The War With Grandpa

The War With Grandpai manages some unmanageable things.

On one hand, it's impossible to make a film about old people, substantially because what old even means in the first place is that they don't exist in the specific manner of existence fiction absolutely requires, for being entirely derived from. All sorts and manner of items "exist", in the vegetative manner of existence that's never capable of having a film made about it, and old people's life is exactly circumscribed therein. They do have the excuse of being old, but excused or not they're still essentially lame. Therefore however whitewashed, misdirected or otherwise concealed, when it comes to the brass tacks of actual practice all films about old people without exception deploy some manner of bait and switch. They depict something that may be readily confused for an old person, but isn't ; then there's the reveal, leaving everyone wondering "hmm, where did that come from ?"

On the other hand, it's impossible to make a film with old actors. It'll be propaganda, it can't avoid going that way like making films with spoken parts for women can't avoid going that way. It'll necessarily morph into something quite like Gran Torino : the Calebs and Dashes of the world, yelling on mute at a demographic utterly disinterested in them or anything to do with themii that whatever, Biden really really won or somesuch nonsense.

The War With Grandpa manages to avoid the second problem by keeping the stakes infinitesimaliii and the first problem by the strongest of devices : the little girl called baby doll. Here it's played by a little boy, to avoid all the complicated infrastructure of playdo otherwise required ; but the principle's the same : a slave whore that's interested in the old man makes him not be an old man anymore without him having to not be an old man anymore in fact. It's enough if he's not an old man in her eyes. This being the immense benefit (to literature) of obscure devices from literary criticism being meanwhile mainlined into "society", or whatever, mass idiocy : all sorts of previously impossible fictions can now be approached by the popular press, allowing the production of such gems as The War with Grandpa through the traditional mechanisms!iv

Other than that, Uma Thurman's way shittier a Christina Applegate than Christina Applegate hereself, most of the scenes are poorly put toghether and barely thought outv and... well... Who wouldn't want to see very old Walken hanging out with very old De Niro ? God knows it's way the fuck better than that abomination with "mobsters" that memory has blessfuly long ago misplaced. This offering has no substantial merits, it's not a good film in any meaningful sense ; but it is quite the remarkable production for the student of pernicious evil in that it well illustrates just how versatile organized stupidity can actually get, just how insanely, elaborately capable of survival it ultimately is.vi

———2020, by Tim Hill, with Robert De Niro, Christopher Walken, Uma Thurman. [↩]Which makes them immensely interested in it, automatically. [↩]Really it's not even clear what exactly is in dispute, but it's self-evidently not worth thinking about, which is why the space for the film in the first place. [↩]This is no small matter, by the way. This same exact story of disputed bedding among an old white guy in Korea and a twelve year old local girl that objects to the former's presence in her mother's house until she "finds a way" or whatever, he finds his way into "her soul" (let's call it) is overwhelmingly scandalous even in scantest summary ; yet once faggots are people too and women have "careers" and whatnot suddenly it can be told about a little boy and everyone can happily "understand" nothing in particular they never thought about nor ever will, and, most importantly, not regret the portion of government scrip they returned to said government via Mosfilm Enterprises or whatever subsidiary thereof. [↩]There's about as many examples available as there's cuts in the print, but taking some randomly : there's no way in fuck a guy who spent his life building houses (and evidently owns the larger house he lives in) only to retire sometime in the 2010s can ever be in even the vaguest danger of being financially outmatched by some dweeby kid who settled down for "a career that brings in a stable income". Whatever the fuck Arty's making at the big boxes "design" co ain't enough to pay the interest on his wife's father's Tbills, and he sure as fuck ain't saving anything, so no, he's not "taking in an aging senior", forget about it. The concept of an adult taking apart a twelve year old's bed sits ill both out of (not like the kid put that together himself) and in-universe (how the hell is the kid's bed not his dad's property anyway). The "coincidental" happenstance that all schoolroom shots include a bunch of extremely well developed adolescent females sorta diffusely in the background (but elaborately decked in feminity-enhancing gear no 6th grade schoolroom ever permitted) is about as discredibly sophomoric as the impossible social situation where the aging senior in question tells the misfortunate son in law point blank and over the TV that he thinks he's a dweeb, and why exactly. Even if he did think so, and even if he did say so, the man would have definitely had the decency to do it in more appropriate circumstances, or else he built no houses for "a long time" or at all. Things just don't work this way, except in advertising, which is the proximate "career" of TV productions, which is the proximate endeavour of "cinema" in our meanwhile failed colonies ; everyone else has more than ten or thirty seconds to deal with capital issues in their life. Snakes don't ever charge people, they're not fucking dogs, they slither off ; drones don't survive being bashed against the wall, heck half the time clipping a leaf in a tree will be the end of that rotor ; neither rats nor electricity work that way, joint or several ; "emergency buttons" don't do anything, I mean absolutely anything at all, and so on ad nauseam. [↩]And also I suppose how ultimately pointless -- the freefall from the similiar offerings of the 90s (that one with Joe Pesci, or that other one with Walter Matthau) mirroring almost exactly the utter collapse in dollar value, purchase power or market offerings over the three decades since socialism burst forth through the wall. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Monday, 16 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

The Two Popes

The Two Popesi is a sad, atrocious misery of a film.ii A more inappropriate display is scarcely conceivable, imagine if you will a Ratzinger, the astute theologian who was, for most of his life, the principal intellectual force within the Catholic Church, depicted here as a dodgering moron, about as ready with words as your average retired plumber. Imagine a Ratzinger who somehow has nothing more to say, nor better way to say it than what a bunch of barristas could set to paper ; and meanwhile the actually retarded, as intellectually barren as his native Pampas misdepictediii as some sort of inspired, inspiring and altogether heroic character (with a strong, repulsive sheen of that particular ustaridanismiv caked on, to complete the polish of the turd).

Not only is it an atrocity beyond compare, it's also ineptly spoken in languages! Hopkins can't do Italian, I mean sure, he tries, he does it passibly as his profession and craft can ever possibly demand, but... it ain't anywhere close to what the educated elder gentleman's Italian sounds like, the reverberating, self aware flow of syllabic syrup... Hell, most Italians bred out of Italian mothers on the Italian peninsula don't manage and haven't managed in centuries beyond memory. Most. Yet all princes of the Church, all without exception, did so manage. You see ?

I doubt you do, but anyways, neither Hopkins nor anyone involved can do Latin, which I suppose is appropriate if painful, seeing how nobody in America can do Latin either, nor for that matter anyone on "social media" whatever latrine (though the original Ratzinger did, and made them do, and...). If crabs made a film about masturbation, there'd be a lot of clicking and pinching, and not so much rubbing in masturbation, right ? And in the same vein, all the "Argentines" speak exactly not like Argentines and very much like the Spanish of Almodovar's flea circus, all the transvestites, prostitutes, "cooks" and "nurses" in the menagerie come to life as the retarded chemist and his periodv entourage.

There's really no excuse for this porcheria having ever been made ; its presence makes me regret the days of the Junta, when all these intolerable schmucks'd have been tortured and killed for it. Bring back the Junta, I say, rather than a "reformed" church to better match a pantsuit-imaginary world just bring back the fucking junta and choke them all in their own blood. It'll be slightly more expensive, it's true, but honestly the past months of depopulated urban spaces and muzzled peons have done a lot to prove the point : if the world's extras were mass-massacred, the world would suffer no visible damage, and would gain immensely in all respects.

Kill these "people".

———2019, by Fernando Meirelles, with a very senescent Anthony Hopkins (who is, nevertheless, absolutely the only reason this trite bit of peplum makes the remarkably undemanding cut of being discussed here). [↩]If you're noticing the similarity with the previous one, it's because... well... there is a lot of it. You know, the odorous, feculent it, amply supplied by each as well as the both of them. [↩]Particularly infuriating -- the ready lifting of one man's garments to "decorate" the other. It was fucking Ratzinger who had been trying to retire for twenty years at the point of his election, to go back to his little village and "write books", or to go into the Apostolic Archive and never be heard from again ; but his pope wouldn't assent. [↩]There's a certain spirit, if not necessarily "of jacobinism" then certainly of ustardianism, yielding very particular forms on an absolutely stable skeleton. It's the guy, the "playful", humourlessly, deliberately "playful" dude, smiling his pedosmile out of place, the ideal dude animating a certain kind of behaviour and relation to the world uniting the "futurists" from the pedo "inventing"/promoting wikipedia to the pedo "inventing"/promiting ipads to that dumb bald fuck you wouldn't have ever heard about if it weren't for Trilema. They're different from the pantsuit riff-raff, or at least distinguishable ; they're a large majority of the truebeliever socialist, though mostly the disavowing, "ironic", arms-length subset. They're the "clever" but "ironic" little Davids (in their own minds) "fighting" "successfully" "the corporate Goliath" (in their own mind) through you know, little things, not wearing a tie most anally, to everyone's exasperation, so they've showed you! Ha-HA!!! They're the "transhumanist" and "endless life", they're the shaved-bald-in-a-pantsuit strand of contemporary idiocy -- and I very much wouldn't trust them near any children. Speaking of which, I find the circumstance whereby the erstwhile "santa romana chiesa" was undone by its own invention, san francisco's weapon of mass societal destruction of "oh noes, the childrens, the childrens" bla bla bla concern trolling... of course it's pretty, but this film does it very little justice. [↩]They did put a ficus tree in there, which looks very much exactly Buenos Aires, but otherwise the thing's pretty meh... the actor hired to do young chemist retard can't even tango, notwithstanding that's like half of what he's been hired to project in the first place, some local flavour. Then again I suppose it's true the Argentines don't tango either, contrary to mendacious nonsense you might've otherwise heard. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 21 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

The ties that bind, the ties that tie... generally speaking, a tie's a tie.

One can get a lot of mileage out of plain, ordinary, law-enforcin'i zipties (ten cents a grosse). For instance a coupla days ago I tied up the unicornii, or should I say I ziptied the unicorn's wrists to the balcony metalwork, had her rest her right ankle up on a table and proceeded to fuck away at the piece of meat ("straight knees!") while in-shape, coughar-y joggers did their utmost very best to not at all whatsoever notice, walking leisurely down the hill right past. The exercise was not without its fruits, because we noticed yesterday one of the girlies living nearby is now yelping and moaning just like Nicole, in a transparent if well-meaning attempt to fucking mature already.

Culture, you know ? The great mechanism of human sexuality is that females expose themselves against their own will, like dogs driven by innate copulative behavioursiii, which prompts male attention and attendant male pursuit (which they try to escape, but they're built to fail at escapingiv) ; then as they're raped in the dirt (and make no mistake about it -- human sexuality is not a mechanism for "actualizing" female delusions of intellectual identity, god help us) they moan, which drives two different, gender-dysmorphic behaviours : it attracts all the males capable of an erection to the fuck spot (because, make no mistake about it, the natural mode of human copulation is rape followed by gangrape, until nightfall) and it drives the females to immitate the moans. This is the birthplace of the female wail, that sad misbehaviourv which has been through the ages the deep, reliable basis and source of evil in the world ; and this is also what culture ever was.

Why, what did you think culture was ?

This is what culture always is, and forever was : the modulated repeating of the noises coming from that one joy. Aesthetics, you know. Aesthetics an' scholarly pursuits.

What I do, by and large, is that I give mine scissors ; or at the very least make them accessible, or they do it to each other, or something.

And... they are grateful for it.

In any case, an activity & operation not exactly without its own risks, dangers an' pitfalls.

Above : Hannah got a new hat. I quite think so. Don't you ?

Below : Mists.

This is Fred, a new mall they've built. The problem with these people is that they don't know how to name anything anymore ; it's the same misfortunate crowd doing hotels etcetera, they're stuck in this laughable rut of "park terrace avenue" bullshit. How the fuck's that an adequate name for anything ?!

Above : "Oh, man, you look so great from this angle. Everyone's favourite way to look at you, I bet."

Below : "Give me that."

Above : Hannah social distancing from a funeral procession. It was a pretty cool affair, (old) New Orleans style, with plaintive band and everything. They couldn't take their eyes off her ; but then again that's not exactly uncommon. RIP whoever it was, I'm sure you had a better time of it than most.

