More midden, more midden, have a look an' here we go...

I was re-reading that old articlei (as part and parcel of the research required by the previous one, though no reference made it through) ; and...

Well, come to think about them... it's difficult to avoid the self-obvious observation that Seinfeld the TV show is perfectly descriptive of the 70s generationii : a minority of "succesful" shy & inept dorks constitutingiii the Seinfeld (or whatever you're used to calling them : "the left", "liberals", impostor-syndrome-sufferers, Dad, pick your own vocabulary) and a majority of "unsuccesful", equally shy & inept dorks constituting the George (aka MAGA or w/e). Most of the show's tropes eminently apply : takes two of them to almost-kinda hold a woman down, "I'm not an orgy guy"iv, it's really all there.

The only problem is... why exactly were the "successful" minority "successful" ?

There's no answer to be had. Why the unsuccessful were unsuccessful can readily be answered, by me or most anyone else. Their glaring inadequacies, shortcomings and altogether fecal composition are quite fucking painfully obvious, even if one's trying to look down from as far as the god damned Moon. All these answers'd be wrong, though : the "successful" are exactly the same! If presented with a Tupperware container full of rotten caserole aside a Tupperware container full of "perfectly fine" caserole, you can't say the rotten's rotten "because Tupperware sucks" : both had the same. Sure, in general "Tupperware sucks" might be an explanation as to why food in general went over ; but in the case at hand it's no kind of answer. "It's store-bought" fares no better in this light, nor does "it was kept in the fridge" etcetera. If the problem's to be earnestly approached as posed, one's forced to admit the loser's objection : yes he's a loser because he's a loser and a loser is a loser ; nevertheless this requires calling the other a loser too, and just as much, for the same exact reasons. Maybe then they could all be... equally successful ? Why keep the terminology in the negative ? Something relatively far away's correspondingly close from a "better" chosen vantage, and therefore... see ? Make America Socialist Again! Like it actually was, back in 1950! "War economy" and all that, they liked it fine. Time for a REBOOT!!!!

If nothing else, it'd be eminently ethical. Rite ?

———Though meanwhile... [↩]Or whatever your prefered nomenclature for "lumpens of 1970s vintage". [↩]titu-ting da fuck word's that! [↩]GEORGE: So what happened? She throw you out? Eh?

JERRY: No actually, she took it pretty well.

GEORGE: So what happened?

JERRY: She's into it.

GEORGE: Into what?

JERRY: The menage. And not only that. She just called me and said she talked to the roommate, and the roomate's into the manage too!

GEORGE: That's unbelievable.

JERRY: Oh, it's a scene, man.

GEORGE: Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank god that you know me and have access to my dementia?

JERRY: What are you talking about? I'm not going to do it.

GEORGE: You're not goin to do it? What do you mean, You're not goin to do it?

JERRY: I can't. I'm not an orgy guy.

GEORGE: Are you crazy? This is like discovering Plutonium ... by accident.

JERRY: Don't you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I'd have to dress different. I'd have to act different. I'd have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I'd need a new bedspread and new curtains I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I'd have to get orgy friends... Nah, I'm not ready for it.

GEORGE: If only something like that could happen to me.

JERRY: Oh shut up, you couldn't do it either.

GEORGE: I.... know. [↩]

« The Girl Can't Help It

Acum douazeci de mii de ani, or the article I can not write »

Category: SUA care este

Thursday, 04 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

Monkey Business

Monkey Businessi attempts a retell of the story of Serge Voronoff (the monkey gland manii), well gutted as for an American audienceiii. The result is an oddly depopulated intellectual space, in which even Grant can pass for human (however briefly) and in which Rogers utterly shines as a jewel of (sadly derelict) womanhood. Her Edwina Fulton character in here's perhaps my favourite depiction of an adult female in LA's own Bollywood history ; and if in my hands she'd soon enough & in short order be tasting between Miss Lois Laurel's nylons... well, that just speaks to everyone else's inadequacy to life.

The nylons in question.

———1952, by Howard Hawks, with Ginger Rogers, Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant, Charles Coburn, Hugh Marlowe.

