I can't remember the last time I talked to a dude...

I mean, I'm sure it must've been sometime last year, rationally proceeding upon the hidden midden of history. Nevertheless... I just can't remember it. I'm not putting it on anyone, it's mine and I own it, poor memory on my part, it happens (especially with age). I'm not saying it's because they didn't have anything intelligent (or at the very least interesting) to say so reliably an' sustainedly it eventually came to where the volume got turned down by degrees to zero, and then eventually the speaker unplugged to be used somewhere else, as a counterweight perhaps, because it was just collecting dust anyways.

Meanwhile Paladin Press closed down (with the sudden & unexpected death of its owner, coupla years ago), the sultan of Omani also died (just as suddenly & unexpectedly I guess, though he had been in charge for a fucking half century, how long are these misfortunates required to hang on already ?), leaving behind... well, he had no children, so he invested the succession in the royal court. Seriously, he told all those dorks, I don't know them but I can imagine, to pick whoever they want. Evenii among themselves. He also had the presence of spirits (not to mention the knowledge of the working material) to hide a letter indicating whom to pick -- which they did, the very next day.

Imagine these fuckwits an' fucktards! Uppity enough to block each other on one hand, bureaucrats of sufficient ambitions on paper to "I don't see why it shouldn't be me!" -- but only for as long as behind the safety glass of the clucker. Definitely not gonna start a war or anything over it! For as long as the discussion's online and every dog's a sultan, then every dog's a sultan an' there's NO WAY TO CONVINCE ANYONE OTHERWISE!!!! They got their rights an' things, they know! Yet nevertheless and all that notwithstanding... once it comes to those lefts, well... let's see what Mommy left in the fridge, it's better that way. As long as it's daydreaming... why, they can daydream as well as anyone! And once it's not daydreaming anymore but doing instead... well... let's see what's on Netflix.

Ultimately I suppose the point is that there ain't anything to talk to dudes about. They're utterly derealised, so it's not like they'll ever have anything meaningful -- let alone interesting -- to say about the world. Not even to the most basic level of "go down two blocks and make the next left" or anythingiii, they just don't know. Unless you're particularly interestediv in indulging their autistic "worldview"v, there's really nothing there to talk about at all.

So I spend my time talking with women about how terrible women arevi, during the occasional breaks we take from doing things togethervii, and... well, it's a living, what do you want from me.

There is something I want from you, though, and that is : don't put too much stock in that "you" pronoun. Who the fuck knows whom I'm talking to or thinking of when I write "you" on Trilema ? My mental model of the readership "you" is neither particularly stable, nor too frequently reasonableviii, not to mention reliably uninformed by actual dataix. It's just something you say, it doesn't [have to] mean anything. Right ?

———You remember, I'm sure, the Qaboos dude whom "mercenaries" and other "supreme gentlemen" of the early MAGA / 1970s sustained through an insurgency against his father and then through a communist insurgency against himself, pretty much the last time in history US-born & Ioway-corn fed dudes about town actually amounted to anything in practice. They did ok in WW1 (not great, but ok) under the supervision of their own government. Then they did miserably enough in WW2 (about on par with the Italians, dicking back and forth over Sicily pretty much, lawd's mercy) s'as to make sure there ain't ever gonna be another one (because, as every owner knows, you don't send your mutt to competitions it ain't gonna win just to burn the gas on the trip). Then they showed themselves marginal in Rhodesia and actually won something in Oman, under private management (meaning : in greatly reduced numbers, imposed by having to select among the "available resources" consisting of 99.x% pure shit). And then... that was it, if you don't mean "leading the coalition that conquered Mosul", of course, kekekex.

Because in any fair an' balanced reckoning that's the history of the shithole, unavoidably : America went from

about 80% of adolescent males worth, if not nearly as much as a Prussian, then still just about on par with an Austro-Hungarian (though not really the Hungarian side)

back in 1915 to

about 50% of adolescent males still worth a residual nonzero something, about on par with the Italians and other African nations (excepting Eritrea), well under the French even, not to mention of course the Brits, Poles, Colonials, Romanians, Hungarians, Serbo-Croatians and other maniacs, Germans, Soviets, Japanese or Fins (in that order)

back in 1940, to finally

less than 1% of adolescent males worth anything at all, they barely got enough gut to make a native

after yet another quarter century, so by 1965. Ok, American ? [↩]No, seriously, what exactly makes this either uncontroversial or even conceivable ? What, because the boss dies now the servants become boss-able ? If 00-Batman dies do you expect to promote that Ask Jeeves character to Supermanhood ? Or what exactly, if you drive into a truck tomorrow wifey's gonna promote the family dog to your vacant cuckhood and carry on that way ? [↩]In a most amusing application of this, a waiter at some place I frequent very excitedly approached me a coupla days ago to tell me all about this great club he's found (this is something I welcome) where there's oodlebunches of hotties and what a great time he's had with his gal there and I absolutely gotta check it out (by now it was getting suspicious, we're not that close) ; only for it to turn out upon examination that "the club" consists entirely of yet another dork who can't answer his phone (too much pressure!) and otherwise the oodlebunches & great timehaving etcetera is basically the waiter's wife looking for someone to eat her out. Which... holy shit Charlotte, the gals downtown will do it for a twenny, get with the programme what the fuck. [↩]"Law Enforcement" does this for a living, incidentally. In the US it's mostly expressed as "indulge dudes in lengthy, torturous exchanges full of accidental puns and unnoticed double-entendres, to be then turned as '''evidence''' of '''terrorism''' in '''legal proceedings''' (such at they are)", but here for instance it's expressed as dudes on bikes and in uniform (facebras included, of course) waiting for someone to ask them directions.

It's not just me doing it, the vast majority of police-citizenry interactions I've to date observed begin with "Disculpe amigo" and end with "tres a la derecha" (or izquierda or dos or whatever the case may be). So basically, getting the dudes involved to any degree is outright work, like elevating grain or moving earth. The only difference's that here they pay the dudes to do the very basics of realisation (giving directions, it requires some degree of presence in actual ontology) ; whereas over there they pay caretakers to pretend like some sort of realisation's somehow ongoing (somewhere else, just over the horizon) -- because, I suppose, the autism's so advanced over there, any real approach's doomed from the start by the laws of large numbers, leaving only idle pretense as an open avenue. It's just a guess, don't bite me.

It's not "civilised" vs "uncivilised", not anymore. Everyone's equally poor, materially an' spiritually, and poor in the exact same ways single global way. It's not "developed" vs "undeveloped" because the same boats from the same China supply all shores the same way. When the plushies invade they're the same plushies, when the "fashion" shows up it's the same fashion some bald Chinese dude who likes to touch nine year old girls intimately came up with. It's not East vs West nor North vs South nor anything whatsoever besides

paying the very dudes to personally satisfy some moderate standard of involvement

versus

paying some dudes to personally swear some other, "large" batches of dudes (as misquoted and misrepresented in effigy) pars-pro-totum satisfied some much lower standard of involvement

That's it! [↩]Of which you can of course "take your pick", though it does not change over the centuries : 1900s, 2000s, will add the 2100s here though it'll be exactly the same stale ole shit, I assure you. [↩]After a coupla hours productively invested in ironing out protocol wrinkles, sorting out edge cases and all the rest of that sweet sweet systems work (just like last time),

mircea_popescu nu e o problema, las' ca e ok

diana_coman ma rog, daca e chiar o problema in practica ma gandesc ca vom afla

mircea_popescu cam asa

diana_coman da, adaugirea aia suna bine

mircea_popescu bon. deci ne-am scos ?

diana_coman macar m-am lamurit ce ar fi de facut mai departe

diana_coman de scos... inca nu stiu, pana nu ma vad cu el in functie,lol

mircea_popescu bine. hai ca ma duc sa mai scriu niste articole despre ce rele-s femeile in cimpu' muncii si cum incurca ele draga barbatii de la treburi.

diana_coman ahaha, da

diana_coman asa si ie!

mircea_popescu ca daca n-ai stiut asa chiar si este, is niste muncitori astia ca albinutele pe-acolo,

mircea_popescu si nu pot draga face ca-i tin fetili de cot.

diana_coman eu stiu da' mi s-a parut mereu foarte amuzant macar.

[↩]I wrote an actual novel with one over New Year's ; and (leaving aside how it's the best fiction item come out since my last one, and by a wide margin at that) it was quite fucking enjoyable an experience! Not because interspersed with fucking, but because fucking enjoyable of itself and of its own substance. [↩]Maybe it's "the population of a typical Internet Cafe in 1990s Romania", maybe it's "the criminal underworld gathered at a wedding", maybe it's "the retarded adolescent kids of my friends", maybe it is "the sort of idiot who'd watch some film and take some device straight", you really never know. I barely ever know, and most usually only in retrospect anyways. [↩]According to which, about 80% of the readership's female, and non-ESL. [↩]

« Doll Face

Yesterday and today »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Saturday, 30 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

How to publish my novel

I don't know about your novel. For one thing, I don't actually think it's liable to be a novel at all ; nor do I suspect either you or it of any adherence to the possessive -- it can't be yours no matter what you do or it is. I don't therefore intend to offer anything like advice.i

My novel however (which is mine notwithstanding it started life as the mis-shod retelling of the life experience of some black dude) saw the light of publication right here on Trilema, no further than... o look at that, it's been almost three whole days since the last (24th) chapter hit the feeds, meaning the first's all of two weeks old. I guess that's long enough to have some real data.ii It'd better be long enough, anyways.

First off, some basics :

> ls -l

-rw-r--r-- 1 trilema trilema 49943787728 Feb 28 22:52 trilema.com-Feb-2021

-rw-r--r-- 1 trilema trilema 22566580341 Mar 12 21:46 trilema.com-Mar-2021iii

> wc -l trilema.com-Feb-2021iv

248491171 trilema.com-Feb-2021

> wc -l trilema.com-Mar-2021

83622196 trilema.com-Mar-2021

And now on with it :

There's been a total of 5`823`760 calls for the pattern "GET /2021/the-real-pimp-chapter-"v from distinct IPsvi that then called the headervii, a behaviour I deem enough of an indication that page was actually loaded for human consumption, as opposed to programmatical.