Below : our everyday rapes leave marks. Celebrated everyday rape marks.

Time for some desert.

And more defensive bruises, also known as the happy slut sign. These... I mean the deserts and the thumb marks, the aspirational, "upwards mobile" cafes and the lowly social position on account of gender, the rod and the butt... these go together. How's your quarantine treatin' ya these days, anyways ?

Above : A bunch of people who didn't do it, leaving the place where they didn't do the thing they didn't do. You can tell by some gaitxels they had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

Below : The thing that wasn't thereby done.

Above : pink poodle gets a car, brown dude gets nothing. Not even a shirt on his back. Because fuck him, what does he need a shirt for -- the poodle damn straight needs it car, what do you want the dawg to walk ?! Homie... it's how it goes. It's how it goes and it might serve you well to well remember : if given a choice, always pick pink. Don't choose anything with black in it, lest you find yourself in a position to discover what black in it does for it.

Below : one of the many whore stores ; this one decent enough to plainly advertise it. Pataca soon to come.

Above : folding tables. You know, for kids. One's fiery-red and the other's non-miscegenating (see above) pink ; one's with a fast car, the other's with a pretty princess (and the place where the car owner parks : his car in the garage, and his prick in the princess). Notice anything else about them ?vi

Below : lucky you, you even get to see the horn in question. Doesn't it look great on her ? And altogether...

PS. Yes, there's mattresses, transparently for-fucking-on-cam mattresses behind the shoe display. Because...

What can I tell you, we're out shopping.

Ain't a quarantine a wonderful thing ?

Dude getting us the thing I asked for. It was in their street-facing window, evidently pushed into a corner by slow geological processes like the sort that build mountains over time : slowly, unyieldingly, "too scary". Until one day, when I walk into the store and ask for it -- takes four or five passes, too, because by now they're so accustomed to seeing it, they don't even realise it's there anymore.

Yup, the happy slutboots, nothing but straps and nine inch heels were successfully rescued. Hurray for the things that matter in this world!

Above : pizza, at that famous place.

Below : Desemputol, lo que des-em-puta. Puta being not just whore, but also FUBARvii, em being en, like enamoured, and des being des, like in destructuring. So the (FDA-most-emphatically-unapproved) dietary supplement depicted above deheadfucks the taker.

Try some.

I did say we went shopping, didn't I ?

It was one of those trips, when half the (very pleasant, efficient, and beyond polite) staff present at the store ends up working our carts, stacking, destacking, packing, arranging and putting away, elbow to elbow with my two slaves I have with me precisely for the purpose : so I can buy groceries by the metric fuckton without having to as much as lift a finger. I just sit on one of the cashiers' stools while they fuck with it all.

Life.

And finally, the next day's breafast, necessary result of all that hard work entertaining ourselves. Salmon and eggs, what can you do.

Salut!

———Yeah, that's right : the lulzcows of that once-upon-a-time richest-country-in-the-world meanwhile became so poor, handcuffs are going out of style. Their forefathers could somehow manage, back when the metal perforce included in one cost more than the average woman's life ; but these days... owing perhaps to simple and direct, idiocracy-powered universal disablement, whereby metal strong enough to restrain human wrists can no longer be fabricated at any "price"...

But hey, at least they don't ask you to supply your own. I hear Hollywood is meanwhile asking the "stars" to bring their own wardrobes (they had been asking the "stars" to bring their own finance since at least the oil shock days). [↩]We were out shopping ; there's this Lebanese-owned lingerie store on a street corner. The owner was loitering on the threshold, like Eastern merchants used to do when they had despaired of custom ; as I went by I pointed at something prominently displayed -- do you realise, by the way, one of the many ways my sluts are distinct from your princesses is that my sluts mostly wear the centerpieces off display windows ? Is this how your mousy mouse behaves shopping, top shelf, front and center, stark naked in the store, "bring me that thing in the window" "which one" "the one in the middle" ? No ?

Well... didn't think so. But anyways : Nicole was wearing a purple unicorn horn attachment I had just bought for her on a whim (also known in the biz as "went with her dress") ; but I pointed at one of the items intended to advertise the store to passerbys, a lacework all-nude apron ("can I wear it cooking ?" "of course" "yay!") "do you have this for her" pointing at Hannah. He assured me, and, trying to be quick, and clever, like he remembers from his distant homelands, retorted, "and for the unicorn ?". Because, you see, he's so ready on his feet, and hip to that whole scene, poor fifty year old who's never... but let's not digress no mo', after all the girls prefer it unlubed, or at least not very lubed. So it tears and rubs and hurts, you see. "And for the unicorn ?" he asked, and "Oh, for her that one", I retorted, a full body thing, with toes and neckline and an adequate cunt-and-asshole opening, opposite, on the manequin on the other side of the outside of the entrance to the store. That's as far as his batyscaph had in it, so he ran off for air, leaving me in possession of the field, all the field's sluts, and whatever women he had collected in that store over the years, no doubt on the dubious strength of the vague if implicit promise of jus' this sort of magic occuring where there's lingerie on display like that.

And well... [↩]Have you seen a virgin dog interact with a bitch in heat ? That hysterical panic-y expression it gets once they knot and it doesn't understand what the fuck is all this, what is going on and why can't he leave ? His body took over at some point, like cats' limbs sometimes move without them, to their manifestly expressed surprise, his body took over and it was ok for a bit, but by now this is getting old, what the fuck's going on here! [↩]I thought I had recounted the genre-aware hen joke ; but I searched and not found it anywhere. I guess we shall retell : a hen, aware of the genre, spots the rooster heading decidedly her way, and breaks into a sprint. The rooster picks up speed as well, and the hen thinks it through... "If I outrun him, he'll say I'm dumb. If I stop, he'll say I'm a whore. Best if I trip..."

Which is exactly what it is, the "event", the alleged, the supposed event. The excuse, readily found and readily accepted, to do what... what exactly ? What they were going to be doing anyway, right ? [↩]Do you now understand the difference between culture and civilisation ? Yes, that's right : civilisation is that which happens at the business end of a pike ; like when the Spanish civilised the native cultures of Central and South America. Civilisation is getting the females to shut their wailtrap for long enough for anything good or useful to be made in this world. [↩]Yes, I'm aware the girl one also comes with a price tag -- and it's a very reasonable price, at that.

But leaving that aside, also : one's shorter. Which one ? [↩]More generally, the common state of constructed brokedness. Russian works the same exact way, too, there's not much less you can be than cunt-ed, cunt-ified, whatever. [↩]

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Category: Lifespiel

Friday, 29 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

The thumbs up and other dents in the substrate of perception

The desolate building of the Ministerio de Salud, whence the ruin and destruction comes into (this) country. Other countries have different (same) ones.

Somewhat unrelatedly, I've meanwhile destroyed (through application of kinetic force and generally speaking physical violence at that!) the machine formerly known as gamingwhore. It no longer boots, it's done for this world, the sad clicking of what once were hard-drives are its only accompaniament now ; with it go the piece of steaming shit formerly known as steami, the various pieces of shit formerly known as "web browsers", as fucking if anything besides lynx can meaningfully exist in that space, and a pile of dangling dependencies, incidental & accidental complexity and assorted this-dumbest-generation-of-morons byproducts and feculence the likes of which one's never seen (unless, of course, one tries to use what's by now left of "computers" -- something "one" in the sense of your most humble author is ever less inclined to attempt).

That above would be a hotel. No kidding, Hotel Boulevar(d)ii, 2248-2283. Would you like to let out a yelp ?

The below is a pole someone had a serious fucking problem with.

Fuck that pole. Seriously.

The above (and below) is... also a hotel. Hotel Central Santiago Trejos 8742-7086, no fucking kidding. Would you like to...

Umm...

Well... would you ?

I (needless to say) very much... wouldn't. For I, needless to say, I'm very much busy elsewhere.

Hermit crabs are consummatedly fucking cute, wouldn't you say. They crumple into their borrowed shell at the slightest sign of disturbance, a movement, even of a shadow, anything. Then after a heartbeat or three they uncrumple, they emerge, they come out by degrees -- first, this spoke of hair, then if nothing's the matter with the air the eyes, then by degrees the feet and everything's ready to go again, crumple-crumple over the sand.

The other crabs though, the ones that dig holes into the sand by the tedious yet eagerly engaged process of dragging out spitball after spitball after everloving spitball... they're really not much worse. A lot more skittish, not so easy to interact with ; but they're their very own brand of cute nevertheless.

A very workable arrangement : top floor, for me, to baws. Ground floor, for the girls, including a swing, and other things. I can look down at them, through the cracks in the floor ; they can look up at me, while I kick sand in their eyes, it's truly... well, it's very adequate an erection, what can I say.

Actually, I could say I've managed to dent the camera lens shield yet again and once more (as you can no doubt observe in the upper left corner). I've no fucking idea what to do about this, it's a problem I've never had before and now I'm having with infuriating regularity -- this new thing I'm going to be ditching now is not even a whole year old I don't think, it's... I sorely suspect contemporarysimptard involvement with the production process, having a handheld that's this vulnerable utterly reminds me of ubuntox, firefu, steaming shit an' shitting steam, the whole charade & menagerie of useless crap these useless "epidemiologists" keep drowning the world in. "High performance" uselessness and in general piled-up water balloons by idiots who've never been punched (but should be very much punched, continously, immediately an' to death).

Beach coconuts, easily the very best coconut water to be had in this country. They're about the size of small child, with that tail reminescent of an iguana and... well, they're delicious, what can I tell you.

Actually... I could tell you what the thumbs up is all about. Guess I might as well, huh : so in the car, on the way over from the beach, you say to your girls "we get home, we take a nice warm shower, then we lay down in my bed for some cock worship, and then you can all have a nap". Because they're fucking exhausted, the poor darlings, because they have to drive, and to cater, and valet (what, you think I put my own shoes on ?!) and it all starts at 4:30 am (yes, that's right, 430 hours!) because it takes about an hour 15 to get to the beach (the way they drive -- it takes everyone else two to three) and well... you do want to see the sun rise on the beach, don't you ?

Actually, fuck you -- I do, and that rules all ; but lest we get distracted : as you're all piled into the one humongobed you say "how about you sit yourselves on my thumbs" as you extend your palms on either side. Then they do, and then you play with their insides as they kiss and fondle your manhood, maybe even have them masturbate... it's a showiii ; and, in being very confusing for the brain, because there's multiple reported insides to go along with penile stimulation and wtf, it's rather orgasmic. Because the brain's the principal sexual organ in sapiens, as you well know (for having read it somewhere, lots of places), and there's relatively little confusion (by which I mean distinction) between the small and the (somewhat) larger death : chaos.

Laters.

———No words can do justice to that shocking atrocity. Leaving aside how it doesn't live up to the technological promises it somehow wordlessly makes, and gets accepted, I don't know why or how, it's somehow also managed to turn playing video games, a pleasurable activity I remember since childhood, into the going through lists of failed cvasi-offerings that absolutely aren't -- not it, nor anything like it. Spreadsheets "in space", the only remaining activity possible in pantsuit-infected worlds, god fucking help me if I've got either the time, patience or can somehow summon the interest to fuck all these "liberated" whales, what the fuck.

There is not a single game available on steam currently, nor ever has there the fuck been such a thing. The only "product" the damned thing provides is an endless lists of things that sound like they might be games. Exactly like google can produce, "for your benefit". If you're the sort of useless dork that can be persuaded to go through lists of "alternatives" instead of living... hey, guess what ? The shitworld's then for you!

It's not for me, however. I've absolutely nothing to do with it, when I need to see a doctor I go see a doctor (as opposed to spending however many hours going through lists of doctors I could go to). And when I get horny I fuck (as opposed to going through instagram, snatchchat, onlysimps or whatever the fuck "alternatives" and "options" "you have" out there). And I actually travel as opposed to hurr, and so the fuck on. [↩]They don't seem to have managed to reconcile the chains of possibility. Maybe it's with a d, maybe it's without a d, who are you to ask anyway, Stephen with a ph. [↩]Though, apparently, one can actually do very little without their thumbs. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 31 August, Year 12 d.Tr.

