pregnant with white black men, which is why you can put all the trained monkeys you want in the White House, nothing sparks and nothing catches. Isn't that fucking annoying, you thought revolution will have to be fair, and in fact revolution doesn't give shit one about you or your notions. Must suck... [↩]You could, perhaps, say that I'm not intelligent enough to understand my own experience. Experience shows that it'll be a hard wash, that line. What else you got ? [↩]"Express yourself" in-universe, "don't go for second best, baby, put your love to the test, second best is never enough, you'll do much better on your own" and all that. [↩]Another girly, exactly as confused. She's the fat make-up artist that introduces herself with "I was born a poor black child" and then briefly stars when recounting her previous night party experience (of being assfucked post-mickey) and concluding she'll only go out with us guys in the future. Now prythee, explain the difference. What, it's that Madonna "loves to make people think" ? [↩]

« A little bit of that old world charm, style & grace.

thelastpsychiatrist.com - Breast Implants and Suicide. Adnotated. »

Category: Lifespiel

Thursday, 22 August, Year 11 d.Tr.

Trilema images no longer showing ?

Back in 2014, Trilema burned ~4TB.

Per month.

Then in 2015, it went rather to 5.

Terabytes.

Also per month.

Then in 2016 it reached 7, and by 2018 I was serving over eleven. Terrabytes. That's over 12`094`627`905`536 bytes, for the precisians among us. Per month.

Then the pantsuits decided to abandon all hope their citadels of ineptitude may matter in the world, and as a result I've served a terrabyte today, and almost two yesterdayi, and so following.

To be sure, it's not all composed of the slack left behind by the regressing femstate, lots of people use Trilema in all sorts of ways. Nevertheless,

gif Image 956,059 0.7 % 751.14 GB 73.8 %

Which is to say, less than one in thirteen hundred use almost three quarters of my bandwidth to, specifically,

185.69.144.30 - - [25/Jan/2019:07:11:42 -0500] "GET /wp-content/uploads/2016/10/cockworship-6.gif HTTP/1.1" 200 2095198 "https://www.google.com/" "Mozilla/5.0 (Linux; Android 6.0; MYA-L11) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko) Chrome/70.0.3538.80 Mobile Safari/537.36"

5.236.87.147 - - [25/Jan/2019:07:11:48 -0500] "GET /wp-content/uploads/2016/10/cockworship-6.gif HTTP/1.1" 200 2095198 "https://www.google.com/" "Mozilla/5.0 (Windows NT 6.1; Win64; x64) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko) Chrome/71.0.3578.98 Safari/537.36"

185.158.113.226 - - [25/Jan/2019:07:11:48 -0500] "POST /xmlrpc.php HTTP/1.0" 200 54 "-" "Mozilla/4.0 (compatible: MSIE 7.0; Windows NT 6.0)"

78.151.153.254 - - [25/Jan/2019:07:11:56 -0500] "GET /wp-content/uploads/2016/08/entirely-spurious-intromission.gif HTTP/1.1" 200 1014053 "https://www.google.com/" "Mozilla/5.0 (Linux; Android 8.0.0; SM-G930F) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko) Chrome/71.0.3578.99 Mobile Safari/537.36"

1.144.107.101 - - [25/Jan/2019:07:12:13 -0500] "GET /wp-content/uploads/2016/10/cockworship-2.gif HTTP/1.1" 304 - "https://www.google.com.au/" "Mozilla/5.0 (iPhone; CPU iPhone OS 12_1 like Mac OS X) AppleWebKit/605.1.15 (KHTML, like Gecko) Version/12.0 Mobile/15E148 Safari/604.1"

92.97.95.147 - - [25/Jan/2019:07:13:09 -0500] "GET /wp-content/uploads/2016/10/cockworship-10.gif HTTP/1.1" 200 2034953 "https://www.google.com/" "Mozilla/5.0 (iPhone; CPU iPhone OS 12_1 like Mac OS X) AppleWebKit/605.1.15 (KHTML, like Gecko) CriOS/71.0.3578.89 Mobile/15E148 Safari/605.1"

And so following, because totally, what's google for if not to repackage my fucking content into their pretense of "the world is" and "smartphones are useful" and the whole rest of the bla bla bla.