Charles Coburn is his usual "odd uncle" / old lecher mini partner of Monroe's that was peddling tiaras in GPB. Hugh Marlowe is the specialist sniveling cur / "other man" (Hollywood's own version of Franco Fabrizzi). Cary Grant, this spiritual father of Hugh, is really not so much better, this being one of the few films where his aloof hammy goose act finds any kind of traction (he rather ruins than helps A&OL for instance ; he doesn't appreciably hurt HGF chiefly because it's such unloved shit to begin with).

Nifty, huh, this whole thing with abbreviating movie titles. You rather enjoy the little puzzle it confers, don't you ? [↩]No kidding, one of the fathers of endocrinology, as well as transplantology and the whole "forever young" Midwestern pseudo-religious, cvasi-philosophical gargle (that periodically burbles up into US discourse like methane in a swamp, in the same hazy cloud as "stereoscopic vision" etcetera, viz "futurism", FM-2030 and so on) is this historical character whom The NY Times & co tried to pooh pooh and downplay with his death (after having reverently supported while he lived) chiefly because the idiotic Americana he (to them) embodied is (to them) too pricelessly valuable to be connected to any man (lest it be buried with him). It is, as far as the monkey brains populating the New World are concerned, to be the chief treasure and inheritance of MANKIND!!! instead.

Anyway, the isolation of testosterone in the lab proved the naive notions embodied in The White City (were you, with me, at the Chicago exhibition way back when ?), of "man" as font and source of all things -- in a very direct and therefore directly manipulable manner -- didn't actually hold much water. It may be true that woman, without man, is nothing, nor any other soil, nor any other thing ; but it's not true that the state could then extract the magic fluid / philosophal stone "making up" the man out of the body of the man, to then go about blessing and enobling random things at will. Goats don't turn to gold if injected with testosterone, cities don't flower, marble doesn't shine, it's not that whoremone that's the word of god, spirit ineffable, the very dove in question. Awww! [↩]Just in case you were wondering about the bizarrely spurious involvement of a monkey, and perhaps thought (in very American fashion, I readily grant), it's some sort of code for blacks or something along those lines. [↩]

« The difference between me and everyone else : I haven't a sense of humour, or hahaha-lalala

The Needed »

Category: Trilematograf

Tuesday, 25 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Moe Jokes

At the grocery store checkout some guy asks for a pack of cigarettes. The seventeen year old stuck there until she manages to get enough scratch together to run off to San Fernando Valley hands him a package. On it, in thick lettering, "Smoking causes impotence".

The guy looks it over, looks her over, then "Don't you have any with cancer instead ?"

~ * ~

If you pick a starving dog off a back alley somewhere, feed it and play with it -- that dog will never bite you.

A dog, though.

~ * ~

The first time, we all died in 2000.

Because Microsoft Windows was written by the morons working for Microsoft, their notion of "a year" was limited to two decimal digits, starting in 1900. Good enough for a toy computer intended for the average American.

Everyone else's computers worked on a 32 digit binary number counting seconds since 1960 up to a maximum of 4`294`967`296 that covered the stretch of time to the year 2300. That "everyone else" included at that time all computers involved in any capacity with anything worth the mention whatsoever.

Nevertheless, as all the morons ever ran Windows and nothing else (government work at the time consisting of playing Solitaire on Windows 3.1 per act of congress), "computers" were going to become self-aware, revolt against their meaty overlords, and killerize them en masse. The only hope was, irony of ironies, a robot from the future shaped like a governor of California from the future, sent by the human resistance to save the careerwomen from their own idiotic selves.

The fucktards actually believed "computers" (meaning, other than the broken crap they smeared their shit over) will blow up, leading to chaos and anarchy. People actually in charge of computing, who actually understood anything about the matter tried to tell the fucktards their "theory" is so much nonsense based in very crude generalisations of very narrow, superficial misunderstandings of the situation of fact. In spite of this, the "international press" and its shit-eating "journalists" twitched like a headless chicken, instigating the stupid class to panic. The idiots turned off everything looking like a computer for a few days around that New Year's.

Then we all died in 2001, killed by mad cows. Billiards of schizo cows, antisocial and with authority figure problems, trod the world's governments under hoof, fenced us humans in concentration camps and used our bodies in gruesome rituals of their own devising, to do with the meat and milk. Practically the only way to get K-J from a mad cow is through eating its entire brain raw, something nobody ever did in the past century ; and even then the odds of a successful infection are about as high as the odds of a hottie showing up on a blind date.