The sulphur dioxide (SO2) cloud above Wuhan

The media circus of the day revolves around the femstate's "weather satellites" (don't you know) having noticed SO2 over Wuhan in concentrations of like... 1400 ug/m3. Which, you know, ~technically~ could be the result of burning corpses. Like you know, AT AUSCHWITZ!!!i

The idea being that because so many people died from the latest "bird flu" nonsenseii there's a major cloud of sulphur dioxide resulting from all the burned corpses. What a story, huh! And the authorities are lying about it!!! Not to mention withholding from "we the people" of retarddit "the truth" (as they conceive it). Hey people of China, don't you want some derps in charge instead ? They still have them on ice at Blue State Storage ever since Erdogan kicked them out, it'd be no trouble at all!

If you're like me, namely not born yesterday, you might be aware that Wuhan was never within western world tolerances for pollutants this millenium. Never. Nor in fact since the mid 80s/early 90s, and this includes everything, not just sulphur dioxide. These are the people building coal power plants by the hundred A DAY, after all -- because this is how you industrialize.

But for all the spring chickens bereft of any history in this world or any sort of clue, for all the dumbphone cluckers ready to swallow anything with zero checks of any kind, let's do a little math shall we ? You do remember this math thing, right ? It's science!

To begin with : since the molar mass of N2 (the principal constituent of air) is 14 while the molar mass of SO2 is 64, it then follows that concentrations given in grams will be larger than concentrations given in mols by a factor of about four -- just in case you were wondering why they use kg/m3 as the reporting unit, that is.

Moving on : air density being, taken roughly, 1.2 kg/m3, it then follows that there's a little under 100 mols per cubic metre... Wait a second! At this juncture we recall that apparently we thought there's 22.4 liters per mol of gas at standard temperature and pressure back in school, so these numbers really don't check out -- air density should be about half the given value on the basis of the gas mass involved.

Then we recall that natural air also has suspensions in it, such as chiefly water, which is why the AC unit spends most of its energy not on conditioning the air, but on condensing the water. Hurray for checks, huh!

So taking the logical tack here : half the mass of that cloud is actual air, the other half suspensions, part of which suspensions SO2. What's 1400 micro grams of SO2 / m3 actually mean then ? Well, something along the lines of, "Of the 6`000`000`000 slots for suspensions available in a cubic meter of air, sulphur dioxide takes up a normalizediii average of 350", also known as 58 ppb (though, admittedly, suddenly not quite so apocalyptic-sounding anymore).

But let's get back to the amusing implication behind the apocalyptosis. So, admitting that the cloud is only one meter thick, like a single sheet of cloud specifically engineered around the resolution capabilities of military satellites "weather baloons" in these matters, and knowing Wuhan is about 1`600 km2 (something you can eye-verify by looking at the scale of that map they keep throwing around), it then follows we're talking of no less than 1.6 * 109 cubic meters. Times 1.4 * 10-6 the grand total comes to roughly two tons, two tons and a quarter, something like that (of sulphur dioxide involved in the airborne proceedings).

Oxygen is 16, thus therefore it makes up half the mass. Sulphur is the rest. These muppets are saying there's a ton of sulphur that ended up in the air (admitting, of course, that all airborne SO2 around Wuhan comes from burning coronavirus'd corpses, rather than, say, ancient dinosaur farts fossilized, and that the cloud's the shape of a thousand-square-kilometer dinner plate, which doesn't ever fucking happen, not even above LA) from burning bodies.

Do you have any idea how much sulphur there is in the average Jew ? We have pretty decent data from Auschwitz, fortunately for science! 200 or so ppm. That's it. In a million people, there's just about enough sulphur to have it centrifuged such that two hundred of them are pure sulphur -- which is convenient, because a coupla hundred people of the yellow persuasion just about make up a ton!

The population of Wuhan is like 11 million, at which juncture.... get the fuck over yourselves, they don't have enough corpses to make that cloud out of them no matter what the fuck they did.

Idiots.

———Or as they say, "it's science". [↩]Hey, remember when the world was going to end because of acid rain ? No ? You're too young. How about the zone in the ohone layer ? Neither ? Aww.

How about that time Romania slaughtered all its chickens, because they're fucked in the fucking head (while Hungary refused to do so, and told European "regulators" exactly where to stick it), which did nothing besides Romania being stuck for a year or two importing Hungarian chicken meat for internal consumption at a 120% to 150% premium, because stupidity makes life hard ? [↩]Normalized in the sense of adjusting for molar mass. Takes four waters to weigh the same as one SO2. [↩]

« Quit quaffing dem queefs, queenie...

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Category: China care este

Monday, 10 February, Year 12 d.Tr.

The story of Kitty and her kitten

"Hey!"

The man's voice resounds, imperative. The girl looks up from the same place in her paperback, the same half sentence she had been reading and re-reading for the past seven minutes, over and over again, always interrupted, never conclusive. She couldn't yet be sixteen. Everything about her is lithe. She's slender. Her hips are narrow. Her ankles thin, her eyebrows linear, her eyes slits, her chin a point, her...

"Are you saying to me ?" she retorts, words from one language filling the structure of another.

"Yes I'm talking to you. What's your name ?"

"My name is Paula." she says, accentuating each syllable, drawing them out. "Pa-u-la."

Why is she telling this weirdo her name ? "I live here", she continues, undeterred. Something inside her, driven, undeterrable.

"What, in the park ?!" his inquisitive unconvincing, disdainful. Why is he so hostile ? She's just reading a book. Or trying to, at any rate.

She attempts yet again, for the nineteenth time. It's a sentence describing the predicament of the heroine -- technically, the superheroine -- but it rather fails to process. Something to do with setting the scene for yet another installment of essentially the same story. Something very vaguely sexual but insistently suggestive, something like cheap immitation tropical orchid perfume. Vanilla, consummatedly, the basic fare of awakening consciousness on her side of the great divide. Why does she read it, then ? Perhaps because she doesn't know all that. But she intuits it...

"No, not in the park" she enunciates. "In the neighbourhood." She resists the urge to point, "Right there, look. You can see the windows." She looks back to the page, little bugs and ink-drawn ants dancing and prancing meaninglessly before her eyes. She's home alone. The only thing she can think of is that she's home alone. Her parents are away for the occasion of the PTA at the neighbourhood school, which is right there, eighty or so steres away towards the big pine tree and further out. She represses the temptation to point. "Over there!" That's where her mom is, talking to Mrs. Plupken the Math teacher, perhaps. Discussing her grades, discussing her older sister's grades, discussing her younger brothers' grades... They all live, six people, in a four room apartment eight hundred ninety six feet square (including the two tiny balconies, too small really to read comfortably -- but no matter, there's a park right outside the window, look, right there!) where nobody's currently home. Should she make something of it ? She bunks with her sister, because girls of her age should get their space, but her sister's not there. She could pretend she's got the top bunk, even. Who would ever know ?

It's not really what heroines do, is it. Somehow none of the teeny vamps, youthful gunslingers and pubescent galactic somethings-or-the-others ever consider, let alone act on this impulse to simply tell the hostile strange man their name. Just blurt it out. Say "I'm home alone" out of the blue, like that, and point, "look, there", take them by the hand and... It's quite a strange thing, it occurs to Paula. It's quite a strange thing indeed she can't read about the adventures anymore just as the adventures and adventure took such a sharp disjunction. Why is this happening to her ?

But she doesn't quite have the time to consider that conundrum, because the voice is right there, cutting like a blade, cutting right into her somehow.

"Alright kitty. That works just fine, because I wanted to show my slavegirls a local girl."

"I'm sorry ?"

"I grew up around here, see."

"Oh."

"Now be a good girl and show them your kitty."

"I... what ?!"

"Unbuckle your jeans, lift them over your ass to your knees, and let them see between your legs."

Her heart's racing, her lips quivering. She doesn't utter a sound, her chest heaving with imperceptible electricity. Her eyes dart from the sneakers standing by themselves a little ways off to the tips of the ankle socks on her feet. She came here to read, earlier. Laid out her little blanket, took off her shoes, opened a book...

Slowly her hands trace the command through the air. She undoes the metal button, she unclasps the metal teeth, one by one faster and faster they go, apart. Which side is the story and which side is the chaos ? She starts, with the familiarity of the gesture, irrespective of the absurdity of the context. Thumbs under the hems of cotton panties, like she's done it thousands and thousands of times before. You don't shower dressed, do you ? No, what you do is undo the metal button, undo the metal zipper, grab your pants' waist and the hem of the panties and push the whole thing off. One sweep, one quick motion, certainly at the age. Who's got time to waste, who's got spare motions when highschool's just about to start, once summer ends, once time ends, once life itself...

She hesitates for a moment. Something inside her, a little voice screaming for its life, "it'll take everything, it'll be all gone, you'll be..." She looks at him, and there it goes, she clasps the bunched up denim fiercely with her knees, the skin turning bloodless. She hears the women laughing. She can't see them, for some reason, but they're laughing. They're laughing at her, it's unbearable. She can feel the blood rushing to her temples, she can feel her cheeks radiating molten lava, her neck, her chest, everything. Strangely, she can feel her pulse in the now exposed, central bit of flesh. Her kitty, as he said. What a strange thing to say.

"Spread it open."

She looks at him, awestruck, dumbfounded, incomprehending.

"Reach around with your hands and pull your kitty open."

Her hands do as the words bid them do, slithering snakes of... of... of something, on either side of her. She touches the lips daintily with her fingers and pulls.

"All the way."

She pulls and pulls, her nails digging into her flesh by degrees. She can feel the burn of overstretched tenderness, and that feeling is deeply satisfying. Her maidenhead, taut as the skin on a drum, distinctly pounding thrice each two seconds the perpetual tune of life. She can't think, her pounding heart pounding blood into her pounded brain, leaving no space, no crevice. She doesn't remember her name. She doesn't remember...

"Now lift your blouse and show us your tits."

"What... what tits ?" she retorts, coldly, mercilessly. She has no tits, they're not even worth a bra. She pinches the nipples, sometimes, hatefully. They don't deserve any consideration. They've betrayed her. Why should they have betrayed her ?

"Yes, that's kinda the point. Show us where your tits formally should be."

Her hand moves and lifts her tshirt to her chin, indignantly. Look, would you just look! What is this, it's not nice, it's not fair, why didn't they come to her ? She waited, and...

The women jeer, and she jeers with them in her mind. The sheer cruelty of the whole thing wells up tears in her throat, to the corners of her eyes. She's with them, it's laughable, complete and utter BULLSHIT.

She can't see them, but she can hear them, laughing at her. Women. They're there, she can feel them, and their tits are breasts, bosoms, qualified, quality meat, luscious, round, perfect. Especially the one on the left, quite incredible. How can her succulent ripe excellent wonderful... how, how can hers be so great, and why! Is this fair ? Can it ever be fair ?

It can never be fair again.

Paula lowers her head a tone, tiny hot tears rolling off her chin and onto her exposed belly, burning the taut white. They're so much better than hers... they're so much better than her, really. She's nothing. She's less than nothing, she's just garbage, filth, a grease spot. She lifts her tshirt over her head and flings it away in one quick motion. She doesn't deserve a tshirt. She's not good, she's not worth one. She's not worth anything.

"Eager, are you ?" he inquires, bemused.

"Yes", she blurts out, exhaling. Then her breathing stops, fully, roundly, searching. "Sir", she inhales.

"Alright, crawl over here and suckle their toes."

She's instantly on all fours, and she crawls, hurriedly, with all the impetuus of a copious if invisible tsunami driving her from behind. She's lost childhood's jeans on the first lunge, but it didn't register. The crumpled up miner's garb, blue weave with a little vanilla white strung through showing here and there lay in the grass, where they fell, motionless. Just as Paula's about to pounce on the closest sandaled foot the voice stops her.

"Ask permission first."

She looks up, but she still can't see anything. There's something there, everything's there, really, she just can't see it for some reason. "May I... may I suck your toes ? Ma'am ? May... may I"

"Check out the little whore."

"Something else."

"Are you a little whore ?"

"I'm trying. Ma'am. I'm trying my best as I can." her tears, returned with a vengeance, lubricating womanly feet.

"Say the words, bitch."