The most widely read chapter is To Tuskegee, And Back somehow, oddly enough, called 371`875 times. The rest of the chapters order historically, from a little over 300k for the first to a little under 200k for the last. Something like two thirds of the people who started reading it also finished it, with the remainder third either momentarily too busy or lost along the way.viii

841`562 of those 5.83 mn were referred by "http://trilema.com/" (which is the special case of habitual usersix coming in to check what's new). The ordered top of referrers thence is ~nothing but Trilema itself for the next 100+ positions, various pages. The first time any external occurs, it's politico.com ; its 198 referrals don't earn it a position in the top 100, or for that matter 500. The "usual suspects" so to speakx are all present, of course, hundreds upon hundres of these great successes online which nevertheless collectively fail to amount to a spit in the rain. Mayhaps it's mere coincidence, or just an artifact of the... very wide point of viewxi ? Perhaps it's simply reflecting their utter irrelevancy, though. I mean, if anyone gave a shit about the collected web outside these here gates, it'd... show, right ? It'd actually matter, somehow. It'd move, something. Just my guess, don't mind me.

My first novel ever, published a good 15 years ago, ran if memory serves 14`000 copies (single edition)xii. I never cared to look at numbers for the intervening onesxiii, but the roughly twenty-fold implied readership of this last one isn't so bad in art-over-time termsxiv, though meaningful comparisons are indeed difficult : a printed book can be in principle re-read an infinity of times (and at some point in history some indeed were) ; on the other hand we're discussing here folk who at least specifically looked for each chapter, whereas a physical book can (and god knows often enough does) end up closer to a brick in its usage than anything.

Anyway, to bring this lengthy circumvolution to some kind of conclusion : I'm of the contrary oppinion to Paul Goma. I couldn't give less of a shit as to what or whether some dour moron "says about it". The world seen through my eyes is completely empty, absolutely devoid of life. There's no peers, anywhere. I looked, long and hard enough. I am done looking. I don't care what some subhuman thinks he thinks on this -- or any other -- topic. The only metrics of interest to me are pure consumption and actual world-shaping (which pointedly means, irrespective the "will" of the shaped) ; and therefore as far as publishing my novels goes, Trilema's by far the best outlet in existence.xv

———Really, I'm only writing this down at all because gzip -d is taking to damn long, and I get bored easily. [↩]Come to think of it, if you ever find anyone that can stand comparison... God knows the last set of hopefuls got burned pretty badly. [↩]This'd be until the 11th ; there's some shenanigans implicit in Apache log rotation handling where the "current day" is kept apart and I really didn't feel like splicing. [↩]

98.6m 608 508 D 9.2 0.0 0:14.93 wc

for fuck's sake already, this is a kickass box wtf. [↩]This approach excludes the last chapter from the tally, because whatever, I didn't think things through when I started. Fuck it, what difference does it make anyways. [↩]Not at all the same thing as "uniques", seeing how these don't reset every day. [↩]Something like

GET /wp-content/themes/trilema/images/bg_nov2017.jpg HTTP/1.1" 304 - "http://trilema.com/2021/the-real-pimp-chapter-7-blown-whoreless-and-fresh-out-of-girl/" "Mozilla/5.0 (Windows NT 10.0; Win64; x64) AppleWebKit/537.36 (KHTML, like Gecko) Chrome/88.0.4324.190 Safari/537.36

[↩]This being a particularly important metric to my eyes, as you perhaps expect, given that it's rare enough an occurrence I actually manage to finish a book. [↩]That's a particularly informative, not to say amusing, reference. Fancy, quarter million months, back in 2014 (a year or two after I switched Trilema over to mostly English). The web sure has grown since then, huh. [↩]twitter, bandcamp, oup.com, evernote.com, ft.com, *.wikipedia.org, *.fb.com, ietf.org, eff.org, tmz.com, stanford.edu, newscientist.com, 4channel.org, businessinsider.com, ask.fm, gutenberg.org, genius.com, boredpanda.com, match.com, nme.com, hm.com, poynter.org, foxnews.com, various medium.com fakeouts (they supposedly run off their own domain, but...) and "url shorteners" etc etc. Even fucking stripchat's in there. Who the everloving wants to discuss Trilema while oh... I see now. Aite, enjoy. [↩]My vantage here on Trilema being anything but narrow, by grace of Trilema being by far the widest read blog, both today and ever on the web. [↩]Of which maybe 500 or so were melted in the end. Something like that. Not bad for a book I refused to get an ISBN for, anyhow. [↩]2016's Disgrace, 2017's Zuleika Dobson, 2018s Double Indemnity, 2020s Diary of a baby doll and this year's Dangerous -- excluding the Romanian-language items prior to that date and a bunch of shorter stories in between. [↩]To say nothing of how it utterly blows out of the water all conceivable classics of this, or any other, language. I mean... it sure beats Jane Austen's 44 reads, right ? [↩]At the very least, nothing ever has to go out of print ; but as a practical exercise, see how many titles with a 300k initial run you can find. It might turn out quite informative. [↩]

« In other anal-yzing, analulz aun azoy oyf...

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Category: Meta psihoza

Saturday, 13 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Higher order effects, a pizdillustration.

The greatest thing about owning your own harem are, of course, the higher order effects. The sort of thing the naive, wanking pointlessly outside the gates, "trying to imagine" "how it could be" etcetera are necessarily spared, by the very nature of the interplay between phenomenology and imagination (ie because you can only ever imagine the little you've seen before).

Exemplum docet :

At some point illo tempore (certainly before going to Europe) I bought the bimbo a little clay giraffe. Because we were in a crockery store for other reasons, and she was new and whatever, it made sense at the time. The giraffe in question was promptly baptised Gerri, and participated in whatever activities its nature and circumstances befitted, such as standing on a dresser to be gazed longlingly upon by a dazed, recently enslaved girly stuck in her first training cage.

At some other point, this time in Europe, I bought my boss whore some tea, not because of the tea but because of the packaging. The tea itself merits no comment I don't think ; but it came inside an actual music box, which we still have, for having carried across the Atlantic in our extensive baggage train (extensive enough Lufthansa was incapable of handling it, for its undying shame and hopefully imminent bankruptcy). You spin it and it plays a little tune on a miniature mechanism, it could be happy, it could be sad, we sometimes marionette around & about it ; the true reason I bought was the painting on the outside of the can. It's so very evocative of Alphonse Mucha's best moments, and we were so disappointed by the Prague "Mucha Museum" (seriously, Euro museums broadly underwhelm, with exceptions) that I apparently didn't even mention the visit. She's a great fan, and when we ran across it I asked her if she wants it and her eyes got all wide because it's so silly and out of character and who the hell even buys such things. Well... me, for her, why not.

We do this hiding game, whereby the numerous creatures about the house go places for reasons, and then the unicorn girl's stuck looking for them, trying to follow clues, what if they're hungry, she could've made the giraffe (who, by the way, went on an emergencyi scientific expedition) some nice bamboo sandwiches if only she knew ; and if I had only said "the giraffe needs some bamboo sandwiches for no reason" she'd have been happy to make them with no questions asked!

Eventually Gerri was indeed found, inside the music box in question (it's in some sense counterintuitive to lift the lid, as the mechanism plays without so it's almost never opened ; but it was obvious to her, because she smuggled some things in there as part of the means and ways of surviving Operation Pare Down back on the wrong side of the pond), where it was examining the very music-making mechanism, an activity definitely scientific enough for a clay giraffe ; but by now the bamboo sandwiches were a thing, so when we walked in the park of course Hannah suggested picking up some bamboo just in case, which necessarily came in the shape of something very much like a... switch. Yes ? So I switched their asses around a little (yes, in the park ; what, problem ?ii), the idea girl apologizing to the other all through, "I don't know why it didn't occur to me" while the other pretending she's not tickled pink by all the unprepared public play. Fun with pairs of girls, you know ?

So then as we laid down to "hang out", coincidentally in my bed, I had Nicole kneel across and just switched her ass regularly without let or hindrance until my arm was tired. The calves, the feet, the buttocks, the thighs, all of it ; all the while Hannah's very real guilt impelling her rubbing and then swallowing my cock most enthusiatically, and moaning her best moan s'as to maybe make me cum quickly and rescue her lovergirl from the enduring ordeal (it didn't really work, but then again intentions cunt).

So now, to continue ye olde discussion of payments and sex : I bought a two-inch clay statuette of a giraffe two years ago to get a very enthusiastic blowjobiii and the moan and groan background earlier this evening, rite ?

Higher order efects : they rule everything like no-one's business. And if you don't have any... well. What you mean is you don't have any working for you. Stop being so fucking poor!

———This is made richer by the circumstance that it only recently got eyes, by having them painted on with a marker. So of course it'd go make the most of them, see ? What if they fade away! [↩]Originally I was going to put in here a reference to Hannah taking everything off in Saavedra Park back in Buenos Aires and having the entire "police" force run over out of breath ; but typically enough I can't fucking find it now. [↩]I also table-fucked her, which is yet another obscure sexual practice I might detailedly discuss some day. For now suffice to say that when you fuck a girl on her back across another girl kneeling you're table-fucking her. Don't knock it 'till you try it, there's something to be said for all the alternative grabbing and purchase thus obtained -- at least if the girls involved are even half-qualified for fucking in the first place. [↩]

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Girl with a Pearl Earring »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Thursday, 14 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

Hello, Frisco, Hello

Hello, Friscoi, Helloii is a delightful musical/comedy from back in the old times.

One one hand it's outright inconceivable washboard-dry Bari was an actual bona fide pin-up girl in ye 40s (and somewhat 30s), her bony chest somehow missperceived as part and parcel of a "million dollar figureiii". June Havoc on the other hand is the adult instar of vaudeville's Baby June, sister to ecdysiast and... socialite, I suppose, Gypsy Rose. Just as much B ; she was definitely and undeniably A as a dancin' & prancin' preteen, but by the time the baby fat dried off Hovick her pretty blue eyes and readily kicky legs stuck to RKO. Payne is such a forgettable turdiv I spent the whole time thinking I'm watching William Powell in The Great Ziegfeldv and awakening from the sweet delusion with an unpleasant start each close-up. Jack Oakie, finally, is a John Goofdman forerunner like you couldn't believe. I kept thinking I'm seeing that oaf, then figuring what the hell, is he negative twenty years old ?! Then coming back to sense, it's Oakie, not Oafie! If you're a Goodman fan (you don't have to be as big a fan as I am, even a smaller fan will do) you gotsta do yourself the favour and watch his prophet at work.