Really, crushing one's skull and rubbing mad cow brain directly against the exposed membranes increased the odds somewhat, though even that not by so very much. But nevertheless, were in fact everyone to actually do that, it might've been the case there'd have been some human casualties from mad cow disease -- 1% of 1% of the human casualties from fulminant amateur cranial trepanation, but be that as it may. The peril was great indeed, and the scatologists in "the international press" struggled like a ballsack in an empty bucket, instigating panic among the imbeciles. Those imbeciles quit eating beef for a half year.

Then we all kicked the bucket (with our ballsac in it) over SARS, back in 2003.

This was an epidemic started with the small yellow folk, which flattened us all instantly. We didn't really stand a chance. Blood gushed from all orrifices. You'd become infected if you vaguely perceived on the horizon someone infected. In fact, the horrible disease didn't even give you the chance to perceive him on the horizon : by the time you realised you might've noticed something, you were long dead.

SARS was glorified pneumonia. Sure, pneumonia can kill, but claiming "the SARS did it" after pneumonia killed is a lot like going around retirement homes, waiting for old fucks to die, lifting their skirts to see if they have red underwear on and if they do, yell out "AHA! RED UNDERWEAR KILLS!!!". Spend enough time doing this, there'll be "documentary evidence" even, and "who can argue with science" etcetera.

Nevertheless the human cattle of the Orient went about wearing masks for the same reasons they do all the dumb shit they do : trying to fit in through copying others, which is why they're stuck copying everything we do and nobody in the past three hundred years ever heard of such a wonder as "copying Asian technology". What Asian technology ?

In practical terms SARS was treatable exactly like any other flu : aspirin worked, taking a nap worked, alcohol rubs, garlic paste... everything works against the flu. Survival rates were over 90%, which doesn't mean that anyone laughing at this had 10% chances to die. No. A healthy, wealthy human has 0% chance of dying. Maybe some paid sick leave, at the worst of the worst of outcomes. However, some 97 yo troglodyte, living in dirt and cold, could readily die "of SARS". He'd have died of a knee inflamation just as well.

700 people died in total of "SARS" in the entire world, in its entire history. The fecalophiles in "international journalism" struggled like boogers between teeth, to the point billions of people walked about with their underwear on their head, and the fishwrappers printed nothing besides panicked reports of the great epidemic. The imbeciles stayed out of Asia that whole year.

Then we died again in 2007, this time of Avian Flu. Legions of birds fell from the skies, infected, exploding like metallic Sodium grenades, on contact. The planet was left empty and full of craters like an acneic careerwoman at a party, or like the Moon. We were irredeemably cide-ided. A total of 500 people died of the damned thing. You can't get it eating cooked bird. The meat has to be raw, and even then it's practically impossible. Technically speaking, the best chance is by industrially blending an infected chicken and snorting the resulting paste, though even then the probable success rate falls well under one percent. The five hundred were without exception poor fucks living in chicken coops and picking their noses with spit-hardened chicken shit.

Even then, if treated to any degree they'd survive, exactly like with SARS. But, predictably, the shit-eaters of "international news media" bugged their eyes apocalyptically, struggling like stomped frogs and frothing yellowish at the mouth over the famous avian flu. Nothing came of it, obviously, but the imbeciles stuck to watermelon and avoided chicken that whole year. More people died choking on cock than croaked of these imaginary diseases. More people shot themselves accidentally in the eyelid since you've been reading this scientific report than died of purely theoretic, "you can't say it's not a real disease" laboratory fare.

Then came the pigs' turn. What the hell, the cows and chickens wanted their revenge. Like all other diseases borne entire of the fact that old women watch TV so the TV starts sounding like the inside of the skull of an old woman, whatever pigs got has an infinitesimal chance of contagion. You'd have to French-kiss infected pig asshole. Thirty filthy Mexicans died of it, after living with the pigs in the pigs' sty for years. Nevertheless, the imbeciles got really panicked, because hey, it's on TV. A lot of facetious fuckwads are taking five minutes of their daily lives to talk very concernedly about "the disease" to a camera, thus it must be so!