Yet, I'm not particularly inclined to sponsor idiots so they may continue doing whatever it is it occurs them to do. For which reason, and starting immediately,

Rewritecond %{REQUEST_FILENAME} (?!\.php)(\.[a-z]{3}) [NC]

RewriteCond %{HTTP_REFERER} !http://trilema\.com [NC]

RewriteRule (.*) http://trilema.com/2019/trilema-images-no-longer-showing/ [R=301,L]

Which is to say, that if your referrer's not set to this here sheet of refined taste, good morals and even better behaviours -- you don't get to see any images.

To pre-empt any possible complaint in the vein of "but MP, I don't even have the notion of this 'referer' thing, what do you want from me" : I want from you to set the environment variable so named to the string "http://trilema.com". If what you say is true, and you don't use it for anything else, then you don't care. If it isn't true, then stop trying to pass the buck, because in the simplest of terms : if your browser ain't saying "trilema" my server ain't showing you images. That's the deal, and if you don't like it...

... feel free to write out your complaint below.

PS. Yes, it would be nice if instead of being redirected here, you were redirected to the article the image was "google'd" from. Talk to google about it, aite ?

———Let's reason together : what's advertised as "megabit connection" (aka mpbs in ye olde seller parlance) barely counts as 125KB/s. There's a lot of seconds in a day, but if you count them all you only come to 86`400, which is to say less than 100k. The solution to the ratio 10244 (terrabyte) / 86400 (seconds in a day) still comes out to almost thirteen million, and million bytes not million bits. [↩]

« The Golden Fleece

Vice-Versa. By Thomas Anstey Guthrie. »

Category: Meta psihoza

Friday, 25 January, Year 11 d.Tr.

#trilema goes dark

For the record, here's its last day (as seen by me) :

**** BEGIN LOGGING AT Fri Aug 2 08:09:49 2019

Aug 02 08:09:49 * Now talking on #trilema

Aug 02 08:09:49 * Topic for #trilema is: If you don't know where you are, you shouldn't be here.

Aug 02 08:09:49 * Topic for #trilema set by mircea_popescu!~mircea@pdpc/supporter/silver/mircea-popescu at Wed Sep 5 23:57:45 2018

Aug 02 08:09:50 -ChanServ- [#trilema] To speak in #trilema you must be voiced. If you have a RSA key registered with deedbot, send !!up to it in a private message, decrypt the challenge string and return it with !!v ; else politely ask one of the voiced people to voice you.

Aug 02 08:09:50 * #trilema :http://trilema.com

Aug 02 08:10:18 * deedbot gives voice to mp_en_viaje

Aug 02 08:12:08 mp_en_viaje http://btcbase.org/log/2019-08-01#1926141

Friday, 02 August, Year 11 d.Tr.

Things you didn't know about Awstats

Awstats is the definitive Apache log "processor" (they mean -- summarizeri) in the LAMPii world, by simple lack of competitioniii. I don't know whether everyone uses it, but I do know it is powerful and flexible enough to be pretty much universally useful.

But did you know it has a config file ? Something like

/home/?user?/tmp/awstats/awstats.?tld?.conf

depending on your installation ? Ever read that thing ?

Let's read from mine together.

# Use SkipFiles to ignore access to URLs that match one of following entries.

# You can, with this option, add a list of not important frame pages (like

# menus, etc...) to exclude them from statistics.

# For example, to ignore a whole directory tree, just add "directorytoignore",

# to ignore "users" pages in your stats, you can add "/~".

# The oposite parameter of "SkipFiles" is "OnlyFiles".

# Note: This parameter is not case sensitive.

# Note: Use space between each value and do not remove default values.

# Note: xxx$ means URL ending with xxx.

# Example: "robots.txt$ favicon.ico$ badpage.html /~"

# Default: "robots.txt$ favicon.ico$"

#

SkipFiles="robots.txt$ favicon.ico$ /xmlrpc.php REGEX[\/feed]"

Yup, that works, and it takes out exactly the sorta thing you don't care to see.