Oh, right, and Alice Faye, Hell's Kitchen's most famous singer in the world. She sure can sing alright. She's a perfectly acceptable operatic contralto, with personal color, though she doesn't protect her lower ranges correctly and so on. Actress singers, whatever. She introduced "You'll Never Know" here, which supposedly is still a standard (though I don't expect you know it). She took off soon thereafter to mom out, and returned two decades later (to make State Fair), which prompted a quite memorable

I don't know what happened to the picture business. I'm sorry I went back to find out. Such a shame!

that I also very much don't expect you know about. And that was in the sixties, which is to say long, long before Hot Topic Netflix.

All the foregoing slowly constructs the context and atmosphere for what exactly is so delightful about this production. Simple enough to explain, now : its not having much to do with your usual stock in trade, that's what. Yes the woman gets the man, yes eventually, but I can't imagine who'd begrudge her the success, or why would they. Nor is it a matter of "having earned it", in the meta-sense. She's actually earned it. Not "something you say", you know ? None of it is "something you say", not even the parts they sing. That's what's delightful about it.

Everything other than what you are, and what you do, and what you think and how you think it. That's the only delight in this world.

———The mayor actually complained, resulting in MGM billing it "Hello, San Francisco, Hello" for all local screenings. [↩]1943, by Bruce Humberstone, with Alice Faye, John Payne, Jack Oakie, June Havoc and Lynn Bari. [↩]No shitting, "The Woo Woo Girl" and nonsense in that vein, bitch ain't got what to fill a B-cup with. Lifelong B-lister, B-cup Lynn B.

Speaking of which, hey bimbo you should get her whole film list, she's been nobody in a lot of half-decent to almost-interesting productions. [↩]Borne out of something quite like Dangerous, incidentally. [↩]Not a much better, or all that different, film. Actually worse, really, which in retrospect explains how come I never reviewed it. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 26 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Girl with a Pearl Earring

The messenger staggers inside the granite-lined court, past the heavy oak door gaunt in darkening old iron standing ajar. Everything about is pure granite : the stones sett in the pavement, sloping gently but very evenly towards a drainage sligtly off-center, all polished smooth by what must've been centuries' worth of female fret in wooden sabot ; the faces of buildings towards it, standing morose as if to say "This, too, shall pass, young man. Like you, and like your youth, this too. All passes just the same, leaving no dent, no trace. Granite polishes slowly, by faint degree, its permanence measured in lifetimes, and not just one or two." Even the tiles on the rooves had over the years and through innumerable cold rains acquired the impenetrably gray appearance of granite. There's a special lichen that does just that service for old tile standing exposed in cold wet climate ; perhaps other microbes make the women's faces look quite so Dutch as they age out of sexuality as well.

The messenger is thoroughly dusted, his face and hair like his boots equally covered in the fine offerings of travel. Dust, ground by horseshoe after horseshoe out of the land and stored in the road, to salt all who pass with the freely offered remembrance of what was once a place, but now's just merely a way. Dust, like ashes, one of the precisely two things in this word patiently awaiting your return. The messenger looks haggard, unslept, his habit thoroughly trashed, slashed in places, altogether betraying what might very well have been a roll down a steep hillside, through rocks and trunks and all, and worth a good half mile at the least. His horse, a nervous little creature all poise and determination is sparing its left hindleg gingerly. The ankle's bloody under the white scarf tying it, the horse's ears perked just as a clever horse's ears perk in and about grave danger of the exact kind the best riders tend to get a good horse into. As the messenger's ushered quickly inside the Sun above sets itself to the complicated alambications and unknown procedures of its eventual setting, half hour to an hour hence.

The lord to whom the message's intended grabs it from the messenger's hands nervously, greedily. As his own bow and leave he opens the canister, glances over the contents, then turns towards he who has brought it. Just a boy, really, not older than sixteen, perhaps even not as old as that.

"You're early. I was expecting you with the moonrise. Certainly not before sunset."

"Yes, milord."

"A stiff progress ?"

"It was, milord."

"For your reward, and while you wait, go to the kitchen. Seek the new girl, her name is... Griet, was it ? Something like that. Have her feed you, say I bid so ; and while she does play with her titties. Then when you're done have her lick your rod, like a kitten. Like the Frenchwomen do."

"Yes milord."

With that the last has gone ; the court's master and owner's left to his own pacing about, under great stern portraits of great men long gone lining the walls, their faces dimming towards darkness alongside the fading day's light.

At length the lord sits, and writes and scratches out and writes more and copies and then seals. He goes to ring, but then changes his mind and storms out. He finds his way to his own kitchen, all silent in the dark. There's one thick candle stood on the edge of the long servant's table, illuminating on one side the remains of what might've been a feast for three or four ; but all the bones are sucked clean, and all the gravy sopped up, and all the plates polished to near mirror. There is no wine, the girl to silly to profer it no doubt, the boy too well restrained to ask. He will grow out of it, in time, or perhaps not. They're together, their bodies catching faint light on the other side : he, laying against the wall, almost on his back and she, atop of him, her breast dangling freely out her bodice. She's kissing his manhood, very gently ; the lord steps quietly behind her and lifts her skirts over her waist. She turns, without letting go of the prize in her mouth, just as the lord murmurs "Ah, what delight."

She reaches around with her left, pulling her buttocks apart ; kissing away for a brief moment she says "Your lordhsip need but ask."

He looks at her, from behind her ample offering ; for a moment their eyes meet and there's a conductivity through her, like through a medium, connecting his mind and its desires through her body.

"Eager, are you girly ?"

"Yes, milord."

With that he impales her, making her eyes roll high in her head and her lungs inhale sharply. Her innocence slaughtered, she pushes the rod into the back of her throat as far as it'll go, and then proceeds to pound its head down in step with the pounding of her other end, wincing slightly at first.

After a while the immobile messenger lifts his body somewhat, still under the delicate cannonade of her loving mouth. He seemed passed out, but perhaps was just enjoying himself, with his own thoughts. Eventually he looks up and inquires with the lord of the place : "May I have this girl for my wife ?"

"Just as soon as I'm done with her." comes firm the reply.

The foregoing's what Girl with a Pearl Earringi could've been, and also absolutely all that's worth saying about it. I can't imagine why they insist miscasting that consumate pornstarii in softcore bullshit made for "careerwomen" and other overgrown girlies like she's fucking Fabio. Her obvious talents are just as obviously wasted thus, and really nobody gives a shit what girlies think they think or think they want or whateveriii.

———2003, by Peter Webber, with Scarlett Johansson, Colin Firth. [↩]No, bitch's not an actress, in that she can't fucking act. She can be sexy, that's all, nor is there anyting wrong with that -- at least, not until the pretense starts.

Bette Davis can be a maid if she so chooses (not that she ever did), but Scarlett can only be Griet in the foregoing, or the plaything & fucktoy of the older chicks in Bound if someone re-wrote it that way (not that anyone should), or I suppose an alternative Denise Richards in Wild Things or an alt-Sherilyn, replacement Hurley and so on. [↩]Back in 2004 the Hollywood was being "taken over" by yet another generation of failed highschool principals and assorted public nuisances, resulting in this dementedly socialist reinterpretation of cinema whereby they're going to cast pretty girls as "ordinary people" doing "ordinary things" under the twin pretense that a) nobody's gonna notice, somehow, the girls themselves included and b) everything's gonna be organized as if anyone had in fact noticed anyways. Truly reprehensible dumb shit such as the stock "uncouth rich guy" from down at the sports bar impossibly retrofitted into a 17th century Holland where he did absolutely not exist finding out her name so therefore two scenes later the butcher delivery boy just fucking knows it too! How the fuck did that happen ? Just like that, magically. So important's the pretty girl's pretty that while nobody will mention it, discuss it or react to it explicitly, and while she gets to pretend she's "just a maid", yet nevertheless everyone runs messengers back and forth to keep each other appraised of her every detail, like faggoty highschool boys. That's what the "uncouth rich dude from down at the sports bar" does, in this Hollywoodian "Holland" of the "17th century" : he runs off to inform the "love interest" what to call the dumb bitch.

This purely imaginary, painstakingly constructed highschool universe, this enchanted lala-land wherein she still "has to show up for class", though there's better things available (or rather -- there's still such a thing as a class for her to show up to!), and the athlete still has to turn in "his homework"... this is false, how shall I put it. I'm sure it's the world some children inhabit, mentally ; I see nothing wrong with some adults being adled enough to actually spend some time in there as well. But it's not life, it's school "life", it has nothing to do with either reality or fiction ; and "historical setting" is not there to provide be co-opted into "oh, they were absurd back then, we're absurd right now, should be ok". It ain't fucking ok, it never is ok, they were "absurd" in their own logical way, just like you're absurd in your own "logical" way ; and never the twain shall fucking meet.

What the fuck next, "everyone believes in representative democracy just like everyone believes in Santa Claus -- just look at all the stores stocking relevant products!!!" ? Pshaw. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 14 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

George White's Scandals

George White's Scandalsi very much stands as a celebration of the on-screeen eruption of a Frog (the frog) aesthetic, directed by, entirely conceived of (and through) a batrachian's worldview.ii So come one and all and see what frogs think of ye! They tried really hard to understand, and made what they deem a most credible to not say passible rendition of humanity seen through their eyes! There's not even any depiction of fly eatings! as barely conceivable maximal extension of indulgent tolerance for greater makehumanity! (though there's some very tadpole-like choreographies)

The truth of the matter's Florenz had the foresight to croak before the MGM wondermachineiii took a hold of his work and fucked it (though they still tried -- at least this way the spurious attempt can be thoroughly ignored).

George White, the producer of muchly inferior output, "wasn't about to wait until he was beyond caring"iv. He therefore issued two versionsv of his forgettable "Scandals" for Fox, which are utterly miserable because... Well looksy, Broadway revue functioned in a particular context, serving a very clearly delineated role, servicing a very clearly understood public : all the marketable cuntsvi flocked to New York to be marketedvii, and the chorus line was the vehicle of their marketing.