"I'm trying to be a whore ma'am. Whatever you say. I'm trying my best. I'm... I'm... a whore is... I'm a whore ?"

"Not quite yet."

"But you will be."

"Oh yeah, she totally will be."

"Is it... is it bad to be a whore ?"

"No."

"Is it... is it hard ?"

"Yes."

"Are you... is it..."

"Yes."

As she's looking up she's beginning to distinguish an outline. It's smiling, a smiling line, separating two... two halves of a... that's their... between the legs. The women notice her gaze and expose themselves, naturally, lifting their skirts and turning slightly, adequately. She can see them now, blurry but ever clearer, their legs, their hips, their hands, they're there. She thinks of how right it is, how correct, how good to be seen like this. Like they are, like she's seeing them. That's what she wants, to be exposed like that. Just like them, bare, ready, undeterred, undeterrable. She kisses the big toe under her nose in a swell of thankfullness. She's never been this thankful her whole life, she heard the adults go on and on about it, always in the presumptive, "should be thankful". She didn't even realise it's something you can actually be, before. She had formed a vague if unspoken impression it's just something that you must forever regret not being. Apparently not. Apparently thankfulness is a thing to be, like hunger. Very, very much like hunger.

She devoured their feet for an insufficient eternity, but the voice eventually came, floating with the sunset.

"Pick up your clothes and fold them neatly. And on top, leave a note. Say Mom and Dad, new line, I have left to be a whore. Love, Paula."

She began to fold her jeans, her ex-jeans, but then stopped, and unfurled her panties, her ex-panties, from within their creases. They really should be exposed. They... everyone... She folded the pants neatly, then went to retrieve the flung tshirt, every step naturally separating her exposed kitty in the most distracting way. Panties in one hand and tshirt in the other she returned, deliberately, thinking of herself. She's making such a spectacle. Like a real whore. Like a super-whore really, she had fugitively seen some local attempts at that reputedly oldest profession but it wasn't anything like this. She held her underwear in her hand, dangling it to and fro like an amulet, like the apotropaion of cunt, feeling her pulse beat so intimately, so demandingly, right between her legs. Every step of the way. She sunk to her knees next to her neatly folded jeans, but then sprang back to her feet again. She turned her back on them and bent all the way down, knees straight as if her life depended on it. Let them see. Let them see clearly. Let everyone see, the park was mostly deserted at that time of day but who knows, maybe everyone's there, behind her, with them. Maybe the whole world's right there, watching. Let them watch. Let them see, clearly as the fading day : Paula from the 2nd floor, Paula from School #10, Paula from her mother's and her father's apartment on that very street over there, Paula the whore.

On top of the folded pile she folded open the book she had no interest in finishing anymore. On the last page, a finger under where it said "The End" in thick font, she wrote thicker still her goodbye, as indicated. She thought of her mother, or rather, the thought of her mother attempted to form itself. It could afford no further purchase than the erstwhile bugs and ink ants, swirling undecisively, meaninglessly, before distracted eyes. Who knew nobody really cares about her mother.

She followed them to the parked car, stark naked in last light's glory, stepping daintily on the assorted gravel offerings once they left the grassy confines of the small neighbourhood park. Undeterred, obedient, unthinking. What was there to think about ? Eventually something arose, and she blankly inquired therewith :

"Will I be able to ever return ?"

"Sure."

"Will you... will you take my sister ?"

"Maybe."

And with that, the car took off, leaving the questions behind, to linger. Will she ever return ? Will he take her sister ?

Who knows these things...

« The FUD, the king of the hill and... so on

A story of candy, but with an eye rather than a why. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 19 June, Year 12 d.Tr.

The Seven Laws

During the 40s (1640s) one John Selden supposedly (apud Milton) constructed something towards a theory of international law on the basis of something he calls "the seven laws of Noah". I've no idea where the hell he got that crap ; but upon perusal it's self-obviously unrelated to the actual seven laws. Here they are :

Do not mistake man for offspring.

Do not suffer the seekers of long life to live.

Do not allow a victim innocence.

Do not speak over your Master's words.

Do not wallow content.

Do not aid the needy [but only the worthy].

Do not believe by count.

I'll entertain questionsi from the publicii, at least for a while.

———There are also some inescapable difficulties of translation from The Word to this sad doggerel, so it's possible though unlikely some rephrasing might be necessary. [↩]Importantly : there is no rule against the taking of life ; nor against fucking ; nor does anyone give a shit what you whoreship. [↩]

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Friday, 18 December, Year 12 d.Tr.

The problem with James...

... rather greater than his hypocritical disconstancyi, is actually contained in the sendoff of his dubiousii gift to ill-fated posterity :

Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera (credo equidem), uiuos ducent de marmore uultus, orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent: tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos.

This bit of rampant -- but for its rampancy no less offensive -- knavery is simply put a proposal that "steal ye from the mighty (for they're the ones who have things to steal in the first place) ; and give ye to the lowly (for they're the ones most liable to suck your cock for it)". The paranthetical explanations elided, of course, because what'd be a frank knave in this world ?! Not a lowly pleb, that's for damn sure!

Such course as there advised might even "work", in whatever carefully curated context ; on whatever painstakingly maintained short term indeed this inane "populism" might even deliver some semblance of profit, however brieflyiii. Yet it is unmistakably wrong, which in the end is what actually matters.

It is wrong thoroughly, in every which way and to any analytical approach available. It follows purported purpose rather than actual causeiv, it's self-seeking in the superlativev, it's simply put the cornerstone of evil in the world.

The downtrodden are downtrodden for a reason. Step on their faces.

———The man who harps endlessly and falsely at the outskirts of sexual behaviour was in daily lived reality not even man enough to make a decent faggot.

I don't know to best convey this tediously palludic, Proustian cvasi-sexuality other than snailfuck, frogfuck or other such slimefuck. Perpetually ambiguously "nobody could be sure" whether Villiers' dog references actually meant anything substantial or just Madeleine-bullshit, whether they're kissing because what the hell... it's just not a way to fucking live, at least not for mammals, not under the sun, not outside caves and sewage pipes.

PS.

God bless you, my sweet child and wife, and grant that ye may ever be a comfort to your dear dad and husband.

[↩]Pretense to "religion" hurr durr is not obviously any less inappropriate than the ludicrous pretense to "sovereignity" assorted tabletop larping dorks keep sprouting mechanically. Yes, perhaps the fellow was just retarded and what he meant really was "sit ye down and think for a minute". Then again, "I am king because god said so" is precisely the sort of petulant half-assery that gets fat preteens bullied and "early modern" kings executed. [↩]After which fleeting moment, of course, the usual tard blinders can come on, and "nobody can... have predicted", retroactively & anachronistically like that. Nobody CAN now, HAVE predicted, in the past, nobody can now have predicted in the past, what's the problem ?

to take but one simple example: suppose you thought of the new millennium when you wrote your application back in 1972 -- not only wouldn't you be invited to the party, those who knew you had done it right from the start and who probably laughed at you at the time would positively hate you now, and they sure as hell wouldn't tell people about you. and the more stupid they are, the more important it would be to pretend that nobody was smart enough to see the next millennium coming.

Incidentally -- if alf weren't so fucking retarded such that his blog is still broken today, I'd have linked his article -- first by very far on any search on the topic (as downstream on the temporary, and crumbling, benefits of Trilema illumination) -- in lieu of quoting the snippet. But alf is this fucking retarded, his blog is still broken, and in general the world's what it is rather than what it could actually be, with the least of effort and cost (but a lot of yielding its miserable inferiority to the plainly superior). [↩]When the king beheads the noble because that noble wore the wrong kind of hat, you're dealing with one kind of situation. When the king beheads the noble because he thinks beheading that noble will get him money, you're dealing with another kind of situation. I can be friends with the former, and forever have been ; but I have absolutely no interest in the latter, nor could I. Because there's no way to have anything to do with the latter, they're not human in any sense -- the thorough establishing of which point is actually Kant's chief claim to fame. [↩]Go ahead, draw the distinction. How is it different ? [↩]

« Intinarea

MiniGame (S.MG) Statement on Q4 2019 »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Tuesday, 04 February, Year 12 d.Tr.

bbw-2

« The problem with Bostrom's trilemma

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 11 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

bbw-1

« The problem with Bostrom's trilemma

Category: Zsilnic

Wednesday, 11 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

The problem with Bostrom's trilemma

The item goes substantially in the following vein :

The proportion of human-level civilizations that reach a posthuman stage is practically zero, or else

The proportion of posthuman civilizations that are interested in running simulations of their evolutionary history, or variations thereof, is practically zero, or else

The proportion of all entities sharing our kind of experiences that exist as part of a simulation is very close to one.

Most humans, to borrow the term, reading this earworm tend to form the impression that it is an interesting statement of the world around them, and for that reason important or at least noteworthy. This isn't, in itself, a problem with the material (though it is very much a problem with the respective "humans").

The problem with the statement is that it is incorrectly reductive, which is to say it throws out most of the bathwater including any babies, while preserving for our enlightened inspection a quantity of slightly soiled liquid approximately commensurate in weight and shape with what might have at some point been some babies.i

However objectively advanced present-day "humans"ii are (and indeed they are), they're nevertheless not meaningfully advanced in any sort of human-relevant terms. There is a humongous space of unyielding complexity between "objective", in the sense of mere ontology, and "biological", let's say, in the sense of living things (even stretching the concept to include such strange wasps as the grounded-ovopositor jet fighter). There's also a humongous space between that milestone and "humanity" however loosely (or not so loosely) conceived, even should it also include the middle class, black people, poor people, monkeys, house cats and the toxoplasmosis byproductsiii that breed and spread them etcetera. The problem of these two humongousnesses is that they're not at all the same kind, nor even close to anything like commensurate in size.iv

Consider the simple matter of simulations as run today, however advanced or unadvanced that would be. Unless you're willing to mistake an ant farm ( such as could indeed be found in any uppityv middle class boy's debris midden) for a simulationvi, the closest thing occurring today's taking place in Monsanto's torture rooms, and it proceeds in such a way as no plants themselves would ever be in even the most remote danger of confusing it for the genuine article (admitting plants were advanced enough to make such determinations).

Plants, to the standard of complex, multicellular photosynthesizing organisms existed on land 850 million years ago or thereabouts ; ants may well be as old as 150 million yearsvii. Something passiblyviii like humans would be about five million years old (and life itself four billion or thereabouts). To put it in the simplest of terms, if it takes five million years to produce something that can unconvincingly simulate plants but not ants, if the degree of magnitude more or less separating the two is that relevantix, then what of the other... six ? We have no solid grounds to expect this matter scales liniarily, and even with the most modest of exponents, six squared takes us squarely outside of the projected lifespan of this present universe (currently aged about 14 billion years as it is). We're not talking of anything like main star sequence or other localised impediments -- the problem is simply that even a very cursory estimate of the complexity involved in simulating present-day humans runs so far outside of bounds for the ultimately very limited possibilities of existence, that the whole nonsense's not worth discussing straight!

The difference between "humans" and "posthumans" is not commensurate with the difference between something like "modernism" and "post-modernism". It's not the case that "oh, one comes after the other", it's not like next election cycle there's gonna be "posthumans" walking around. The "posthumans" Bostrom posits aren't "more advanced" in any meaningful sense -- the difference is greater than any other difference, and therefore plainly not capable of being illustrated! There is, literally, no object in common usage however rare or remote that's of the same class as this immensity!

Once one grasps that what's here being proposed is precisely a discussion of how either all humans are shorter than fifty eight quadrillion light yearsx, or else all humans are in danger of snapping in half under black hole gravity or becoming knotted in their own endless noodly arms or else all humans are made of some substance not before known, it's relatively easy to understand that an intuitive impression as to human resistance to spontaneous snapping, however acquired, is nevertheless a very poor argument for the existence of magic substances.

In simple terms, there are exactly no simulated equivalents of today's humans because (excluding most subhumans such as the esteemed readership, that Bostrom idiot and pretty much everyone else) the requirements involved in simulating them would exceed all possible limits : there's not enough atoms in the universe to make the computers, there's not enough lifespan in the universe to debug the involved software, there's nothing, forget about it, buncha Haskellite brainrotted zombies!