Who knows what the future will bring! Though, judging on past experience, on the strength of rating-desperate media and a general public ever more abruti, it'll probably be some imaginary disease of no actual substance that the imbeciles over-react to the point of incurring actual harm. Maybe everyone will have to jump off a bridge to stave off the hamsters from space, or whatever else different-similar nonsense weird cults have been promulgating ever since the economics of weird cults forced them to, which is to say forever.

~ * ~

A well dressed gent stands on Wall Street, towards the Battery, smoking. A preppy kid hits on him : "Hi, I'm with the New York Times. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions ?"

"Sure, why not. Go ahead, I'm not in any hurry."

"I see you smoke. How long have you been smoking ?"

"Twenty-some years, since I was sixteen."

"And how much do you smoke ?"

"A pack a day, maybe two..."

"But do you realise with the money you've spent on cigarettes so far you could have bought that building behind you ?"

The man is surprised by the sudden turn of the line of inquiry. He turns around, takes in the substantial construction behind as far as such was possible from his vantage, then turns back to the New York Times runt and asks,

"Do you smoke yourself ?"

"Oh no I don't."

"Do you own a sky scraper anywhere in Manhattan ?"

"I... No. Not yet!" offers the prepster.

"Well sonny... it just so happens this building's actually mine, you see." offers the gent, taking the last puff and crushing the butt underfoot as he turns away.

This true story is bought to you by the circumstance that while fact checking and The New York Times parted ways a long ways ago, crowd-sourced coherence is a poor substitute for truth.

~ * ~

Whenever on a river bank a dressed maid milks an undressed cow, the water's trickery reflects the situation au rebours : within the wave's false report dressed cows've been milking naked maids since dawn of time.

~ * ~

A guy walks into the doctor's office and announces "Doctor, I'm sexually unbalanced."

"Would you like me to offer my own diagnosis or are you satisfied with yours ?"

"By all means."

"What are the symptoms ?"

"When I get hard I fall over."

~ * ~

A guy surprised by the girl showing up on a blind date goes right to the point : "How much do you weigh ?"

"Oh, that's a secret."

"How about just the last three digits ?"

~ * ~

A bunch of people flattering themselves with the label of being some guy's friends & family decide to throw an intervention for his benefit (as they construe it), something to do with how threatened they are by whatever it was the guy was doing, fucking a schoolgirl maybe, or something to do with sugar or liquour or having too good a time too obviously in any case. Just as he's about to start kicking them out the phone rings. He answers, then turns to the gathering : "It was the fire department. Apparently the house of one of you tiresome fucks is on fire, but I didn't quite catch which one."

~ * ~

A guy from Indiana goes to church regularly, and confesses his sins periodically. One time he whispers to the pastor that he's sinned.

"Tell me, son."

"Well father... at the New Year's party with the coworkers... this new girl whispered to me she wants to do it."

"And did you ?"

"Oh no, father. I didn't do it. On one hand a voice in my head was saying 'go for it, just look at her, when is an opportunity like this ever going to present itself' ; but the other voice reminded me of my wife and children and the life of the church and so... I didn't do it with her."

"What is your sin then ?"

"Father... I sinned in the mind."

"Oh. Oh I see. Yes, that's very serious indeed. You're to go home and for the rest of your life drink three gallons of water each day."

"Why so much water, father ?"

"Because that's how much oxen drink."

~ * ~

A guy from Indiana has to go to New York on business. On the New Jersey turnpike he spots a prostitute on the side of the road. He pulls over by her, and once she assumes the position he inquires "Do you know you're on the wrong road ?"

"I kinda figured... you're the first guy that stopped all day long."

~ * ~

A guy from Boistown walks into a pharmacy on the East Side.

"I... you know, I'm gay."

"Good for you, but really, we don't care."

"No, you see... my wif... my wuff... my other guy died."

"Oh. Sorry to hear that. What can we do for you ?"

"Well... after the cremation... here's the urn with his ashes."

"Okay...?"

"Could you make them into suppositories ?"

~ * ~

A retired Army vet whose absurdly fat wife had made him an absurdly fat kid kept trying to rectify the junior by taking him to various sports, or at least outdoor activities. Nothing worked out ; eventually the desperate father and the hungry son are out on a boat, setting up to spend the day fishing.