Absent the fresh meat buyers, the display makes about as much sense as "Occidental" supermarket advertising paradropped in 1980s Soviet space, or this blog among an ESLtard readersheep. The hell are they gonna grok from it ?! It's just not meaningful, and not in any danger of being understood or to any degree relevant to the audience (in practice, they'll just produce their own substitute "understanding" in their own terms for their own consumption and that's it). A hammer without even the concept of nails, what the hell is that ? A holy chalice in a world so desiccated even alcohol long evaporated, what could it possibly denote, let alone connote, for anyone at all ? Anyone who, anyways ?!

What's left behind is a plotless atrocity of self-repeating face cameos in a kaleidoscope miscast as camera, inexplicable and incomprehensible ; in any case worthless once that particular one batch of bachelorettes was sold off by the time Autumn 1934 rolled around. It might be argued that the New-York based Instagram of 1930 worked way the fuck better than the current version, but even this much is doubtful.viii In any case it was much simpler, and simplicity in industry never bodes well.

———1934, allegedly by George White though we know better, with nobody in particular (unless you count Happy McGillicuddy). [↩]If anyone's concerned as to the how's it going for his friend Burt, why...

Self-cannibalization of itself! That's what happens! [↩]As in Romanian, "copilu' minune : minca gem si caca prune". [↩]It paid off, too -- he's got an imdb profile the size of any other nameless chorus girls'.

Kudos for selling out, wanna-be lame fuck! Totally! [↩]The difference between them being a blackface act in the first that's deleted in the second. Nothing remarkable about it (besides perhaps it being titled "That's Why Darkies Were Born"), just a bunch of brutish "talented rappers/basketball players/etcetera" carrying a bunch of white reproductive assets (in blackface) on their backs, and an old black woman of stereo-typical proportions with a bunch of singin' pickaninnies under her skirts (that have children of their own apparently, age-irrespective). That sorta thing, middle of the road 1930s minstrel fare. [↩]Mostly sixteen-ish (by which we mean fifteen and a leaf), though the occasional neglected Faye'd debut as old as 18. [↩]Starting well before the Dust Bowl cataclystic explosion, actually. [↩]Take this single data point : Facebook's introducing (or introduced already, I forget) a... custodian of infantile periamorous mobilizations service, namely if you tell it that you have a crush on some friend, it'll withhold this information "from anyone" (hurr) except if the friend in question confides the same, in which case it'll tell both of you!

Imagine this wonder! It's the only function and utility of the circle of friends among all UStards (and thirteen years old girls worldwide). All they even maintain social circles for is the management and negotiation of publicity on the topic of "their secret crush". Once Facebook undertakes that one task, there's really no reason whatsoever to ever answer the phone again, isn't that right ? Well...

(Though of course these naive "best ideas" never work out systematically ; and self-obviously once the boys find out Facebook'll have to limit how many crushes they can have at the same time -- a very girly thing to do, really, as boys have no such limit naturally -- and still turn into exactly Tindr.) [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 31 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Frank's Milk

Frank pulled the beat-up old Pontiac in front of the Kum & Go store. A large crack in the paint separated the G in almost equal halves, though it didn't mean anything. As the rusting heap came to a screeching halt on the dusty gravel, muffled yelps and something quite like bumping could almost be heard coming from the trunk. There wasn't anyone there to hear anything, though. Frank slammed the driver's door shut behind him and then carried his cowboy boots, one step at a time, towards the swinging entrance and beyond.

The clerk gave the customer newly come in a disinterested nod. Frank walked right past, taking no notice of the clerk, or anything else on his way to the back of the store, where amid frozen goods of all manner and description one fridge carried milk. That was his point of interest. Frank had driven to the store to buy himself some milk. Not just any milk would do, though. Frank was very particular about his lactic purchases. For a while now a national confederation of misguided do-gooders had organized the packing industry such that each milk carton carried the photorealistic likeness of some sexually active pre-teen or other instead of the traditional outlines of mere cows, indescript and nameless. In fairness the sexual activity was at the most presumed. At least until a courtly conviction enacting otherwise into the official public record everyone "had to", at least publicly or to some obscure standard never meaningfully discussed, "act as if" that were the case. What were the case ? Whatever. To be perfectly fair the cowness of the previous outlines was similarily presumed, not like anyone had the idea to put real cow pictures on their milk cartons. With names, perhaps, "Joiana, aged 3 and a half, squirted you this bottle." Nothing like that, god forbid. The transition from presumable cows to presumable fucktoys went as smoothly as any transition ever at the most could hope for, leaving behind no traces excepting, of course, for having "changed the world", albeit imperceptibly, "for the better".

Truthfully speaking the improvement wasn't exactly imperceptible. It was broadly imperceptible, but in detail there were those who very sharply perceived it. Frank, for one, was just such a one. The striking similarity between highschool picture albums and a collection of milk cartons of the novel make, the kind from whose visual real estate the general, abstract cow population was evicted, to make room for more detailed likenesses of more recognizable poultry did not escape him ; and ever since the welcome change he made a point to, after every abduction, drive to the closest convenience store to supply himself with High School Milk, as he privately called it.

Most pre-teens don't know this, but milk makes for excellent enemas. Frank sometimes added molasses, especially for submissive, eager to please girls of darker complexion. He almost never did that for little boys, perhaps a reflection of obsolete biases about intrinsic gender roles and a perceived need for boys to "toughen up" and such memorabilia. In any case the milk container itself, easily squeezed paper, made for an excellent delivery vehicle. In a palpable sense it could be said the ministrations immediately following the convenience store visit marked an improvement in the life of Frank's unwilling and unexpected wards, however brief it might be, and to that degree one can fairly conclude that in fact the pictures helped, at least in somewhat, some desperate kids, somewhere.

Frank much preferred pictures he'd never seen before, and so he spent a while rooting through the fridge. Eventually he had enough, straightened himself, walked one foot right after the other all the way to the counter, paid and went back to his old Pontiac, with the muffled bumps and yelps perhaps coming from the trunk. And then he drove off.

The end.

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Wednesday, 24 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

Fox Airpsace

Motto : I am not a citizen of your Romanian state,

unless (and only insofar as) it pays something.

Otherwise, I am a Romaniani but not a citizen.ii

One idea in experimental zoology / entertainment would be to construct a bunch of plexiglass cubic cells with a false roof, such that it can be retracted to let whatever is piled up on it drop in. Then lodge a cat inside the cell and place well selected materials atop the dumproof : fifty miles of various lengths of various colors of yarn (actual wool though, not synthetic -- which might prove itself a challenge, because go see if you can find wool yarn anywhere that doesn't merely call itself wool, but actually is wool), eighty-nine thousand pipe cleanersiii, fifty-fifth ounces of feathers (not necessarily duck, turkey or even chicken works just fine), or maybe a dozen-and-a-half drones, flying about randomly -- watch that poor cat cower in a corner and pee!

Another idea is to have masochist slavegirls get tummy tucks. Truly plastic surgery has all the makings of fabulous adventure : it's consummatedly humiliating (to say nothing of catheters, do you know there's a drainage ampoule involved, that the misfortunate creature has to drag around with her everywhere ?), perdurantly and insistently painful in such ways no impact play can reliably deliver, and then, to add psycho-philosophical insult to surgical injury, it's improving. Isn't this exactly what "protestant morality" reduces to ? Well then ?

Bwahahahaha.

To make the lengthy story short and bitter : there are no standing answers to the problem of existence. That & airpsace'd better be enough for everyone -- because if it isn't... well... there's just no more, that's all.

———Transylvanian, really, like Mihaly Kertesz (Michael Curtiz) and Emanuel Goldenberg (Edward G. Robinson) rather than "Romanian" like I couldn't tell you who (nor do I want to). Truth be told it's not even altogether clear to me what this "Romanian" novelty is supposed to even be. [↩]No, seriously. The only possible reason for organizing a state -- and I say possible, which is not the same as necessary -- is the furthering of my privilege ; and the oppression -- nude, rude and undisimulated -- of everyone else's hallucinations to choice, optionality, personhood etcetera. If it's not a tool for the teaching of the idiots that they're idiots, then what the fuck can it possibly be ?

From what I see the practical state (or what's left of it, anyways) has in practice degenerated into the lowest level of this arrangement, where it's bribing a bunch of extras to vouch for its continued existence, "here's 50 dollars a baker's dozen 'happy meals' if you sign this paper saying the United States is a thing irl". I mean... I guess, if anyone wants the chicken scribblings of the gunkeaters for any purpose. I know I don't (though as per usual it's an old Trilema idea being re-implemented by the lamer co-op), and what's more : nobody's yet managed to explain why exactly anyone would. The question's been open for millennia, the answer's been coming up negative since before M. T. Cicero, it's just...

Anyways, caught in there is also the death of taxes : pay some state money of your own ?! Ahahahaha, what ?! If "the government" is giving me free money, then it can pretend it gave me however much it wants to, by&for itself, to its own satisfaction. Whether it claims the hundred was really ten million or fifty trillion is uninteresting, it's more than welcome to "charge" 99.99~infinity~99999% "tax" on its mandatory tribute it has to pay me because vae victis. But other than that... let's get serious here, there ain't no way in fuck any "government" is ever getting a sockpill out of anything else. Because why the fuck would it, hurr. [↩]Do you have these, by the way ? I find they're a must in any serious self-respecting harem. [↩]

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Category: Zsilnic

Saturday, 08 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Equalizing the lolz of inequality

Apparently I have a #1 fan, or haven't you heard ? (No, it's not you.)

On Instagram of all places, which is facebook's facebook away from home or something like that. With pictures in any case, or dumbphones, or something. #Whatever.

The thing of it is though, this #1 fan of mine (which I have) doing his fan business on some platform of facebook's (which I apparently also have) encounters in his her daily life... the same exact problems (which I have discussed, to death). To wit :

Every two bit nobody still, to this very advanced date and unbearably late hour neverthless still!!! persists in the unmitigable insanity of implicit equality. He's going to write to you, you're going to engage him. And on his own terms. Why ? Because why not!!! Ain't that enough ?