———A lesser problem would be of course that it then attempts to trade on this, but then again a) "scientists" of the socialist ilk gotta eat and b) "scientists" of the socialist ilk rarely actually deploy any deliberateness in their confusion, they're not like five year olds scheming to get the cookie but rather like five month olds, readily distracted by large fields they're utterly unequipped to involve themselves with (while reliably believing something that in practice works quite like the contrary). [↩]The few dozen humans that are actually that advanced have very little to do with "humans" in any sort of median or average sense ; the vast majority of Indians reading up about "SEO" have comparably little to do with the Internet in any interesting sense. [↩]They used to call themselves women, but meanwhile the terminology's clarified itself towards "BBW", as the following illustration no doubt illustrates :

[↩]There's an infinity of numbers between 0.0000000000000001 and 0.0000000000000002 just as there's an infinity of numbers between 20000000000000000 and 10000000000000000, and even though your intuition might propose they're very different in size, they're not, these two are very commensurate infinities.

There's much larger gaps than those available in nature, and the gap between "150 lb of table salt" and "150 lb of living flesh" is significantly, mindblowingly, inexplicably tinier, truly immense as it may seem, than the gap between "150 lb of living flesh" and "150 lb of thinking life". The mind is a great summarizing machine, not great in the sense of the quality of its output, but great in the sense of the ease with which it reduces truly great spans to an apparent "nothingness" that's nowhere near anything like nothing yet beyond persuasively absent in our thoughts. [↩]The problem with ESLtards isn't their "ambitions" per se, but rather their laughable notions and misrepresentations. They actually believe "social mobility" is a thing, among other shocking absurdities. It's not even that they "want to", "have their sights set high" whatever. It's that they actually believe such a thing is possible in the first place! [↩]The fundamental problem is that the ant farm includes unresolvable dependencies, it can't exist of its own. [↩]Though this matter bears some dispute, it's possible they're only 50 million years old, dating since slightly later than whatever ended dinosaurs. [↩]Though you very well might not approve of your daughter's passionate copulation, conceivably you might nevertheless bob your head to their grunts and assorted gibberish (if socially incentivized). [↩]And there's scarcely words available to explain just how unreachably far insect simulations actually are. [↩]Coincidentally larger than the expected size of the Universe, but then again what's in an expectation, "America runs on science" and all that jazz. [↩]

« Fenwalkin' bimbo

Princess Babydoll opens up wide. »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Wednesday, 11 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

The problem of standards

It has been said before that

[...] if you select a subgroup from the population that meets some high standard, for example the entry requirements of a university course, or fails some low standard, for example performs an act that is both stupid and criminal, then the vast majority of those selected will only barely meet the standard.

This does not apply universally, of course. If you go into your medicine cabinet, jam pantry, or liquor shelf and sort recipients by how full they are (as a percentage of total capacity), whatever standard you may choose, high or low, and whatever approach you may take, exclusive or inclusive, nevertheless most of the selected vessels will not be full anywhere close to the standard. If you pick only liquor bottles that are more than half full, a good chunk of them will be completely full, plenty will be two thirds or three quarters, it's not like out of thirteen or sixty-nine or whateveri you'll get twelve or sixty-six or somesuch all of which mere shades and ever barely distinguishable traces over (or under) your standard.ii Similarily If you pick only jam jars that are at least half empty odds are most of them will be almost entirely empty except for one spoonfull left on the bottom -- at least, if you share quarters with a lot of youngiii women, that is. I dunno what your life's like, really, so I'm going by my own as best I can over here.

The foregoing notwithstanding and be all that as it may, if you pick a dozen girls no shorter than 175 centimeters for whatever purposes (such as for instance populating your bitch kennels or whatever it is you do withiv women -- as I was saying, doing my best as I can with my limited means over here) you'll end up with like five that are 175 centimeters exactly, and a couple more 176. If you put up a large antenna array and select, among the particles it's seen over some sufficient interval, those with energies over 1GeV or whatever such threshold, the vast majority will be very close to the arbitrary threshold you picked. It's a physical reality this, not "something people do". Everything works like this, and consequently using high standards is a very cheap (intellectually)v but expensive (in terms of raw materials) method to ensure similarity. There's always going to be a lot of common basis among they who've all just made a very high standard by the very nature of how things work -- not "how people work", either, but how things work, the very things altogether!

Now this given, here's the problem of standards : standards either do not exist (in the sense they are not maintained), or else they do exist and they are maintained. That's it and that's all, there's no way outside of this dilemma.

If standards aren't maintained (and therefore -- do not exist), then the only possible name for whatever's going on is decay. You can try other coats of paint on the rust, you can try dressing up the corpse see maybe it does something for you -- but at the end of the day, dressed as you wish and painted how you please, you're still fucking a corpse. It's what it is.

If standards are maintained, and thereby exist, most people they're enforced upon barely just meet whatever threshold. They can then perennialy bring the Irigaray argument : the enforcement of standards oppresses their feminity! In which they wanted to live darkly and richly and not be the leader because they refuse to be the leader etcetera.vi Which... well of course it fucking does. It's specifically what it's even here for : to oppress their feminity. The whole goal of civilisation, from the invention of the first pointed stickvii onwards, was exactly that : the organized and systematic (with a view to successful) oppression of feminity. What the fuck more ? And what the hell else ?!

"Feminity" doesn't fucking work ; if it worked, as Diogenes said -- we'd all be sitting around rubbing parts all day long. Not that I envy anyone the attempt, either. But... and here's the doozy : It. Doesn't. Fucking. Work.

The problem of standards is that nothing else works, while at the same time nothing else hurts quite as much.

———I'm going by my own experience, your numbers may vary (and if we have to bet on it, I bet they "vary" under not over). [↩]I mean... I guess it's possible, if you have a very neurotic drinking problem ; but for good biological reasons these tend to be somewhat rare. [↩]I can apparently bait with that (entirely true and absolutely factual, as it happens!) story until I fucking fall over from old age over here, the woke, awareness-raised tards will never, not ever, not until they fall over from old age, perceive any need whatsoever to address their own inadequacy to this world. He'd way the fuck rather declare me divine in nature, substance and representation than even remotely, howsoever vaguely consider the possible remedial of his own subhumanity. Nuts.

PS. Isn't it great how the proper selection mechanism also works as in-place adnotation ? Something like "from the article titled An Examination Of Conflict select from where it says 'the genetically male' up to where it says 'portion of the loser unit' and see what's between" makes for a pretty passible description in the first place, doesn't it. I'd have made a footnote of this observation, but, well... [↩]How much is there in a word. My "you do with women" doesn't resolve to anything like your notion of togetherness. It resolves to my notion of togetherness, which translates the "with" much closer to an "of" than to a "for". "You do with women" like you do with jam, which is to say spread it on toast. In no case is it anything like what you do with [mental health] nurses, where you lean on them, god help us all. The Little Differences, you know ? Because back in Yurp they don't even know what a quarterpounder with cheese even is -- they got the metric system there, they don't fuck or anything.

Yeah, that's right, I just made a joke with nacho cheese. Or is it taco cheese in your private symbol table ? Or what is it, what do you call it ?

And don't fucking tell me yours wash, or any such ridiculous, self-obviously avoidant nonsense, either. We're talking of fresh meat, which is to say before you've taught them to wash. Du'uh ?! What, virginity without virginity, what are you doing here, deluding yourself ? Who taught your girly how to hose the nacho, huh ? Huh ?

Btw, I have more philosophical questions of that ilk for when you're good and ready. And since we're doing footnotes -- good god, a thousand words and thirty billion references in, and I've not even gotten remotely to the point yet! I love to write! [↩]Hey, remember the whole "fit in head" theory & heuristic approach ? Well, there's a fundamental problem with all things that are intellectually cheap (which is what this is) : they're going to be materially expensive. If you select only women over such a height as you can comfortably fuck like beasts, you're also stuck throwing out most women. Depending on specifics (namely how rich you are) this is therefore a doomed strategy. It is indubitably a doomed strategy in any situation where self-sustainability is anything even remotely like a goal. This'd be why, even if you might've heard of the historical fortress of Oxford, nevertheless you couldn't have possibly ever heard of the kingdom of Oxford : because no such kingdom did ever exist, because no such kingdom could ever exist (outside, of course, of Plato's feverish dream mind). This is also why all attempts at utopia, "building the city of god" or whatever nonsense always decay in psychosis (ie, severe derealisation) : there's exactly one way to make the impossible seem possible, and it doesn't involve manipulating the outside. [↩]I don't know how familiar you are with that particular quote, but (going again by my own life) I suspect a good fifth of the girlies "into BDSM" will brandish it at some point or other.

What, you thought I was kidding with that nacho cheese ? If only... [↩]There's little doubt in my mind that the first and foremost human invention, which is the pointed stick, comes to us from a man who had had enough of the female wail, and discovered the first, and in any serious analysis the definitive, technology. "It puts the lotion on or it gets the stick again" is, inescapably, the basis of human civilisation, and I suppose en passant a somewhat unfashionable and definitely unpleasant reminder of just how strictly male human technology, human civilisation, and ultimately humanity altogether actually is. [↩]

« The grape of wrath

The problem of classification »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 24 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

The problem of human existence...

... is quite very simply put that while standards are always abstract, whatever they're applied to is always concrete.

That's it and that's all, there's no "sentimental" garglei involved or any of that. Yes the other is "unknowable" etcetera, but all that's merely a symptom. The actual problem of human existence is that while the standards are abstract, the reality they're to apply to is concrete.

There are no solutions, good or otherwise. Some are richer and therefore can afford more infrastructure, some are poorer and therefore can afford less. Bees leave the hive every spring in the (unwarranted, and logically indefensible) hope that the world hasn't turned bee-hostile in the meanwhile. If they manage to find the exact thing they expect within as long as their wings will carry them, they live. If not -- they die. A bird may be ten times or ten thousand times the mass of a bee ; its life is exactly the same : either it runs into what it needs before it runs out or else it runs out before it found what it needed. The psychopath and you, my dear reader, and I, my dear writer, are very much the same in this : richer or poorer, we get what we pay for, and we pay for what we can afford to pay for. It's what it is.

The bird could, of course, attempt to live a bee's life. Conceivably out of the multi-ounce bird a multi-grain bee could indeed be carved. I don't envy anyone his self-mutilation ; but the inescapable problem is that the bee so produced will... nevertheles... still be just a bee. It'll not be any greater a bee for having once been a bird but rather likely less ; or, if you prefer the immortal words of every "transsesexual" ever -- I miss my penis.

The problem of human existence admits precisely one solution (in the limited sense that it'll make it not be a problem anymore) ; yet despite its overwhelmingly immense popularity to date it... well, it still seems quite... undesirable, shall we say. Don't you find ?

Human existence is the meeting of a clearly understood problem with a strictly unavailable solution over a finite span of time. Tick tock...

———Striving to understand less of how you understand things isn't going to do anything. Obviously it could trick you into being satisfied, in a very specific sense already described. There's nothing wrong with relying on whatever trick works for you ; but the problem with tricks is that they have this ungodly tendency to randomly, and irreparably, stop working. So... don't get too invested, I guess ? Or do, if that's how the magic works. Either way... [↩]

« The problem of classification

Gli stornelli nun canti piu... »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 24 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

The problem of classification

All abstract objects can always be classified. This is the foremost, necessary property upon which their very existence is predicated, and by which their very existence is made possible. There can't be such a thing as an unclassifiable abstract exactly like there can't be such a thing as a dimensionless cup of milk -- it's not that classification comes after abstraction anymore than dimensions come after the milk. They might've been observed later, as an artefact of historical accident, but that accident is irrelevant. Dimensions predate the milk and furthermore milk only exists as a mere function of whatever dimensions there are available ; classification predate abstracts and furthermore, any one abstract only exists as a mere function of whatever classifications there are available.i

All concrete objects are unclassifiable, again as a necessary, fundamental property of what concrete existence even is.ii Nevertheless, in a hopeless, desperate and ultimately doomed attempt to derive some of the benefits of classificationiii into the objective world, a hack's always invented. For instance -- living organisms, as eminently unclassifiable as any other concretes, are nevertheless classified into systematic taxonomy by use of the imaginary "typical representative", an item which neither exists nor could exist, but is useful.iv

Needless to say this hack is immensely expensive, and what's worse -- it's expensive in proportion of the use you make of it. It's like rent, basically, rent for existence in the world.