"Son, pass me the bread."

"There's none left. I ate it."

"Pass me the polenta."

"There's none left of that, either."

"God damn it. Alright, eat the worms too and let's get back home."

~ * ~

An out of town dude at a local family-owned eatery.

"I didn't ask for the check ?"

"Yes ; but you did ask for the mushrooms."

~ * ~

By the subway entrance towards Grand Central an old Argentine woman sits selling pre-packaged treats for five dollars a pop. A young man goes by every day, and every day drops five dollars in her lap, all the while never picking any treats. One day she tries to grab him and talk to him. He moves past her, throwing a "What, you want to ask me why I don't pick anything ?" behind as he goes by.

"No, I just wanted to let you know it's gone up to seven dollars this morning."

~ * ~

The Mother Superior catches a very tired, raggadly man who was desperately trying to jump over the monastery fence.

"What are you doing here, you shameless man!"

"I was trying to steal food, but the sisters caught me."

"When was this ?!"

"Six weeks ago."

~ * ~

A little boy went to a tree, unbuttoned his pants and started talking a leak. A beat cop walked up behind him and said "Don't ever do that again, or else I'll cut your wee-wee off!"

The little boy ran away in a panic, only stopping a dozen streets over, where he saw a little girl about his age, kneeling in front of a tree and taking a leak. "Good god, that pig was not kidding!"

~ * ~

A guy takes a girl out, first to dinner, then to a movie, then to a few drinks, then to see the stars... she's a middle class princess so nothing works out. Eventually he takes her home about dawn. At the door he props himself on the wall and goes to town on persuasion, as he'd read on the various forums. The girl's not budging an inch, but eventually the door opens. The girl's father, half-asleep, mumbles "My wife says she'll give you a blowjob, or you can fuck the Mexican maid when she comes in a coupla hours, or I can give you a handjob myself if you want. Just, take that elbow off the god damned doorbell already!"

~ * ~

"Doctor, I'm losing my hair. What can I do to keep it ?"

"Have you tried putting it in an envelope ?"

~ * ~

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please do not panic. The airplane is going down into the Ocean. As the waters here are full of sharks, the stewardesses will be passing out a special repellent balm. Please rub the balm on all parts of your body before putting the life vests on. Thank you."

A concerned passenger inquires with the closest stewardess : "Does the balm make the sharks not eat us ?"

"No, they'll still eat you. But you won't taste as good."

~ * ~

The sentinel in a Wild West fort raises the alarm : "Cap'n! Injuns!"

"Friends or foes ?"

"Friends I think... I mean, they're coming together..."

~ * ~

As the airplane was halfway to Honolulu, the comm system beeped. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. If you would but look out the starboard windows, you'd see both engines in flames. If however you'd look the other way, you'd see both the other engines in flames. And if you look really really carefully at that island down below, you'll see some people waving. That'd be me, the 2nd and the cabin crew. This has been a recording. Beeeep."

~ * ~

At an Italian resort, Italians trying to pretend they're waiters interact with Germans trying to pretend they're tourists -- just like they've all seen on American TV.

"Due Martini, bitte!"

"Dry ?"

"Nein, zwei!!"

~ * ~

"I need a box of thumb tacks."

"A fistful of confetti, one viagra pill, half minute in the blender."

~ * ~

A cannibal goes hunting for human flesh. After a lenghty absence he returns, carrying a large urn. Everyone's trying their best to hide their disappointment. "What the hell is this ?"

"A new invention. It's called instant. Just add water."

~ * ~

A guy in a funny hat is being interviewed on TV.

"So Mr. President... are there still cannibals left in your country ?"

"Oh no. We ate the last one long ago."

~ * ~

A cannibal and his son, gone hunting, came across an Afrikaaner slut bathing naked in a river. The son's drooling, "Daddy, daddy, she looks delicious. How do we eat her ?"

"We don't, dumbass. We take her home, and we eat your mother."

~ * ~

A guy who thinks he's a cannibal goes to the psychiatrist. Upon his return his concerned wife inquires "How was the psychiatrist ?"

"Delicious."

~ * ~

Upon return from business trip,

"Honey, what if I told you that while you were away I made love to your best friend ?"