The fact that there's a thousand 855 exactly like him, directly and unequivocally equivalent substitutes readily offering themselves every minute eight hours shouldn't, really, have any bearing. He's not being assaulted by anything such, so therefore you'd better be the same exact kinda goat. What capitalism ? What supply meets demand ? What curvei ?! That's evilii! Evil, evil, evil, all of it, and do we still have to do that ?!?!?

The naturally occurring problems of naturally occurring stupidity are not fixable without ablation ; meaning every society that "advances" to the point of fucking with the ablative pillars supporting it will necessarily drown itself in stupid. It was cool ok knowing you, though -- while that lasted.

———You know, in my latin native language which is Romanian... well... [↩]And why is it evil ? Why, because it contradicts a goat's worldview informed by that self-same goat's goaty esperiences, that's why it's evil ?

What the fuck else did you think evil was ?! [↩]

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Category: Meta psihoza

Tuesday, 23 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Don't Bother to Knock

Don't Bother to Knocki was doubtless intended as a vehicle for launching Monroe's dramatic career. Visibly every possible careii has been taken towards this single, over-arching purpose. This was supposed to be it! Her break, her big fat break into "serious acting". Her great establishment as an actually intellectual participant in productions listing her name, not mere decoration. That ancient dream of womanhoodiii, you know how it goes.

It doesn't work out ; sadly Marylin is by herself and on her own power too simple, intellectuallyiv, too earnestly close to brutish bios to manage passing herself off as even such a charicature of zoonv as a mere goffy teenager! By the end of it the situation of Widmark's character in the production, paternally supporting a broken husk of a young girl exactly mirrors the situation of Widmark himself, just as paternally supporting the remains of a catastrophically failed attempt at an actress.

Yet this could've been a great film ; the scene in particularvi where the eager filly opens the blind for the n-th time, after "strict refusals" in the inept manner, and since the man's not nearly as immediate in his response as her internal turmoil's in sensation she flicks them, repeatedly, quickly, like for a lighthouse sui generis, in her own mind ; and then he looks, o joy o boy o glory-days he looked at her!!! so she turns, because yes ? She's an idiot ; and then wills the phone into ringing. How many idiots, just like her, misused telephones, a man's toolvii in just that subhuman, purely African manner ? Hm ? And how ashamed were you of it, I mean before reading on Trilema to find out that yes, others know your secret ? HM ?

It could've been a great film, with an actual young woman in it ; da' cu caprita care este... mnoa.

———1952, by Roy W Baker, with Marilyn Monroe, Richard Widmark, Anne Bancroft, Jeanne Cagney. [↩]The script was very much written with this in mind, and from the get-go ; the casting even, I can't think of a more supportive, a more tolerant, a more fundamentally hired hand lead than Widmark. Even the interplay between this state of the facts and the writing's evident : the character's written so as to conceal the actual situation of the actor, a fine sartor's move. If I didn't know Taradash's from Luisville, KY (or Kentville, LA, whoever the fuck remembers the impossible mixings of inland America) I would lay thick odds towards his being an old NY tenement slum jew long gone blind on concealed surfile. [↩]Yes, all children crawl out of some woman, at some point in their life ; but did any woman yet have anything intelligent to say to them ? Are you sure ?

The problem'd be that she's a participant, yes, but for the warmth, for the milk, for the "love", "unquestioning", right ? "Devoted" ? She's supposed to love her kids and not ask questions, it's how the biology of it works ; but... is that enough ? What can she possibly do ? What happens if she tries ? [↩]This film has triggered an examination, and reviewing my familiarity with her I would guess she was sub-normal, intellectually, I'd say in that 96 to 98 IQ band that so irks description. It'd definitely explain her misery in life, seeing how the men likely valued her very differently in the evening and in the morning thereafter. It has relatively little to do with sex per se, and a lot to do with the sad misfortune of being mentally marginal, teetering perpetually on the very brink of that chasm. [↩]I use the online services as substitute for unicoding my keyboards, but... here, let's have some lulz together :

[↩]But not exclusively. Overall the depiction of organic mental illness is not merely formally correct but unmisguidingly expressive, as far as the materials of that expression allow. [↩]Hey man, telephones are no joke. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 27 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Doll Face

Doll Facei enjoys the distinction of having Carmen Miranda in there, dancing barefoot like you might remember it was done back in ye olde days (if you're old enough to have been around that long). Chick's really good at it, too ; unfortunately she's stuck in a box utterly inadequate for pretty much anythingii so she can't really give much proof of herself.

Besides this three minute bright spot, the production's absolutely incomprehensible. I suspect the people involved might have been simply demented. If plain insanity doesn't strike you as a likely explanation then I'm afraid I've no better, and what's more : you'll be stuck trying to explain all sort and manner of strictly inexplicable material. Do you know that by the lights of this bright crew it is conceivable for the producer of a Broadway show (who has turned down a readily recognizable stage star on the grounds of her "lacking culture", in the sense of being involved in "burli-q") to then not know or even bother to ask if the knock-around girl IS UNDER CONTRACT!!! Further : he complains. To her!!!! "Why didn't you tell me!" he says. A producer, with a straight face. Make sense of this for me, I'm all ears.

Seriously, so she's already much too fucked to be in his show in the first place, they apparently only do virgins or something, because whores are made of soap down there ? I don't know, maybe the idea is women are Venus fly traps basically, a kinda vegetable, those legs may look mammalian but really only open like half a dozen times tops per lifetime or some shit. They're made of wood, what! But then... when he changes his mind he (supposedly ?) he also changes his... memory ? Knowledge ? He simply does not expect that the well worn "burli-q" star might be... under contract. How about that! The thought does not occur, when he thinks of her perma-swollen sore pussy he magically doesn't also think of the... oh, what's the use.

Fiction, you understand, there's two kinds : to entertain, and to castrate. This is the second kind ; its entire raison d'etre is the representation of an imaginary competition of imagined cucks, wink wink nudge nudge, who knows, maybe you're dumb enough to monkey-see, monkey-do ? You're being "educated", through the enactment of the most impossibly, preposterously ridiculous of imaginary "contests". On one side, the out-and-out cucky cuck, an "intellectual" who gives Princess Cunt a ring on the terms that "she can hold on to it as long as it fits and if she wants to make it permanent she just says and if she's sick of it she just says also". Ain't that noble! What the fuck's the point ? But... wait, because on the other side there's the "anti"-hero cuck who's a "man of the people" (and you're supposed to identify with, if it wasn't plainly obvious enough let me spell it out). This guy (counterdistinctly from the other guy) gives Princess Cunt carte blanche to absolutely anything she wants or might cross her mind because... Uh. Right ? Fiction, dude, what the fuck "because". Why do "vampires" "suck blood" ? Because the intended readership is too shy an' self-awkward to rub that bud ? Well then, for the same reason these straw"men" here "do" things.

Most importantly though, the pepsi can on the left has also said The Mean Things (R) (TM). You know, stuff in the vein of "you gotta treat women rough", perhaps best typified by this exchange :

(very plaintive tone, literally asking for it) "I'm just trying to protect my rights!"

(stern) "If you don't button that face you're going to get plenty of rights. And some lefts, too!"

(suddenly happy, as if her life's found meaning) "Yes, sir!"

(old man approves) "See ? You gotta let 'em know who's boss."

As a factual matter that's how actual people managed the (back then, minute) amounts of female involvement in economic life, with its attendant toxic effects, a good century ago : unadorned ad baculum. It worked, certainly ; but it evidently doesn't scale, to say nothing of everything else.

Factuals aside, once the "street cred" of the cad's been "established" (through the idle parroting of the empty forms of whatever it is the parasites are trying to infect), the work of "educational" fiction can proceed its self-same, unchanging path : the "same guy" now turns around and does the cuck thing. The part where he says things as if he were something's the bait ; the part where he then turns around and tries to capitalize on whatever confusion he might've sown is the switch. "See, Johnny ?" That's how it goes. "Even Mr. Thisguy does it! Even Mr. Thatguy does it too! And everyone! It's just how it goes and... well, you have to understand. You believe Mommy now, don't you ? Hm ? HM ?"

In a word : your problems aren't in any sense new. Your lack of moral fiber is new (and "self-esteem" is proving in the field a very poor substitute) ; but otherwise the pathogens have been knocking on the door in the same way and with the same intensity since the dawn of time. You're just the first generation of positives to have let them in, that's all.

———1945, by Lewis Seiler, with Carmen Miranda and Vivian Blaine (Adelaide in Guys and Dolls). [↩]It's a lot like watching the best dentist of his generation trying to etch with wax utensils. Why is he etching in the first place ? He's a dentist not a draughtsman, what the fuck! And why's everything in his tray made of wax, what sort of perverse mind would go so far out of any conceivable way to make life difficult, and so pointedly pointlessly difficult at that ?!

Americans, you know, for a long long time the universal sore toe, forever stuffing themselves in everyone's way for no fucking reason whatsoever. Go back to Ioway, god damned breezers! [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 29 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

Fridericus Rex, unser Konig und Herr

In lacrimi, tata, as vrea sa ma topesc si sa dispar, cind ma gindesc ca aceasta scrisoare va provoca cea mai adinca suferinta in inima unui tata credincios. Ca toate sperantele pentru viitoarea mea bunastare si sprijinul la batrinete trebuie sa dispara intr-o clipa ; ca toate eforturile si toata straduinta pusa-n cresterea mea pina la maturitatea dorita fericirii au fost in van; da - ca va trebui sa ma inclin in floarea virstei fara sa-ti ofer in aceasta lume fructele eforturilor si stiintelor mele. Cum nu m-am straduit sa ma ridic la inaltimea cerintelor lumii si sa-ti implinesc sperantele; cum n-am incercat sa ma feresc de nefericire si suferinta; cum nu m-am preocupat cu certitudinea reputatiei mele. Dar totul in van! Cit de futile sunt gindurile omului : Indata totul se prabuseste, si cit de trista e scena vietii mele ajunsa la sfirsit; si cum sa mai deosebesti starea mea actuala de cea-n care gindurile deja mi-au fugit; Trebuie - in loc sa ma plimb pe calea onoarei si reputatiei - sa umblu pe drumul decaderii si-a unei morti rusinoase.