Which is, ultimately, the problem of classification : that while it's the only possible approach to anything, it is strictly speaking impossible in all useful contexts, and not so strictly speaking expensive enough to make the alternative tempting.

Yet... what alternative is there ?

———This is why "creativity" as exhibited by they possessed of very few classification trees very sparsely populated is universally such sadness ; and this is why they say if you want to write well you'd better read a lot ; and this is why Roman numerals preclude serious astronomic or geometric work.

The only known substitute for these trees is a head full of cockroaches, simple bits of nonsense that process abstracts in some intrinsically limited* fashion, rather exactly like how genetics work in live cells : there's some "take all blue things with a red square and match them up with red squares touching" and such basic, localized processing. If you have a lot of time and a lot of resources you can of course wait for natural selection. Takes a while though.

Takes so long, in fact, that a perfectly reasonable notion of "Judgement Day" would be that all humans who ever lived are gathered up, the total variety of expression as actually expressed is compared to what variety of expression was meaningfully available in the first place through the simple mechanism of dividing it by the naturally occuring quantum of such variety. The factor separating Vmax from Vnatural is mindboggling infinity, but you (in the collective sense) are held to match a small threshold, say three. 3. That's it. If, from Begining to End you've not managed to reach at least three times as much as'd have naturaly flown out of things, you go straight to Heck -- and possibly wouldn't be the first set there, either.

------

* This link is a stand-in ; the actual item I wanted to link is a discussion of silicone fabrication, the production of CPUs and such cyberconsiderations relating the matter to the physics of the brain, the whole illustrated with a square of randomly distrubuted black dots (making the point that random walks are very slow to yield anything interesting by the workings of the very definition of "interesting"). [↩]Would "virus testing" even be a thing, if this weren't the case ?

Suppose you're paying for sex, so you pick up the phone, and order a whore. Now, did they send you a whore with or without some arbitrary virus you're thinking about ? And how would they know ? [↩]Which is readily the most powerful thing there is, ever was, or ever could be -- in fact, necessarily the only basis upon which any such thing as power can even exist, in any definition and to any degree. [↩]If you have trouble with the concept, think of a dog show. You know, like competitive.

What is is that they do at the dog show ?

If you're unhappy with how they scored your dog, and ask them to produce for your own inspection the model they compared it with, what are they likely going to do ? [↩]

« The problem of standards

The problem of human existence... »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 24 March, Year 12 d.Tr.

The pool party

"Johnny!... Hey, Johnny!... Where is that boy..."

"I'm in here mom!"

"What are you doing in the basement ?

"I'm... I'm uhhh... working on a project. For school."

"Well come out of there. Look what was in the mail!"

"What ?"

"Oh, it's an invitation. You're invited to Mrs. Messerschmidt's pool party tonight."

"Dang."

"Johnny!"

"Sorry Mom! It's just that... umm... you know, I... would it be okay if I didn't go ?"

"You don't want to go to Mrs. Messerschmidt's pool party?! That's ridiculous!"

"But...but..."

"No butts, young man. Of course you're going. She's gone to all the trouble of inviting you... look what a nice invitation, too! Besides, I RSVP'd already."

"Was it really in the mail ?"

"Ah... no, not exactly. Mrs. Messerschmidt just gave it to me when I stopped by her place earlier."

"Why did you do that for!"

"That's none of your business, Mister!"

"It's just..."

"What ?"

"I'm not comfortable there. She always makes us take off our clothes and stuff..."

"Why should that make you uncomfortable ? It's only natural for little boys to expose themselves nude in public."

"How come Sarah never has to do it ?"

"What a silly question. Sarah is a young lady."

"So it's only for little boys ?"

"That they have to be naked socially, so everyone can see their whole body and especially their little wee-wee ?"

"Yeah..."

"Ask the question properly, young man!"

"Is it... is it only for little boys that... that they have to... to be naked, so... so... so everyone can see them... and... and their little wee-wee ? Especially ?"

"Absolutely!"

"I don't know, Mom... Sometimes... it makes me so ashamed."

"Now stop this foolishness at once. Mrs. Messerschmidt is doing you a good service, easing you into it. And they've got such a nice pool, too. Go get ready, I'll drive you there myself."

"But Mom! It's not even three!"

"So ? It's true that the party's for tonight, but you should be there early, in case she needs help with preparations or anything."

"Bummer..."

"Johnny!"

~ * ~

"Are you absolutely definite I must go, Mom ?"

"I thought I told you to get ready."

"I am ready!"

"What, like that ?"

"This is what I always wear!"

"Precisely! It's supposed to be a party. And besides, look, it says so right here, 'Pool attire please ; little boys in swimming trunks and nothing else.'"

"Awww! Mom!"

"Now don't be difficult, Johnny! It'll be good for you, such a nice party..."

"Mom! Please..."

"Awww, who's Mommy's little boy ? Come, come, don't cry. You can do it for Mommy, can't you ?"

"I... I... "

"Don't you love me ?"

"Yes Mommy! But... Is that all it says ?"

"The invitation ?"

"Yes, about clothing."

"It also says 'Little boys who are uncomfortable in swim trunks may wear pretty sissy boy attire instead.' But that's not you, is it Johnny ? You're not a sissy boy, are you ?"

"N...no Mom."

"Now take those everyday clothes off and I'll go get your swim trunks."

"But..."

"No more buts, or I'll take you out on the front lawn."

"Mom!"

"Yes ?"

"No, please, please, look!"

"Haha my little boy, what is that ? Did you put girly panties on under the jeans ? Awww, that's so cute..."

"I... I... "

"Why did you do that ?"

"I... I thought they'd humiliate me more when... when they saw."

"You like that feeling, don't you boy."

"I... I... "

"That's okay. It's normal to be confused at your age."

"So should I... everything ?"

"You may keep the panties on. They're very pretty. I don't think it'll be any trouble if you wear them under your swim trunks. And if anyone asks you can say that's your sissy boy attire anyway."

"I..."

"Now go open the front door and stand there while I get your swim trunks."

"But... Mo-om! What if... what if someone comes ?!"

"If anyone comes you walk out to meet them, you introduce yourself, you tell them you're going to Mrs. Messerschmidt pool party later and you ask them if they would like to come in."

"I..."

"What do you do if anyone comes ?"

"I... I... walk out... in my sissy boy panties... to.. to meet them and I... I tell them I am going to... to... to the pool party and... and... and... ask if they like my sissy panties and... and... if I... if I should take them off."

"Thats a good boy! I won't be a minute."

~ * ~

"Hi Johnny! Is your Mom making you go to the party ?"

"Hey Billy. Yep. You ?"

"Me too."

"What a gyp."

"I guess I see you there, huh."

"... do you like my panties, my sissy panties Billy ?"

"O yes, very much. They are very sissy panties Johnny! I wish I had panties so nice myself!"

"Why don't you show us what you have under your pants, Billy ?"

"Oh hi Mrs. Katzenkreuz. I... I don't have anything!"

"Anything at all ?"

"Just... I mean... just my little wee-wee."

"So show us all the same."

"But... but I'd have to... ?!"

"Yes, take off your shoes and everything, why not."

"I... I..."

"Please Billy, just do it, we'll get in trouble."

"That's right young man! You don't want me to call your Mother on the phone, do you ?"

"No, no please don't Mrs. Katzenkreuz. I already caught a hiding for... I mean... may I take everything off on your front lawn please Mrs. Katzenkreuz ?"

"Please do Billy. Please do."

"Oh look at your poor friend, all naked in the middle of the road like that, Johnny. Don't you think it'd be nice if you gave him your swim trunks instead ? So he doesn't have to walk all the way to the party completely naked ?"

"I... I... "

"That's okay Mrs. Katzenkreuz, thank you very much, but I could just put my pants back on..."

"No you couldn't."

"Oh... I... do I really have to walk over like this ?"

"You two wait here holding hands like two lovey dovey pretty boys ; I'm going to go inside to ring up Mrs. Schmetterschitt and tell her I'll be giving Billy a lift to Mrs. Messerschmidt's pool party so she doesn't have to worry one bit."

"Oh..."

"Don't get into any trouble now, you hear ? I'll be right back."

"Mrs. Katzenkreuz ?"

"Yes ?"

"Could you tell Mother I've been a good boy please ?"

"Oh definitely, Billy. You've been nothing but cotton candy an' sugar cane, honeybunny."

"Thank you Mrs. Katzenkreuz."

"What do we do now ?"

"Do you want my swim trunks ?"

"I... Ugh. I mean... it'd be nice..."

"They're my danged swim trunks. You should have to wear these panties."

"I... Ummm... you think so ?"

"The best idea is if I just take my panties off too. That way we're both naked. Can't go wrong with that."

"I guess so... hey Johnny, did you ever..."

"What ?"

"Did you ever kiss one ?"

"Well I mean... sure."

"No I don't mean, like a little boy one. I mean a big one, like the ones they keep locked up."

"Oh."

"Timmy told me that's what this party's gonna be all about. He said we're old enough now so they're gonna make us."

"Really ?"

"Yeah. He said it was the same way for him last year."

"So... how does it go ?"

"He said you have to give your swim trunks to one of the big boys. Whichever you want."

"Wow!"

"Yeah, and he says it's forever, like, you have to be on your knees and you pledge eternal love and it's a ceremony."

"Oh my god."

"And then you have to call them 'bigger boyfriend' forever. And there's many things you have to do."

"So... I mean... who's going to be there ?"

"All of the married bois pretty much. With their Princesses, of course."

"So what happens after ?"

"You have to spend Fridays after school until Monday morning with your bigger boyfriend from now on, like, at their house where they live."

"No ?!"

"Yes! Timmy says nothing will really be the same anymore."

"And what else ?"

"They give you an engagement jewel. Timmy showed me his, it's like a big jewel with a weight, like an egg. He made me kiss it, too."

"So do you wear it around your neck ? I've never seen that..."

"Oh no, it's for..."

"There you go boys, all... oh, aren't you two cute. Have you decided you'll dress in the car ?"

"Yes Mrs. Katzenkreuz."

"Yes Mommy."

"Alright well, hop in the car then. I'll go open the garage door."

"Bill ?"

"Yeah Johnny ?"

"Will you kiss my wee-wee ?"

"At the party ?"

"No, I mean right now."

"Okay..."

"Oh look at you two lovebirds. Johnny, what have I told you about having other boys kiss your wee-wee ?"

"That I should also kiss theirs ?"

"Exactly. Now lean in and give Billy's little wee-wee a sweet loving kiss."

"Okay..."

"Now keep going..."

"But Mom... only faggots do that!"

"That's alright Mrs. Katzenkreuz. It's better for me this way, I like it best like this."

"Have it your way then, Billy... Though thinking about it...those old swim trunks aren't really up to snuff. I'm going to stop on the way and buy you boys new stuff."

"Where are we stopping ?"

"At the mall, of course."

~ * ~

"Oh good day Mrs. Katzenkreuz. What a lovely day for a stroll, isn't it!"

"Very nice indeed Mrs. Wurtenspurtz."

"Is that little Johnny ? My, my how he's grown."

"Yes it is! Curtsy sweetly for Mrs. Wurtenspurtz, Johnny!"

"And is that little Billy, Mrs. Pfuffelstuff's twelve year old ?"

"That's right. I'm taking these lovebirds over to Mrs. Messerschmidt's pool party."

"Oh, isn't that nice. Time for their jewels already, isn't it."

"Indeed, it does fly by... Well, good-by Mrs. Wurtenspurtz, we have to see the lingerie and the swimwear shops before heading out."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Katzenkreuz."

"Mom ?"

"Yes baby ?"

"What did you mean lingerie and swimwear ?"

"I was thinking you boys could have some very skimpy girl swim bottoms, and some very lacy and frilly panties underneath so they show. What do you think ?"

"Ugh..."

"Oh I love the sound of that, Mrs. Katzenkreuz! My mother never buys me anything nice like that. Thank you so much!"

"God damn it Billy!"