"I always hoped you'd turn out bisexual."

~ * ~

A cannibal couldn't sleep, kept tossing and turning in bed. Eventually he wakes up his wife with his squirming.

"What's the matter with you ?"

"I can't sleep. All these thoughts come to bother and disturb me, like why am I here on Earth ? What is the point of life ? What have I done useful in this world ? How could I best live out the life that's left to me ?"

"I told you to not eat that shank of intellectual!"

~ * ~

A new witch doctor is sent by the central witch doctor school to an obscure cannibal village to bring the light of the newest advances of science to the needy. His first case is a man with heartburn. The witch doctor prescribes one fireman a week. His second case is a woman with anemia. The witch doctor prescribes squaw shank. The third case is impotence. The witch doctor prescribes old German tourist, male, travelling alone, to be consumed right before a promised meeting with a village girl.

~ * ~

A schoolgirl goes to the drug store.

"Hi. What can I get you ?"

"Do you have really really large condoms ?"

"Ugh... Yes, I guess so. Would you like to buy some ?"

"No, but... is it ok if I wait here until somebody does ?"

~ * ~

A schoolgirl has to face the music. "Mom... I think I might be pregnant."

"Whaaat ?! Where was your head!"

"In the glove compartment practically."

~ * ~

A reasonably inebriated barfly is whining in the general direction of some dork in a leisure suit seated nearby. "You men don't even know how hard we women have it. Tonight maybe I'm in the arms of my husband, tomorrow maybe in the arms of the Almighty..."

"Are you free the day after tomorrow ?"

~ * ~

After imbibing enough alcohol men become over-emotional, drive poorly, speak just to hear the sound of their own voice, argue over nothing etcetera. Women on the other hand don't really need alcohol to manage all that.

~ * ~

The first time they took her to Washington, Condolezza Rice (the hotel maid famous for perjuring herself in politically motivated but otherwise groundless proceedings against the IMF managing director intended to ensure a different, less qualified and therefore more palatable candidate got the job) found herself trapped against her will in the hotel room!

She called a bunch of cannibals back in her ancestral village for help, and even posted on reddit looking for a solution. Her problem was that the room had only three doors : one lead to the bathroom, the other to the closet, and the third had a "do not disturb" notice on the knob. After the hotel manager in charge of retards democrat politicians came to her rescue, she concluded with relief that no one could have foreseen the use of a door as an exit.

~ * ~

A girl busts into the gynecologist's office. "I don't mean to bother you Doc, but... didn't you find a pair of bikinis ? I was here earlier and..."

"Sorry to say, miss, but no."

"I must've left them at the dentist..."

~ * ~

"Why are women convergent ?"

"Say what ?"

"Because they're monotonous and limited."

"Umm..."

"But what gets wet without need of rain, bleeds without being hurt, gives milk without eating grass, speaks without having a topic and spends money it didn't earn ?"

"A... woman ?"

"Yes! But what's the opposite of a woman ?"

"Uhhh.."

"A mirror."

"Is that a fact."

"Yes! Because the mirror reflects without speaking while woman speaks without reflecting."

"Where do you get this stuff ?"

"It's in all the good books!"

"Yes, well... they've kinda stopped updating those."

"Still, a woman can't be smart and beautiful at the same time, because then she'd be a man."

"Really."

"And also, do you know when a woman can help you become a millionaire ? When you're a billionaire. Hahaha!"

"..."

~ * ~

A young Jew decides to come out of the closet. Faithful to the principle of attacking the largest obstacle first, he sits his Jewish Mother down, and, circumvectur amore, more or less explains the matter. She's not much surprised, but does conduct a line of inquiry nevertheless.

"Are you telling me you suck the dongs of men, the same ones they stick in assholes ?"

"Uhh... I... I suppose."

"I don't want to hear any more comments about my cooking."

~ * ~

"Daddy, daddy! What's a transvestite ?"

"Ask Mom, he knows."

~ * ~

An old man shows up at the immigration office.

"What makes you want to leave your home at such an advanced age ?"

"It's because of homosexuality."

"How do you mean ?"