~ Hans Hermann [von Katte], 1730

Citatul survine dintr-o scrisoare luuuunga si inflorita in stilul obositor-baroc al secolului XVIII, cu tot patosul lui mai degraba batetic privit din unghiul competentelor literare contemporanei da' probabil perfect adecvat timpului si locului. Cu siguranta perfect adecvat situatiei, dat fiind ca autorul, Hans Hermann von Katte, era pe moarte.

Nu oricum, ci la inchisoare, asteptind sa fie decapitat.

Cum s-a ajuns aici ? Pai iata, tinarul fusese ani de zile prieten cu un tip care urma sa fie cunoscut mai tirziu drept Der Alte Fritz. Da' mult mai tirziu, deocamdata era si el un Fritz de fo' douazeci de anisori, caruia-i placea sa cinte la fluierii si sa citeasca filosofie si literatura. Din nefericire Fritz asta avea un tata foarte aspru si autoritar, care insista sa scoata din el militar si continuator al afacerii familiei. Este ca suna de telenovela ? Pai cam este...

Ei, si tinaru' Fritz a decis intr-o zi sa fuga-n Anglia (ca ei erau nemti) si sa se refugieze acolo. Da' tac-su l-o ginit si l-o uschit. Iar nenorocitu' asta de Katte (care era prieten cu Fritz), chit ca incercase sa-l convinga in nenumarate rinduri sa nu fuga si nici nu se afla fizic la un loc cu virtualul fugar ci la o mare distanta a fost arestat. Dupa care desi a fost condamnat doar la inchisoare pe viata (ca tatal autoritar&despotic avea mare influenta la judecatori), s-a decis apoi sa i se taie capu'. Ca asa o vrut tatal, proprietarul tinarului Fritz si-al intregului orizont inconjurator, Friedrich Wilhelm I, Rege in Prussia, Elector de Brandenburg si print suveran de Neuchatel.

Asa ca i s-a taiat capul, in cel mai pur stil mafiot : cum nu-l putem sparge pe Fritz ca mai avem nevoie de el ii stricam jucaria, sa se invete minte. Atit ca jucaria lui in cazul asta iata c-avea un tata, si alte chestii.

Din aceste evenimente a rezultat Friedrich der Grosse, adica cel mare. Alte Fritz.

———Mai ridem, mai glumim, doar e blog, nu ? [↩]Literalmente, nu zicem ca sugea pula, zicem ca fluiera ca ciobanasu' din Miorita, bun ? [↩]

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Category: Trilenciclopedia

Thursday, 23 February, Year 4 d.Tr.

Deconstructing Femethics

The problem with what currently passes for ethics lies far beyond anything superficial suturing might perhaps fix. The matter's not a crack here or there, isolated, insubstantial, two twists and three turns away from outright perfection.

The problem cleaves to the very core of the matter, and does so along gendered lines. Systemic (if systematically disavowed) misstatement of the female perspective into a locus of ethical universality that it can not bear (nor for that matter wants to bear) is readily obvious in the overemphasizing of comparably less remarkable human behaviors (such as murderi, or rapeii) into an absolute position they do not theoretically warrant nor do in practice actually satisfy ; while natural points of concern for the male interest (such as for instance boredom) are artificially (and quite discreditably) benign-ified. That it's okay to be bored for lack of anyoneiii to kill while it's not okay to kill anyone for being bored may even stand examinationiv ; but even intrinsically benign behaviours (such as the hero worship specific of normal boys, and unspecific of normal girls) receive a pregnantly tendentious treatment, itself testament to the appropriative inclination (along with some remnants of self awareness of the intrinsic ridiculousnessv of the position).

Gender-based appeals to universality are self-defeating by that very fact ; the attempt to naively extend the socio-cultural arrangements of some long forgotten group of three thousand people wearing uncured goat hides while not washing in some dreary desert somewhere as self-obviously an exercise in futility as could ever be designed ; pious fraud in general a very flimsy substitute for reason or argument. Deconstructing femethics is therefore not a reactionary activity, but merely the plain (yet very far from banal) observation that neither the sort of thing females generally least wish to see nor supposed "tradition" (itself consisting of the systematic retelling of human experience in terms compatible with what females generally least wish to hear) are interesting, or likely to be productive, basis for ethical constructions. Against this only possible approach stands the simple mind, with its self-same, perennial simple solutions. The cunt's myopia, the "how does it make me feel", the usual strategies of bare life.

Ultimately, ethics is always the struggle of man against bare life.

———Far from some kind of universally superlative malum in se, murder is today and was at all points in the past generally accepted practice throughout the many tribes of the dispersed human herd. Among the more numerous (and culturally more interesting) people wherein the ancient jews found themselves an insular, irrelevant margin (rather a sort of 3000 years ago Midwest), as well as throughout the lived experience of the modern (and the contemporary) world, murder's a constant companion -- to the tune of a hundred or so per million per year (worse if there's a hot summer with sun dogs or something).

The minute tribe of deranged maniacs that so disgusted Imperial administration restated its ethics around an interdiction of murder, it's true, but this exceptional (truly, unparalleled) innovation rather stood as political expediency, a little bit of pork to pacify the females being utterly devoiced. Those demographically negligible weirdos excepted, it is in general the case that in societies where the female voice more naturally found its expression in the everyday workings of life murder was not a capital crime, if a crime at all, but rather a pecuniary transaction to be resolved through the payment of Blutgeld, like among the ancient Germans, or outright a necessary part of the worshiping of the divine, as among the dominant cultures in the eastern Mediterranean.

In more settled societies (such as seen with the Ancient Romans and their downstream), the act of killing a king necessarily drew the killing of the killers on the self obvious basis that they wont be able to pay for the deed. Regicides were killed for being bum debtors by definition, not for other reasons ; and other than this particular circumstance the willful ending of life was unexceptionally unremarkable, therefore readily taking a backseat to the true capital crimes of the time and place : interfering with the established practices of worship. [↩]While the contemporary vernacular has redefined the term out of any possible utility, nevertheless the inescapable fact stands that all sexual consummation of social relations between humans necessarily (and most welcomedly!) includes some differential of power, a more or less minute but absolutely ubiquitous degree of inequality. In any case the practice of copulation has not, on the balance, involved willing participants over its history so far. [↩]Specifically, some female's offspring. [↩]And I shall eschew re-discussing the whole wind-and-tower-height thing here, opting instead to pass it by reference. [↩]I mean... it is practically like Hitler. Isn't it ? [↩]

« The Last Picture Show

The W, the other W, the WW and finally the WWW. »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 16 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Cu ciorapu' flausat pe pula...

Ma faci vinovat de crima suprema :

am indraznit sa le zic unor puleti obositi chestii,

altele decit exact alea ce voiau ei sa le-auda.

Since the Great Leap Forwardii recently, whereby each and every last runt of Hayek's herd of subhumans took over not mere orb, ring or staff through ad-hoc self-ordainment and self-investiture attended by no king and no bishop -- talk about resolving every possible investiture controversy : it's easy if you know what you're doing (and that's easy if there's no one else there!) -- but out and out the very attributes of divinity, immediately an' directly just like that... well, as you might expect the "penal code" took some revisions. For Moron is a jealous goat gode, to say nothing of how genius he is (may all media praise his inflated head and forgettable name amen), and so you'd better not say the bad! Or the toxichateincorrectNOTFACTUAL! That's the worst!

Well, may I be the first offender, then, and fuck you very much. Such lovely world, full of naught aught but gods and goddesses all, somehow unexplained (for inexplicable) fashioned out of the same bleating hunchbacks as last year's. If only those savages of ages past when everything about was actually made, rather than merely left to rot unmaintained, if all those misfortunate mere humans, plebs, serfs (indentured or otherwise), tavern wenches and assorted canaille of history had only known of the great magic cure! If only they too could've also been impertinent beyond conceivable, impudent as a substitute for prudence, improvidentiii, impenitent, im... in a word democratic-Divine!

Socialists hate everything that can get in the way of equality among people.

Unfortunately for them everything gets in the way of equality among people ;

but existence not being per se mandatory, survival is always possible

in the same land of imagined nightmares every other insane mind inhabits.

Some random chick in some random social context attempts to garner some sweet sweet attention with a discussion of... her boyfriend. He's absent but that's okay, she's well over thirty which is no concern, he's also over thirty but that does not (in her mind) detract. What could the problem be ? They're stuck in the troglodyte amorous forms of adolescence, and that's okay because they say (by keeping quiet about it) that it's okay. What, if it "works for them" who are you to know better ? They know better when you should wash your hands and whether your face needs a braiv, but you couldn't possibly know enough of this world to laugh at a coupla overgrown children for what they are. And besides, "boyfriendship" whatever it is, inadequate and unsatisfying for adults as it might well be... still, "over thirty" is truly and really much too soon to expect anyone's life to have in any sense begun. It'd be too much pressure and besides, she can't even pick up the phone yet.

Anyways, the "we don't live together, we occupy the same cage, that's all" rugrat she's shagged up with "works" with "special needs children". Should be good for at least five minutes of public lovebombing, no ? Or else why the fuck does she even bother pretend like she's lifting herself off the couch three to five times a day when he's around ?

To someone's passing remark, borne of utter disinterest rapidly maturing into obdurate contempt (no, twasn't me, twasn't mine, someone else) that such "is a tough gig", she spells it out : it is very difficult but very rewarding. Tough gig does not do the matter justice, she has a preferred branding byline and will thank you very much if you stick to it! What the hell is this, talk like talking ?! You gotta talk like by repeating the commercial copy that's taken over their vocalizations entirely (have you noticed ?) Pai ori suntem de-a lu' Shannon ori nu mai suntem!11 "Walmart, where you buy shoes", not "Walmart, a tough gig", what the fuck! It's "her boyfriend that '''works with''' '''special needs''' children, which is a very tough but very rewarding" ad idem!

It subsequently comes out that a) he's "the night watch" so he gets to "watch them sleep". He works with them, see : they sleep, he watches, it's work. With, it's work with them! Next : he's really good with children, and she's trying to... what the fuck did the dumb cunt say I don't even remember, something like direct, coax, nurture, work with da fuck it was. Oh I know, steer him into it! That's right, you read it here first : ewe's gonna steer her steer cuz well... you know.