"What! Don't pinch, Johnny! You should be getting on your hands and knees every minute to thank Heavens for a Mother so great and loving and considerate like Mrs. Katzenkreuz! That's God's honest truth! Ow!"

"Stop that this instant, Johnny! Just because your friend Billy is a little sissy faggot doesn't mean you should bully him... much."

"You hear that, faggot ?"

"Johnny! Get on your knees and kiss your friend Billy's butthole right now and apologize, young man!"

"But... but..."

"No buts! Right here, in the middle of the mall where everyone can see you, on your knees and kiss that faggot's asshole!"

"Oh, Johnny... that's so nice... Oh... your tongue is so warm... oh yes, reach inside, that's so good and like an apology... oh... thank you Mrs. Katzenkreuz!"

"I hope that taught you a lesson, Johnny!"

"Y...yes mom."

"I might be a sissy faggot, Johnny... but you're a sissy faggot's asshole kisser!"

"Yes Billy..."

"Say it yourself Johnny!"

"I love eating faggot butthole. I like putting my tongue deep in there. I lick the faggot asshole good and deep all the way in. That's just how I am."

"Doesn't that feel nice to say, Johnny ?"

"Yes Billy... it's the greatest feeling."

"Now you two kiss and make up. Little lovey dovey love spat, awww. How cute!"

~ * ~

"Oh, my God Mrs. Katzenkreuz... that is so nice. Could I... could I have that instead ?"

"You sure about that, Billy ? It's maybe a little..."

"Oh no, no, please. Please Mrs. Katzenkreuz, that's what I want, it's perfect for me."

"Alright, I guess if you like it so much you can have it, why not. How about you Johnny, found anything that caught your eye yet ?"

"Um... I... I..."

"Really Mrs. Katzenkreuz, Johnny should have to just go in a pair of diapers. Because he's such a baby..."

"What a... What a terrific idea, Billy boy! That settles it, let's go get Johnny some huggies and get out of here!"

"And a solid gold pacifier, like they have in that window there..."

"Hahahahah..."

« Sodomy

Lasagna & other factors of domestic tranquility »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 17 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

The Pishtar gate cathouse

The Pishtar gate cathouse had stood in the same place for many years. Centuries, perhaps. Millenia, maybe. It's true that the place itself kept moving, with the inflows and outflows of trade, with the tides of war and the comings and goings of natalities and nativities, driven unerringly in a circle by spawning events and extinction events accordingly ; nevertheless the famous cathouse itself always stayed in its place, move it as it may or might.

The customers, in their overpoweringly mindblowing diversity absolutely always the same one, or two, or three -- countlessly many yet never more than the three or maybe four that they were -- the man writing, and the story written are not one and the same, even as they flow unerringly and just as necessarily towards their respective, imparable delusions. The man writing looked up from the story written, and saw... a different story, because the man choosing whether to write or not has no impact on the endless flow of countless stories, it's not properly speaking a choice whether to write or not -- it is a choice of what to write. The man looked up, as he had to, because it was time to add the first reference to the everallblog, a paragraph in, as the second putative reference had just cropped up for consideration, and before it'd be considered the buffer'd absolutely have to be emptied. The man was very systematic in his leisurely approach, and so since his narrative flow had already broken over administrative considerations he also looked around, and besides, it's time to save, one's supposed to save periodically...

Around was their old haunt near Uvita, which would or was or has to be or must've been perhaps proper told&retold in one, or ten thousand other stories. He sat comfortably in the very comfortable Masterly armchair, out on the veranda, foot-thick pillows all around, his feet up on the slightly lesser other armchair of which there were another half-dozen scattered about. For the girls. Last night they sat all around over wine, and fine imported tobbaccos of impronounceable names, and laughed at the world, and talked of the world, and... Last time he was here he had an expert one kneel by his side as he wrote, sucking him off slowly, patiently, utterly lovingly like she did, untold perfection swirling with and within itself while the gauze all around, miles and miles of gauze hanging from the thick round trunks rustically supporting the outer perimeter billowed slightly in the sweet, sweet breeze. All the while he wrote, a story. He often did this, a majority, perhaps simple, perhaps constitutional, of his graphic stories having been produced with ongoing genital stimulation in the background. The girls, readily sleeping paired on the immense beds inside, would have loved nothing more ; but he didn't feel like it this one time.

As he gave the story a name, for the administrative purposes of the recording machine, he discovered last he had been here, which had apparently occured on the 3rd day of June, he had named a different story "putasdos.txt". They had just suborned a local wedding party the day before, subverted the hesitating adolescent ticas for their own purposesi, it had been a lot of fun, it seems so very long ago, so very far away, in such a different time and place... And yet... different from what ? When and where different, different how, what is this difference even supposed to be, in the first place ? The man writing dwelled in and therefore wrote along many stories at the same time, countless many stories that, in their overpoweringly mindblowing diversity absolutely always were the same one, or two, or three. Cuntlessly many yet never more than maybe fur, or fife.

An unknown, fantastic butterfly stopped its flapping, nonrectilinear flight on the armrest, bopping antennae sniffing vaguely in the general direction of an abandoned dress in flowery print. Maybe it's delicious ? It most definitely is delicious when worn, coming as it does to the exact line of the wearer's buttocks, exposing without remainder the whole of her beautifully girly leg each step of her way and, at the slightest provocation, whole perineum, from shaven slit to expert asshole. You've never seen quite such an anal queen, not on the screen, not in your dreams... A squirrel hopped from one branch to the other, and as its forepaw made contact the man turned to smoke. A vague cloud smelling faintly of burnt elm was all that stood where he once stood, and that cloud billowed back towards the cathouse, the famous Pishtar cathouse, snickering slightly at the impenetrability of the reference. How ever was it that every hole in creation ever seemed impenetrable to everyone all the time yet yielded more readily to him than warm knife to butter ?

Yet the Pishtar gate cathouse, that had stood as long as the whores in the whores' capitol spread their legs -- indeed the longest time indeed -- consisted internally of rooms, ample, accomodating, purpose-tailored for their respective activities, of which one had always been, and would forever be, the Hora dance. The requirements for this perhaps oldest & most ancient manifestation of urbanity are comfortable if somewhat narrow chairs & chaisse-lounges without armrests, because legs have to go where the arms would be ; and otherwise calm and relaxed patrons and very athletic whores ready to service them. It is a lot like a game of poke 'er, in that she pokes herself really, you're just sitting (an' representin'). There's plenty but not infinite seats, and sometimes when you wish to join you might have to wait a little -- though never really all that long. Then as someone else busts out and then leaves you take his place, the same place as he had yet in your grip so different, so filled with possibilities which in the end are the same one. The same but one, just one, not even two, because in the Hora dance a winner's always you and there's no loser ever, nor has one yet been found, over the centuries, maybe millenia. Still looking they may be, but finding one's not of, or for this world.

As you sit or recline, taking your place in the wide circle around the room of others similarily seated or reclining, the music with its beat of seven drives the working girls, and soon one's by you, undoing you, and then she's gone, just as another picks up where the other left off, and then another, and yet another still. Your manhood, liberated by so many, untold hands, by twists and turns in turn samples them all. They ease themselves on it, their womanhood, lubricated, muscular, telling its story to it, and one, and two, and three, and... four, and five an' breathless six an' seven and she's also gone. The story is always the same, or maybe there's two, or three... yet this similarity, the fundamental identity of holes and muscular anatomy does not detract. They're different, the girls working the inner circle are all different girls, sometimes exhausted ones leave, sometimes fresh cunts eagerly join in the fray, but the difference is relatively unimportant : they've all the hole, and it's the same hole, or maybe there's two, or three, but in the end the muscles underneath all lay the same, and grip the same, new girls are different for naivite is always "distinct" but in the end it's a difference of lack and inadequacy. As they practice their grip, as they experience the prick they become very much the same, fully blown and thoroughly blossomed womanhood engorged between similarily muscular legs. Idle legs may be as "different" as you please, as error ever is ; but well worked legs are all the same on leg, the same Ishtar leg of perfection polished in form through unerring, oft revisited function. Up and down they bob, their tits with them, their hips with them, the hole with its precious filling all along, up, down, up, down, always the same up as went the down, never the same up as the following dawn.

As you recline you feel them all, their inside, warm, intimate, loving for the brief pulse of intercourse. They smile as they do it, too, a smile from within. In all other professional endeavours the female smile false and growing false by degrees, as time goes by and disappointment of its intent and promise piles on ; in this and this alone the female smile false at the onset, at the beginning, on the new and unexperienced girls but then by and by, by degrees growing true, truthful and heartfelt, as the experience over time changes them into themselves. The well used ones, the well fucked ones, the experienced ones smiling sweetly, genuinely, and from their heart -- their heart so often touched, so deeply touched, and so well. They say no girl's a true whore that doesn't dance the Hora well, and it is true -- as true as bells, a truth pretention doth not ever want to hear, for fear, fear dolloped atop itself.

It is also the only way one should conceive, claims a romantic vein of thought, and sometimes indeed wives join the fray, often (unknowingly) to stay. Who'll be the one that first spurts in you, can you from the beginning guess ? Do you ? And will it be his sperm that wins the inner race, or the next's, or whose ? The smile sweetens, rights itself into its true nature over time through natural working of the mind along with the body, the Hora's not merely an activity but also a whorship, like moving the arms in the recently drowned ressuscitates respiration so moving up and down on present, unaforeknown manhood ressuscitates the spirit. Pneuma & pneuma, suflet & suflet, what is the difference and which shall it be, which one is it to be, what's what and which and one and be ? As here and there girls win, their patrons underneath winning along with them this one and only game of winners only the others move along, move by, and carry on. The victorious whore caresses for a moment her captive victor held between her thighs, squeezes him as he spurts, kisses him or smothers her tits on his face for him to kiss, lays in his arms for him. Him, the one that pinned her down, the one that stopped her dance for her. While it won't last nevertheless she's now stuck, stuck on him, for a brief moment or perhaps an eternity. She relaxes a moment, and breathes ; he whispers in her ear, and then they part, though sometimes, rarely, she lays there, in his arms, while he seems to sleep, a brief moment or perhaps an eternity.

Rarely will the dancers sleep in that way together, rarely will the butterflies permit eternity to seep into their instant movement, rarely and at great peril. It's the unchanging truth of phenomenology that everyone fears what they might find, and so indeed does everyone since the dawn of time, a life "without fear" universally predicated upon a life without any life left in it at all. Yet life goes on, with as without, phenomena ongoing and their story undeterred if written or unwritten or somewhere in between. The truth, untold but omnipresent is that the patrons are anything but indistinct. On the contrary, they're specific, readily recognized, the girls that smile well smile well because they remember well, and oh, how well they do! The one, the one from before, that one, this one, not the other one, he that pinned her last time, the time before that, this one, not that one, squeezed him three times, she did, not four, or two, or just the one... They do recall, and in the recollection spurts grow sweeter, an inconsequential. momentary caress retrospectively magnified, enthroned, the whole hall with its moving and stationary parts an immense, immeasurable, cosmic amplifier of the better parts of all of it. They say no girl's truly a woman whose memory works otherwise, whose retrospective amplifies otherwise, and it is true, as true as pain, a truth bitterness doth not ever want to taste, for pretention dolloped upon ambition, sauced in vanity. For her sins.

The man looked up again, and the immemorial iguana stared back, unblinking. Unmoving. It had been staring at him for a while, staring him down, reptillian eye unerring on upturned head. An impressive beast, large, its endless tail spanning across the worlds. The man threw it a fragment of a banana he wasn't eating. He didn't like them that much, but he always had some on hand here, because the lizzards love them, these improbable preditors of flowerbuds and, on occasion, when available, ripe fruit. He remembered them, enough to cause changes in the world, and they remembered him, enough to patiently stare. Is he done yet ? Have those strange twiches so specific of him exhausted themselves yet ? Can they rest together now, embraced, in an exchange completet, yet ? Not yet ? The iguana is patient, like everything else forever is patient : while it lasts. Like all things, it has all the time in the world, until it has no more time at all ; but then there will be others, and the dance will go on. Otherwise, other places, but truly there's only one, maybe two or three ways, and places, and...

The end.