"When I was a kid it was a hanging offence. Then they stopped hanging them, and instead locked them up in special leper colonies. Then they started locking them up with the general population. Eventually they stopped locking them up at all, and nowadays it's even legal for homosexuals to get married."

"So ?"

"So I'd like to get the fuck out of here before it becomes mandatory."

~ * ~

A nun hails a cab. The whole ride the cab driver keeps eyeing her in the rear-view mirror. Eventually she asks what's the matter ? The cab driver's a little shy, but she coaxes him with assurances that she's seen and heard it all.

"Well... I have this fantasy, always have. Ever since I was a little kid I dreamed of fucking a nun."

"Oh, my son. Are you married ?"

"I'm not."

"But are you a Catholic ?"

"Yes I am."

"I have to remain a virgin though. We'd have to do it the other way."

"That's no problem!"

They pull over, and the cab driver fucks the nun like he'd never seen nun ass before. Then they get back on the road. After a few miles, the cab driver starts crying.

"What's the matter now ?"

"Oh Holy Mother, my sins burden my soul. I lied to you. I'm married, and I'm Jewish."

"Don't worry about it. I'm John, and this is my Halloween costume."

~ * ~

Babydoll is being babysat. The babysitter's this awkward boy fresh out of highschool. He has no experience, but Babydoll's to the rescue : "Let's play hide and seek."

"How does that go ?"

"I hide and you seek. If you find me, you're ok to sock it in me. If you don't find me, then I'm in the closet."

~ * ~

"Why do you think your room mate might be gay ?"

"His penis tastes like shit."

~ * ~

"Is it worse to be gay or black ?"

"Gay, definitely. Black kids don't have to tell their parents."

~ * ~

A bored housewife hears her husband's pick-up truck pulling into the driveway.

"Oh my god, he's back early. Quick. Quick! Out the window! Hurry up!!"

"What the hell ?"

"It's my husband. He's back early. Please. Hurry!"

"God damned it, don't you see how it's raining ?"

"You don't understand, he's back early from hunting. If he finds you here like this he'll shoot both of us."

The poor guy, taking her excitement seriously, jumps out the window. He finds himself on a suburban street, in the middle of pouring rain, buck naked. He looks up and down, trying to figure out what to do next, when a large group turns the corner. It's a marathon! For lack of a better idea he takes to running with them. A few kids playing reporter for the local newspaper crowd around him.

"Do you always run in the nude, like this ?"

"Oh, yes, always. It gives me a great sense of freedom and..."

"But holding your clothes in your arms, too ?"

"Sure, I always park right next to the finish line. Once I'm done I dress and go home."

"And with a condom on always as well ?"

"Ah, no. No, the condom only when it rains."

~ * ~

On a nudist beach, a middle aged dude in a beige short sleeved shirt with teal square patterns and a tie is taking pictures. A woman comes up to him at an excited trot, flailing her arms. "Quick, come quick, Mom's drowning!"

"Sorry honey, I just finished all the film."

~ * ~

A young wife, going through the park with a stroller, runs into her highschool bff. "Oh wow, what a beautiful child! And it looks just like your husband!"

"Are you serious ?"

"Definitely."

"But we don't have any children yet."

"What ?"

"This is the next door neighbour's baby boy. She asked me to take care of him today."

"Ummm..."

The young wife, pretty damn well pissed off, stomps all the way back home, returns the kid, then goes out, buys a revolver and shoots her husband dead once he shows up. Then she tells the police someone broke in. They believe her ; at the funeral, the neighbour, standing right next to her, is crying her eyes out.

"Eh, lay off. I'm sure I'll re-marry."

« Joe Jokes

The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz »

Category: Prz arhscrt

Friday, 18 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

MiniGame (S.MG) Statement on Q4 2020

S.MG incoming and outgoing

Incoming

Outgoing

Description

Value

Description

Value

Deposits

0.0

Loot pool provisioning

0.0

Server

0.05870513i

Payroll

0.44561474

Total

0.0

Total

0.504319876

S.MG assets

Account

01.10.2020

Net change

31.12.2020

Cash

8`446.69023968

0.504319876

8`446.185919804

Tangibles

309.16706794

0.00003215

309.16703579

Intangibles and goodwill

79.28853731

0.00003215

79.28856946

Total assets

8`834.641525054

S.MG liabilities

Account

01.10.2020

Net change

31.12.2020

Player holdings

119.77933214

0.0018542ii

119.78118634

Shareholder equity

8`715.36651279

0.506174076iii

8`714.860338714

Total liabilities

8`834.641525054

S.MG has a total of 88`096`605 authorised shares outstanding.iv The shareholder equity per share implied value is thus 0.00009897 BTC.