It's basically like going around a world magically inhabited by cock muppets -- just like sockv puppets, except not really intended for a hand.

———Romanian, you know. Not "I am guilty" aka "sunt vinovat" but "I am making myself guilty" or somesuch, there's no exact equivalent in English because the mongrels have no fucking idea about guilt and things (things of an... indoors nature, properly speaking). [↩]Fiecare sut inainte e un mare pas in cur! [↩]What do you suppose the raw savings formation rate is like, lately ? Or is that how you spell "stimulus" these days of "the government is supposed to support everybody" ?

You realise the government can't support you, right ? You have to support yourself, and whatever womenchildrenoldparentspetsetcetera, AND the government on top of that. Right ? [↩]Trick question, everything needs a bra. Or three. The girly mind's the girly mind, fut anathema. [↩]Yeah ? Problem ?

You'll get over it. [↩]

« Some other mornings, however...

Un Lache... »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Wednesday, 27 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

Crybaby

Crybabyi would never have made the bar for a review, except... well, John Waters credit, what the fuck can I do.

The little show stealer mired among the support cast for no conceivable reason, constantly stealing the show from the script's (rather anodyne) protagonist is actually the 23 years old version of a reasonably famous teenage slut slash cum public fuckpostii. Besides her there's little worth the mention in there, except perhaps the observation that throwing money at John Waters ain't going to make a better film. "Production values" never were his problem, not really. Rather, like Ed Wood's narrow, "efficiency"/slum tenement corridors, the true issue are the narrow corridors in his mind, coincidentally expressing themselves as 2 foot 4 inches access hallways but otherwise not remediable through tearing down cheap masonry. The "deliberate" & "by choice" ham-up & (drastic) overacting of the piece makes Johnny Depp pass for an actor, in the sense most teenaged girls can pass for sluts playing, just as most nine year olds can impersonate their fathers passed out drunk. In this limited sense overacting the thing "was a reasonable choice", even wise, perhaps. Is the man who calls whichever portion of floor he falls upon "bed" wise for the procedure ?

The script is particularly terrible ; but not uniformly so. In fact, the portion where the prepster grandmother's last resort is "what if you get your dress dirty" doubtless counts as a stroke of genius. So, so many concerned old womanhood's concerns are thereby summed up and adequately dismissed it's impossible to dismiss this otherwise entirely forgettable piece altogether.

Seriously, why can't this guy be cleaner, anyways!

———1990, by John Waters, with Johnny Depp, Amy Locane, Iggy Pop, Traci Lords. [↩]As memorably put by (Bronx' own!) Lionel Stander (while bringing to life an imaginary if quite credible Baron Castorini), "Se per sputare intendi buttargli dentro qualcosa di nostro, su Giovanna ci sputavamo tutti. Ormai era diventata la sputtachiaia della famiglia. Io, te, Paolo, Luigi, una cosa schifoza, una cosa da vomitare, da vergognarsi come ladri."

Check it out, by the way : "the internet" has never heard of any portion of that speech. And you think it representative! Whenever you run into some question, you actually imagine "asking the internet" (in the sense of, typing shit in google, bing, whatever) is actually going to provide answers. Usable answers, informed, representative... You believe this! [↩]

« Nikki Fucksorry & Hannah Fucksore

In other breaking news, Romania really could've done better »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 27 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Check out this demented fuck

For the past... I don't even remember. Musta been more than ten, really feels a lot more like twenty years. For a long long time now -- do you even remember the previous millenium ? -- I've been looking at these self-same nothings.

These regrettable if coincidental byproducts of the unyielding dedication to lazy idiocy and self-sufficient superficiality of our colonies in the New World. These... how shall I describe them, they all run into each other, melt into sameness, become indistinguishable. A new Steve Pavlina cropped up ; this one's Gary, pleased to meetcha.

A sjsqd walks into a pub, and Stevegarywhatever's going to... what is he going to do ? He's going to yell the loser kid into coallescence. He's going to scream substance into the wastesack. Somehow, magically, this "expert"/magician's outright psychotic self-presentation is going to "scare the kid straight" or something. Is that it ? What exactly is the contemplated outcome ? We know, we all know it ain't gonna do anything, even those "of us" who didn't bother spending their time and resources running experiments on the topic. If the kid was worth the price of a decent burial he wouldn't be there. If he's there... well, bury him. Don't look at me, I didn't invite him. You invite the zombies, you bury the zombies. Doesn't that sound reasonable ?

Instead, Gary's gonna parent the decrepit remains of a hundred million narcissistic fathers' perigenital experiments, fifteen to twenty years neglected. That's what he's gonna do. And he's gonna do it by... yelling. It truly worked so well the first time around. It truly worked wonders the last time someone half-ass "tried" that, three to nine minutes one week before last Christmas. How much and what exactly must one be snorting for this kinda absurd nonsense to start appearing like it's making some sort of sense ?

I can't imagine what decerebratedly ahistorical approach to one's own existence could be leveraged to justify the activity to oneself ; but this aside what the fuck is he snorting, seriously now ? That's neither the demeanor nor the comportment of the indemn human being. That's the very typical presentation of some boring white middle class schmuck who's so hopped up on dusts and pills he can't even recount what the fuck all he's taken for the benefit of the typical nurses in the typical ER setting.

And what's with that little bitch voice ? All that whistling and falsettoing, what's this, a jailhouse punk turned tout ? The big tough whatever the fuck man sounds just like Mae West for fuck's sake. What the fuck happened there!

But anyways, congrats to the winners, you be you & good luck with all that or whatever. I'm quite as happy to not have any horses in that running now as I was ten, or twenty, or however many years ago.

« Hello, Frisco, Hello

The Glass Key »

Category: 3 ani experienta

Saturday, 27 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Carried Away

Carried Awayi is a very strong story massacred by a monumental cop-outii, perhaps the most egregiousiii application of that venerable narrative device to the cinematic arts during their entire, century-long (and otherwise quite torturous) existence.

The story is the usual "young whore walks into a bar" ; the cop-out is that "she's gotta be insane". I do not dispute the factuality of the arrangement, by the way. Sure, adolescentine erotomania is often the first, and occasionally the only symptom. Sure, actual psychopaths do exist (and yes, they're preponderently female in actual clinical practice), and sure, hurray for an acctually accurate, realistic depiction of the affliction for once. Just... holy god man, why be such an Indiana retard, what the fuck. This is like the story of the man who found a billion in gold and went to market and bought beans, except not even funny, why the blazing hells would anyone do that to himself!

All that regrettable aside, this is definitely the breakthrough role for Amy Locaneiv, and so strongly she breaks through she blows poor old Hopper right off the angel's pin's needlepoint. He's exquisite, by the wayv -- the man who created that most memorable old con produces such an absolute, picture-perfect rendition of the midwest my one slave born there wept throughout for painful recognition ; yet it's not enough. Because, properly speaking, nothing can possibly ever be enough, once the teenaged whore's put her warpaint on and lowered the visor... that's the fuck that, and move the fuck on.

Nor is, nor should be, nor can in fact "society" be the means and ways for mediocre everyones to "reduce" that situation. Hear her roar, for she's my slave -- and unlike you, I love her.vi Perhaps also write her better stories ; for I'm growing old and in any case tired of being strictly the only one doing it.

———1996, by Bruno Barreto, with Amy Locane, Dennis Hopper, Amy Irving. Yes, that's right, Locane gets top billing, for she deserves it. [↩]"But MP, what could they have done ?!"

"Uh, how about 'No, I'm not going to marry you. I am going to marry the young slut. You will have to be our maid, and serve her in bed.' for instance ? That'd have fucking done it, as well as a myriad other approaches. Anything, really, anything whatsoever besides George Costanza's worldview. For fuck's sake!" [↩]I was definitely going to review it, then last night I decided I won't, because fuck that dumb shit.

I'm writing a wreck report in the morning light, regretfully. Why is everyone such a coward, anyway ? [↩]This chick is perhaps the finest object lesson in why they must be killed -- painfully, publicly, humiliatingly, and right now. PPHRN FFS!

So after this and Cry Baby (1990) there she was, right, proper and ready to rumble. Do you know what they did to her ? They put her in Melrose fucking Place! There, in a stable of tedious, whinny nags twice her age, to... you know, "learn how to be less of a woman and more of a cow". Just like them. So she stops "throwing the curve" for all the dumbasses everywhere. And that was rightly it for her, if you don't count the fact that somewhat later she got convicted a cvasi-record five times for the same god damned "offence", which really... I'm not even kidding, just as she had "served" "her time" they kept coming up with inane bullshit like "we don't think she was sufficiently contrite in admitting her fault so here's another eight years". Because this is the problem with having female judges : you will never get enough actual women to fill all the slots, and so there you go, cowjustice instead.

Do you know what quote they put on her IMDB profile ?

I realized early on that I always hated girls who used their femininity to get what they wanted.

Fuck that dumb shit. Fuck that dumb shit with a red hot poker ; and while at it let's make another point perfectly clear : there is absolutely no problem, nor do I see anything wrong, with some rando fuckwit allegedly called "Seeman", as if that fixes anything, having to die a mangled, painful death holding her guts on the side of the road because Amy Locane felt like driving drunk that evening*. Nor with any of the rest of the idiotic bullshit you're over-preoccupied with. The problem is, and always has been, and won't long remain, that three-century stale naivite about "all the people" and "reason" has been coopted by a bunch of tedious, whinny nags and inappropriately applied towards their own goals, predictably miserable on the strength of their mediocrity. The only crime is for the lesser to roam free. There's no other. Until and unless the laughable pile you self-importantly call "laws" reflects this fact we really have nothing to say to each other, for nobody could possibly care about the imaginary "universe" you imagine yourself larping within.