———Speaking of which, the apostrophes in that need fixing. [↩]

« The Magic Johnson and other stories

A slew of supersluou subdates »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 16 September, Year 12 d.Tr.

The Omnistatement

That is all.

« Lasagna & other factors of domestic tranquility

A fost sau n-a fost ? »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 21 May, Year 12 d.Tr.

The Master looked down on the naked sluts, and said...

The Master looked down on the naked sluts, and said "There's nothing more beautiful than sisters loving each other. Not in this world, not in any others. The impulse is there, natural, universal. Everywhere. You can feel it, in the silence of a lazy morning, in the even roar of the ocean, in your mind falling asleep, whenever you relax, wherever you step out of the crust of days, away from the flotsam of existence. It's there. It springs forth. Don't squelch it. Let it bathe you, and let it dribble off you on them all. There's nothing to fear. The fear suggests itself patiently, insistently, insubstantially. There's nothing there, it has nothing behind, a spasm of the mind for no purpose besides self-denial. Incredulous, like sleepy eyes in the bright noon Sun, a moment's hesitancy before each great ocean bath. Unesteemable, unsatisfying, a waste to chase.

Whether they love you or they don't is of no consequence to you. Your love's your own, not theirs. It's not a trade, love's not money, it doesn't thrive off exchange. It's borne of interaction, but as a reflection. It bears no recognition, it's not a product, it's not the output of manufacture nor the domain of clever artifice. It's not produced in commerce to cease with silence. Your love for your sisters is practice, minarets and towers on the great castle of your love for your Master. In its manifestation and by its expression the only proper and true you you'll ever in your days encounter. Truly there is no need for more. Your love, in itself sufficient, by itself resplendent, flows freely, easily. It asks no more besides not getting in its way. Don't, there's never a good reason to. Great reasons endlessly propose themselves, always the same one : incredulity, a moment's hesitancy before each dip in the ocean. Unesteemable, unsatisfying, a waste to chase.

Use your sisters, without compunction, without hesitation, without concern. That's what they're for, their bodies made and designed to use, their minds eager to see the body used. There's no need for restraint such as imagined in the mind ; you come built-in with natural restraint, roundly perfect, reliably complete, in itself sufficient. Trust your own hand like they do, it will not greatly hurt them. Trust your eyes and your words, whatever they may see or say, whatever your sisters may see, whathever they may say. There's nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to regret in displaying yourself before them, nude, plain, open, as you are. Whatever they might see and whatever you might think they've seen, whatever they may say and whatever you might think they've said, nothing will ever hurt you nor can it ever flow to your detriment. You are what you are, not what you think you might be, and there's no escaping what you are, nor is there losing it, whatever you might think. Nor is having it, exactly as it is, any great loss, or any kind of loss at all.

Kneel and wallow and humble yourself and humiliate yourself before your angry sister. Kneel before her, kowtow before her and kiss her feet. Hug her knees and bathe them in your tears. Let her try all the whips and canes in the house on your eagerly wiggling ass. Beg her to. None of that comes at any cost to you. No one will judge you the lesser woman for abasing yourself before your sister like they don't judge you the less for kneeling before your Master. However equipped, the paltry damage, the negligible hurt she's capable to offer you is nothing to you. Barely will you be able to feel it, the angrier she seems. Barely will she be able to lift her hand, each crack felt in your hide once and in her skull ten thousand times. Your beating will be over before you knew it even begun, yet it will make all the world of difference to her. Your body's temporary ; like sand in a fistful wisping away, slivers and dribbles carried, whisked away by the winds. The little use she made of it won't make a difference, won't scatter it any sooner ; but in her mind it will take shape, bear form, crystaline, permanent, your fugitive moments with her enshrined, forever. You'll never go bankrupt trading the impermanent for the perdurant. However it may feel in the moment, you lose nothing ; like learning, you will never regret it.

The only thing to fear in the moment, and then thereafter forever regret, is doing any less. Doing any more's not possible."

« Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 10 -- The unwritten book.

Pimp. By Robert Beck aka Iceberg Slim. Adnotated without permission. Chapter 11 -- To lose a whore. »

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Sunday, 18 October, Year 12 d.Tr.

The Man Who Wasn't There as seen by the man who was everywhere.

While stuck insidei because hurricane & the rivers all in flood and etcetera I had a very pleasurable time watching The Man Who Wasn't Thereii with my whores. As I said, my ring finger rested comfortably either side atop that delicious fold separating thigh from Venus mound, my thumb biting softly into delicious girly flesh, "the best way to watch this is with my hands on my hips". Because they are, what! Once the credits started rolling I had them line up, elbows rested bedside, and I played with their tits and their necks and shoulders and paddled the butt alley to my heart's content and their sighful communioniii. It was a soft, pensive, existentially artistic occurrence seamlessly integrating a coupla hoursiv of cinematic projection inside its lusciously generous vagina, like sky flowersv stretched out by your thumb welcome the challenge it presents. They can take it, therefore they do take it ; and it makes your thumb pretty and their elstic capacity for tolerance, the one true fundament of feminity, even more glisteningly resplendent. I offer all this context because it is ultimately possible it might color my appreciation of the movie, and for no other reason (and at great personal risk, I might add, seeing how every prostitute out there is attempting the same tack in their inexcusably terrible contributions mailed out to the Atlantic or whatever other deadbeat ex-venue).

You might be aware how children, aged maybe thirteen or so, seventh grade, occasionally engage (generally as a result of adult instigation, but we'll let this pass in silence) in whatever organized, specific, defined activity, like perhaps skateboarding or playing some sport or whatever it is. Some do better and some do worse, occasionally one will do exceptionally well or shockingly poorly but they all, and irrespective of any personal considerations or aspirations to individualism (truthfully speaking more projected by adult hopes and expectations than properly merited by the circumstances) are indistinctly and undistinguisably united by the same one, unbroken, insectablevi thread : they'll do better or worse for seventh graders, exceptionally well for a seventh grader, terribly for a seventh grader. It's what it is. The same kids, a short few years later, or the same kids, spit out of the all-loving hole a few years earlier, will also do well or not so well or remarkably well or utterly terribly at the same thing, but this time for an eleventh grader. Yet occasionally, rarely but nevertheless, a seventh grader will do as well as to be able to stand among the eleventh graders, a recognized, welcomed peer on the strength of the only true merit there is : personal excellence. It is a different kind of performance, the thirteen year old who plays so well seventeen year olds want her on their team isn't playing well or very well or incredibly well for a thirteen year old, not anymore. This is precisely the situation of The Man Who Wasn't There : it's one of the precious few US productions that can stand (and on its own merits duly does stand) among the notable works of Italian neorealism in purely technical terms : it is good enough to.

While shot in black-and-white, and therefore readily opening the reviewer to suspicion of having brought his own fleshy pink tones from home to provide color to his liking, self-pleasing himself like a cat self-pets itself, it is perhaps the foremost example of well done principal photographyvii in our colonies, a wonder to rival La Grande Belezza and other such standard-setting accomplishments of the old country. The lighting is beyond superb, the set placementsviii and framingsix utterly poetic, if I could shoot like this I'd want no more (and meanwhile would accept no less).

Then, of course, the bit parts. Never have you seen such concentration, such abundance of minors doing the best work of their career, by so very far the best it makes it unassailably, plainly self-obvious why exactly the author of cinematic production is the director, not the "stars". To take only one example : Scarlett Johansson, as much a prop as any starlet ever was, as much an actual actress as any prop ever was. Here she comes to life for the first (and rather, last) time in her regrettable waste of an acting careerx. Take just another example : B. B. Thornton never did anything half as good, a quarter as good. Never, he's been in what, fifty trainwrecks to date, this is his first ballet. I love him in here, and if you manage not to your shrink will no doubt be interested to hear what absurd derangements overpower that brainbox of yours. Even Lilyan Chauvin, for crying out loud, of whom I'm sure you've not even heard mention before, even she's fabulously excellent in a few dozen well used (because well constructed) frames! Zsa Zsa Gabor spent her entire life trying to somehow fall ass-first into Chauvin's half a minute here, and never managed! Like her, how many! Countless, endless many trees growing from a seed into a sappling into adulthood, ripe, and then putrescent, falling over in a distant forest, secret, unheard. It's unspeakable, it's magic, it's something the fuck else.

I do not think this film is optional. I deem it mandatory ; if I ever teach cinema it'll be on the eliminatory list -- you've not seen it, you're dismissed. So do yourself the favour and don't wait for well fleshed, sugar hips to rest your hands on while you watch what is doubtless the best shot, and perhapsxi the best all-around film America ever produced.

———I don't know how you folk managed a whole year. I've been stuck for like two days and it's already pissing me off. [↩]2001, by Joel & Ethan Coen, with Billy Bob Thornton, Frances McDormand, James Gandolfini, Jon Polito, Scarlett Johansson. [↩]The beaten slave's experience of her own beating is a matter so vastly deep it readily exhausts my exploratory powers, so I will bow early out of descriptive temptation. [↩]116 minutes, if you're a stickler. [↩]Thunbergia grandiflora, aka clock vines, sky vines etc. Very pretty blue cunt-likes. [↩]From Latin sectis, cut. That which can not be cut.

Get a better language, I'm not changing what I want to say to fit what you know how to read. [↩]I can't begin to guess how much of it is Roger Deakins and how much the fraternal maniacs. [↩]Take as one sufficient example the man holding fate in his hands, mouth only visible curled by demonic smile and eventual cage melting, low on his left side. [↩]Take just the man driving the teen slut, framed between his wedding ring incarnating covenants with a suicide on the inner side and indistinct vegetation passing by moving windows on the outer side, it arch-suffices. [↩]I happen to have watched Ghostworld yesterday, a deplorable drainpour of a coupla juicy teenagers life & time unparalleled outside of the public school system. Watch it yourself, see what Birch and Johansson can manage of and on their own, bereft of actual ownership. Had they shot for Bangbros in the interval it'd have been a better use of those fleeting moments, days and minutes, that for them like for everyone flew away and are now no more. But, do not take my word for it ; go, watch it for yourself, and see. [↩]In any case quite liable to be the last, America didn't survive 2001 in any meaningful sense. [↩]

« Princess Babydoll and the pleasure of pain

The man who was everywhere seen somewhere, at some time. »

Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 06 November, Year 12 d.Tr.

The man who was everywhere seen somewhere, at some time.

We always order the same thing, you know. It's always lamb. Sometimes Hannah gets the cashew korma, sometimes I do. Sometimes I get the (deliciously spinach-y) palak saag, sometimes Hannah does. The bimbo always wants butter chicken, I generally offer a departure but she adamantly sticks it out for her preferred treat, not that I mandate otherwise. We long decided that though Polish she's a black girl nevertheless, and I am culturally sensitive to her nigger needs therefore. We also buy watermelon whenever I remember. Then for trims we get basmati, dry fruits and nuts pulao, naan con ajo, raita, some other piece occasionally like maybe ground lamb stuffed naan or as this time tandoori salmon (incredibly tender, deliciously marinaded, a real treat). Sometimes I have the Old Monk and sometimes I don't, now and again we get mango lassis, usually not, there's some variation, faintly always there, somewhat ; but San Pellegrino always, samosas if not pakoras or vice-versa (though sometimes both, as here was the case), it's really the most stable of orders a la carte.

The waiter always indulges our unintentional pretense at selection, with a most Indian patience ; we always take the time to read through the menus, seriously trying to make an earnest determination : what of these dishes, dozens upon dozens of all kinds, all excellent, expertly made of first class ingredients, is earnestly and truthfully at this one time in our lives our most desired and honestly preferred option ? It always comes out to the same things, with minor variations in the trims, but the exercise is always thorough, somewhat reminescent of how no woman yet squeezed out puppies or bunnies, or anything else but babies, even if impregnated doggy style, or in whatever other manner.

'Tis said that society is built on the backs and feet of women ; 'tis said in the same place they'll not just do it by themselves. This is partially true, or rather, exactly true but incomplete : they will in fact do it by themselves, under the proper gaze.

And then we go for coffee. I wish you a good time!

« The Man Who Wasn't There as seen by the man who was everywhere.

And I don't think Meron is fucking kidding, either. »

Category: Oda Superbiei

Friday, 06 November, Year 12 d.Tr.