There's a lot more stuff in thereiv, including some remarkably quaint stack-state-machinesv harking back to what ~everything looked like in the late 90s. Altogether, there's worse ways to spend ten minutes, especially if you're running a web interface.

———Making summaries is an important activity at any court, and a key pillar in maintaining the coupling between a lord and the world. [↩]Linux, Apache, Mysqy, Php. Remember that ?

For the noobs : back when "free & open source" needed a killer app, to enact itself past the various "experts" and assorted morons, this was it [↩]Check them out, sometimes Republic-style communication happens for the heathens, too! By sheer accident, of course, but then what can you ask for. They are heathens for a reason after all. [↩]Take say

# Put here all other possible domain names, addresses or virtual host aliases

# someone can use to access your site.

Ever needed that ? [↩]People, by which we mean commoners, the sad sort who were never educated on the topic, tend to do ridiculous things such as implementing a complicated multi-step, unintentional "overwrite X" "oh wait, maybe you didn't want it over-written, save a copy here" sorta lulz. Like so :

# AWStats can purge log after processing it. By this way, the next time you

# launch AWStats, log file will be smaller and processing time will be better.

# IMPORTANT !!!

# AWStats is able to detect new lines in log file, to process only them, so

# you can launch AWStats as soon as you want, even with this parameter to 0.

# With 0, no purge is made, so you must use a scheduled task or a web server

# that make this purge frequently.

# With 1, the purge of the log file is made each time AWStats is ran.

# This parameter doesn't work with IIS (This web server doesn't let its log

# file to be purged).

# Possible values: 1 or 0

# Default: 0

#

PurgeLogFile=0

# When PurgeLogFile is setup to 1, AWStats will clean your log file after

# processing it. You can however keep an archive file (saved in "DirData") of

# all processed log records by setting this to 1 (For example if you want to

# use another log analyzer).

# This parameter is not used if PurgeLogFile=0

# Possible values: 1 or 0

# Default: 0

#

ArchiveLogRecords=0

# Each time you run the update process, AWStats overwrite the 'historic file'

# for the month (awstatsMMYYYY[.*].txt) with the updated one.

# When write errors occurs (IO, disk full,...), this historic file can be

# corrupted and must be deleted. Because this file contains information of all

# past processed log files, you will loose old stats if removed. So you can

# ask AWStats to save last non corrupted file in a .bak file. This file is

# stored in "DirData" directory with other 'historic files'.

# Possible values: 1 or 0

# Default: 1

#

KeepBackupOfHistoricFiles=1

Confucius sez : do not abuse the stack to implement CPU emulation in it! [↩]

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Category: Meta psihoza

Thursday, 07 March, Year 11 d.Tr.

Requiem for a Dream

Boy what a wrenching punch to the gut this film is.i The mechanicist approach to montage - uppers, downers, skag, grass, coffee, coke, all the same in the end - and the skilful splicing of old Jewish female society with the dazed & desperate inner city / gangland youth delivers a message. Loudly. Distinctly. Enunciatedly. With gritted teeth.

What's the message ? Maybe that you shouldn't ever get old. That you shouldn't ever fall in love. That you shouldn't ever answer the phone, or go to Florida, or make friends or influence people. Maybe it's that you shouldn't dye your hair, or watch television, or sit in the sun. Maybe it's that you should never have been alive in the first place.

I don't know what the message is, but it's fucking scary, I'll tell you that.

Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum! Cum!

———Requiem for a Dream, 2000, by Darren Aronofsky, with Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, Jennifer Connelly. [↩]

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The many ways available for talking to MPEx »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 13 March, Year 5 d.Tr.