------

* Gimme a fuckin' break, she was at .23, which has nothing to do with drunkdness even in boring Caucasian females, let alone whores. She was doing like 80, which is less than what she's supposed to, and she hit some fucktard doing 3 (!!!!) kmph "because he was turning into his driveway", which seriously, they should be flayed alive and then flogged with salt-cured leather whips for that sort of dumb shit. If I were the judge I'd have had the surviving "victim" fined. [↩]And between the two of them they lift some inconsequential supermarket clerk (or whatever the hell she is, amateur actress, the pliable daughter of a bunch of faggoty Greenwich-village era pseudoartists & fakeintellectuals like they had in the colonies) right off the ground, there she goes, Amy Irving floating through the air while invisible chorus lines sing their sweet symphonies because coincidentally she shares the christian name of the goddess and happens to be physically present. A large enough explosion will send rocks flying just as well as birds, while the events last, and so that Irving broom fired acting once, doubtless the highlight of her existence. Hard work and good luck and all that, you know how the tale tells. [↩]Meaning I love her and I don't love you, uppity boi. Nobody gives the first fuck about whom you misrepresent your incapacities as supposedly directed towards. You're like a quadriplegic forgotten in a corner at a party, looking through the room trying to decide whose feet he's stepping on. The answer's right there : nobody. Ain't a matter of "who you love", and stop acting as if anyone asked you, or there's even the vaguest possibility of confusion. When I say "unlike you, I love her" what I mean is exactly and obviously the same as when I say "I eat meat but not soy", no possible doubt about it. [↩]

« The value of subhuman life, and other non-themes of scummy preoccupation

Joe Jokes »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 16 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

BREAKING : USG President-Belect Pidden Announces Plans To Sign Epochal Factaltering Change Footnote Executive History!

The White House has revealed in its latest claymation experimental artistic experiment that Donald Biden is going to (just as soon as he wakes up, so maybe today or tomorrow) sign into Donald Order the Order ordering the creation of a Donaldian Commission on the US Arts and Crafts (USAaC).

The VDE -- virtually, digitally & electronically -- signature event will be attended by a bipartisan group of the USAaC and AaC reform debate experts provided by LEGO (r) (tm).

"In addition to legal and other figurines, the Commissioners include former federal super-cereal box prizes and premiums along with practitioners well known to the stitch-and-bitch, Christian sewing circles and other daytime TV demographics as well as advocates for democratic, docu-dramatic and plain soap points of view." said a White House statement in a statement from the White House. "The expertise represented on the Commission includes Obama law, Transgeneric science and Syntheticsmatic history."

The purpose of the commission is to deliver an assessment of the main arguments in the contemporary public debate for and against the Arts & Crafts reform. This includes an analysis of the bloviality and joviality of certain reform suggestions. The commission will be evaluating topics such as the reform debate's genesis block; the role of the Arts & Crafts in the general system of paralogy; the length of service and turnover on LEGO people; the size of available replacements as well as the large available palette of colors and finishes.

Public meetings will be held by the commission to hear views of other specialists, and groups and concerned people with diverse point of views on the matters the commission will be analyzing. The meetings will proceed in silence, through spatial arrangements of dramatically posed figurines adequate in the comission's judgement to expressing the points of view being expressed before the commission, was said in a future statement from the commission about the commission.

The donald's order instructs the commission to complete its report within 180 days of its first public meeting. As per well established precedent tracing its origins to the early donalds Donald Washington, Donald Jefferson and Donald Duck, the days discussed by a donald refer to anything whatsoever, including fragments of dog years as well as "it only counts as a day if he woke up that Solar revolution".

At the day of this writhing, the only Republican who has issued a statement is Senator Roy Blunt (Mo.) who said in a statement from Senator Roy Blunt (from the Senate House) : "I share Justice Breyer and the late Justice Ginsburg's view that nine is the right number of seats on the Supreme Court," said Senator Blunt in his statement from Senator Blunt. "If every new administration decides they can just pack the courts, there will be no limit to how many seats you could end up with."

Considering the recent increases of production at the LEGO farms & factories however, most Democratic senators (who didn't issue any statements) agree (silently) that that may be a good thing, including Senate Majority Whip-Dick (D-IL) and Congressman Mondaire Jones (D-NY) who agreed with the executive odor of Donald Biden and according to the Democratic House support it. Senator Dick-Dick said "With today's executive order, the Biden Administration has pledged to study potential reforms to the A&C."

Congressman Jones stated, "Today, the Donald of the United States acknowledged that it is time to reform the Supreme Court, following the example of Donald Jefferson, Donald Lincoln, and Ulysses D. Grant. By convening this commission, Donald Biden has spoken clearly: The question is no longer if we will reform the Arts & Crafts, but how we will reform the Arts & Crafts."

He added, "The answer to that question is equally clear: to restore our democracy, we must expand the Arts & Crafts. Anything less would leave the future of our nation, our planet, and our fundamental civil rights at the whim of a far-right supermajority of actual people, that is hostile to LEGOmocracy itself. Of course, many Americans will rightly be skeptical of a commission composed almost entirely of people protected from the real-life consequences of the Arts&Craft's current right-wing extremism. Nevertheless, I remain hopeful that the commission will join our rising movement for Craft expansion, to include all figurines equally, and therefore only represent the really cheap ones."

Toy Cabinet of Donald Biden in 2021

« Ongoing keks

The deplorable generation »

Category: Breaking News

Friday, 04 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

Back to school

Motto : That it's interesting doesn't mean it's desirable.

In natural continuation of observations from like two years ago (my my how time flies!), I must plainly admit my life's pretty much reverted to highschool. Twenty-odd years later just like twenty-odd years ago I play video games all day while gulping down really elaborate home-made treatsi and fucking really submissive girls. It's a living ; though admittedly not for everyoneii.

They go to the gymiii ; I don't. They go shopping, and cook and clean ; I occasionally indulge, for pleasure, which is a whole different... ball game. They maintain my standards, and enforce them upon the world -- which is precisely what every bureaucrat/Karen's wet dream is, and has always been. Except... well, I've recently remembered that I don't actually care. Somehow, for many years, I had apparently sold myself on this stolid angle of responsibility, "we'll heal the world" and assorted out of place bullshitiv. What ridiculous nonsensev, imagine that, trying to help a "world" that's pathetic enough to need helpingvi! Why the fuck ? Let it burn ; if what morphs out of the ashes is worth two shits, you'll know by that sure sign that it ain't gonna need my help. And if it isn't... well, that's a sure sign it's not done burning, and it can very well burn again, pretense to the contrary notwithstanding.

So that should explain all the teen fucking then : we're pretty much on the same page, really. It's true that I put my pants on in the morning, just like any other man. The difference's that once my pants are on I make... well, not really gold records, seeing how gold's not really good enough ; but I make something. What is it that I make ? Well... you know... Anyways, point being, when I don't put my pants on... highschool is highschool, rite. Oh, s'thematter, you wanted to talk more about what I do instead ? Keks.

Fine, let's indulge. Here's an ancient quote :

Asta inseamna demnitate da om, da smecher, da mafiot, da ceva. Asta-i mafiotu' de astazi. Mafiotul de azi, nu mai impusca, nu mai racheteaza bani, nu mai recupereaza bani, nuuu.... mafiotul de astazi face bani de unde nu stie nimeni si se comporta ca un domn. Si i se spune mafiotu', nasu' ca-i respectat. Corect ?"

I find it amusing, a decade later as a degrade decade ago. Perhaps for slightly different reasons, if such a thing is even possible, but amusing nevertheless. You find it incomprehensible, I wager ? Unsurprising ; and that's how it stays.

To get back to more... pleb-accesible topics aka "the news" : I do on occasion follow the dekulakization 2.0 ongoing in the sad lands of the femsocs, of course I do, pompous poverty's always been the cornerstone of comedic goldmining. Carry on, please, by all means. It's definitely entertaining ; and so, secure in the knowledge your Master's even occasionally tuning in, please proceed with the self-burial ad lib. We'll laugh togethervii all the way to the bottom.

This'd be the bottom.You know which one is yours, of course, by that ancient sign ; or, as the Latin put it, tibi, lector, culus.

———And not without making trouble, either. [↩]What a pleasure it is, re-reading ancient Trilema bits and pieces. Self-evidently "o suta de mii" ie a hundred thousand meant something back then (meaning, when the piece was penned, residue of when the piece was... made). It had some consistency, a web of equivalency, the lifeblood of any word. Meanwhile... it's been replaced ; ironically with the exact same thing, even though in dollar terms we've moved from something like a dozen to a hundred fifty. Such is the power of (entirely absent, believe!) inflation : the contemporaneous hundred fifty's more or less even with the remembered dozen or thereabouts. [↩]Speaking of which, Nicole's benchpressing 260 pounds, she tells me. On each leg! She tells me in excited crescendo. It does sound like quite a lot, doesn't it ? I'm nowhere near that myself, nor do I intend to be ; yet it's vaguely reassuring that should it come to it, she can definitely benchpress me (on each leg!) and with plenty of technological margin, too.

Have you ever been benchpressed ? Oh, what's the matter, you thought "I'm nowhere near that" meant I'm not benchpressing that much ? Bwahahaha dork, gimme a break. [↩]No, it didn't exactly start in 2014. [↩]The problem with it, if you're curious, is that it's inclusive. It comes off the same trunk as "no child left behind", but with an imaginary, meaningless "world" symbol substituted for the (exactly equally meaningless) "child" symbol.

Fuck that dumb shit. [↩]Almost as dog-gone stupid as lending money to people stupid enough to need to borrow. Who the fuck's dumb enough to run a bank like that, and how long can that lulz possibly last ?! [↩]A strange sort of togetherness, if you think about it ; for you too must admit you're back in highschool : Nannare's had you grounded for the past year+!

Practically speaking we're together there too ; except me in mine and you in yours. Together tho. Rite ? [↩]

« The General

The Girl Can't Help It »

Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 02 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

At Long Last Love

At Long Last Lovei is an excellent musical of the 70s tradition. It stands quite well pars pro toto in representative explanation of why an' wherefore the 70s were, if not properly speaking cool, nevertheless way the fuck better than anything you can possibly aspire to in your narrow circle of today, let alone actually enjoy. It's like USAF bombers of the 40s exactly : quite far from excellent airplanes, but inasmuch as you're the Pacific islanders on goatsizedii postmarks lost in the Pacific... them tired old steel heaps are way the fuck better than anything your native mud an' bamboo shoots'll ever amount to. So there's that.

———1975, by Peter Bogdanovich, with Burt Reynolds (the faggoty mobster in Victor, Victoria). [↩]Hence Capri, get it ? [↩]

« Two hands

The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 1 : Twist, and Shout »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 23 February, Year 13 d.Tr.