There's no better way to ensure the enmity of the mediocre than by exposing their mediocrity for what it is.

It came to me, the sentence in the title. I had been unwinding, methodically, phenomena and structure, history and ideology -- it's a slow, dual processi, and its debris often adheres, like slag in a furnace. Which I suppose is what this blog even is : a large collection of selected slag. You know how diamonds are made, right ?ii

Originally I was going to make it a byline, and be done with it ; but then its own adherences looked sad. Neglected lemmas, inconsequential middle steps, the very substance of all things that a certain sort of lunatic always wants to skip over. Why ?

No, let us take them in from the rain, let us give them a loving home, let them live, and be lively and happy. We have room for all fapturi & plasmuiri of the spirit here, why not. Ink is finally free, let them enjoy it while it lasts.

It is the case, you see, that the work that could be done is always infinite. This is necessary, if it were finite we'd be quite sad indeed -- cold, dry, evacuated remnants of a world once green with possibilities. Suppose, like the poet says, that there were only three things left to do. Just three. That's it, no more. Who'd get to do one ? After that one's done, there's only two left to ever do. Who ?

It is further the case that for entirely perverse reasons stemming from the fundamentally ill nature of the demiurge originating all shit and breakageiii, people got their perceptions backwards : they perceive that infinity of possible as somehow threatening, when it's patently nothing but, and they "don't perceive the alternative as anything at all", when it's doom on wheels with bows and a steam whistle. It doesn't even seem credible they do "fail to notice", like claimed, when put into the proper context, huh ?

Regardless, to assuage this self-secreted worry, they then come up with partitions : among the work that could be done, here's the work that needn't be done. It's called a scientific paradigm, and it's mostly deployed by people who aren't scientists (or anything else -- the mediocre can't ever be anything else, mediocrity is an all-consuming identity) with a view to stem the tide of scary, dirty an' "inconvenient".iv That's it, therein mediocrity is born -- upon the self-promise, readily offered, just as readily accepted, that the world's a half, or quarter or whatever fraction of itself the life of mediocrity can "soundly" proceed. She'll make someone a great wife, as long as she doesn't ever have to cum ; he'll win the war as long as he doesn't have to shoot any kids ; it's a long, intricate list, arduously maintained, held high above the waterline by the trembling hands of the drowning, these hapless fellows much too busy for any rowing -- and besides, all their hands are full.

In the end, what difference does it make ? Somehow mediocrity's not even a word anymore, have you noticed ? Think back of the last time you heard it used, when was it ? Totalitarian is supposedly a bad thing, almost "a racial slur"v, somehow... The things people don't notice are universally the things they do not want to notice ; the reason they don't want to notice some things is that they're scary. Mediocrity, born of cowardice, breeding cowardice, a whole world of half-men riding lame half-rabbits. How could such sadness ever make a difference, anyhow, anywhere ?

The fundamental problem with the enmity of mediocrity is that it has no effect.

———It's either tedious or rewarding, neither both, and not on a case by case basis. It's a dual process in the sense that it splits minds into two kinds : the kind that finds it tedious, and the kind that finds it rewarding.

It's not a question that the elements which one kind summarises and denotes as "tedious" aren't perceived by the other kind : it's that they're not so called, they don't appear worthy of a name ; contrairwise, it's not that the elements which the other kind notes as "rewarding" aren't perceived by the first kind, but, again, that they're not so called, for not appearing worthy of mention. I'll spare you the sexual metaphor. [↩]Slag off Vulcan's own forge. [↩]Also called "Yahvew" in the popular press. [↩]How could it ever be inconvenient ? The same way anything else ever becomes "inconvenient" : someone put something into the wrong place, blocking something else. [↩]That's how you say doubleplusungood saying in pantsuitlang, isn't it ? [↩]

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Do you know why they're just so damn awkward ? I only ask because I finally figured it out! »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 24 December, Year 11 d.Tr.