Provisional statement, will be considered accepted within one week of publication. Make any observations or corrections below.

Miscellaneous

Closing a decade, ain't that fun! And what a shitty decadev it was, too!

As far as Eulora v2.0 development is concerned, we're in a position where (finally!) encrypted communication with key burning works now. We're also building a substantial (ada-based) graphics pipeline toolchain (large parts of it started life back in the days of exploration, as mere bash scripts and assorted materia obscura) that is progressing nicely. I fully expect the Endless Lands thing to be fully deployed this year ; and as large a part of everything else as humanly possible.

Whether anyone else will be allowed to play it though... now that's a different matter. I'll... think about it, let's say.

———The dollar and other fiat crap collapsing this quarter has greatly improved our balance sheet outlook. From a financial perspective Eulora is pretty much eternal at this point. [↩]Corresponding in current fiatola to a movement of $66 or thereabouts, which (considering it's the delta of player activity) ain't even close to nothing!

Speaking of nothing : I've re-installed Rift yesterday ; it still works on Wine just as well as back then! Nothing else works like back then though, I'm the only one playing on the only remaining PvP server. Do you know what death penalty is like, on the only PvP server ?

Nothing. I mean it, there is no penalty. Nothing at all. I've made level 38 since yesterday, of which levels 33 to 38 in a few hours playing the King's Breach team instance solo. Yes, that's right, my build, put together out of things a first toon on an account found in the environment, still can beat the god damned party instance two levels over! Meanwhile everyone is hanging out, talking "politics" as they understand it.

"Help" the "it's too hard" folks some more, why don't you. Certainly the world's greatly improved since giving that repugnant crowd the reins.

tl;dr Eulora has weathered the shit decade way the fuck better than Rift has. And it cost less to do, too! [↩]Coulda been worse, har har. [↩]S.MG has Special Stock Warrants outstanding, representing a total of 105`448`912 shares for a total value of 10`549.6605 BTC (thus a par value of 1.00047), alloted to the following RSA keys :

#

Fingerprint

Shares

BTC

Par

1

6160E1CAC8A3C52966FD76998A736F0E2FB7B452

88`096`605

8`809.6605

1

2

E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E

15`430`000

1`543.0

1

3

EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E

1`400`000

140

1

4

5015BD3D0AE659C8B8632F31CF2950F23C844002

192`307

25

1.3

5

FC66C0C5D98C42A1D4A98B6B42F9985AFAB953C4

150`000

15

1

6

57EE94EA6F2049A47DAFA8568F4CE8F777BC59F9

150`000

15

1

7

260FA57BCE677A5C04BF60BA4A75883CC1B1D34C

20`000

2

1

8

BBB0A99950037551F533850A677ABD62D0AEE7D7

10`000

1

1

T

105`448`912

10`549.6605

1.00047

SSW certificate blocks corresponding to employee compensation used to be formally issued in January, using the meanwhile... obsoleted deedbot infrastructure (mostly s'as to have some kind of use for it, I guess). I don't intend to bother with automatic issuance of RSA-signed certificates going forward, thoughit remains available at the interested parties' request. [↩]I mean the epithet literally : the interval made very acute, and very visible, the painfully pointed difference between man and pressed shitboard, to the (perhaps unsurprising) stinking up of the whole place. All this vaguely human-shaped shit so readily mistook for alter-ego back in the day, back when the vantage stood at such substantial distance as the previous millenium so readily allowed. To rewrite the old joke, "back then eram si noi aloof-er". [↩]

« Kit's such a whore...

Joseph, bekannt Joe »

Category: S.MG

Sunday, 17 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

MiniGame (S.MG) Statement on Q1 2021

S.MG incoming and outgoing

Incoming

Outgoing

Description

Value

Description

Value

Deposits

0.0

Loot pool provisioning

0.0

Server

0.03468837

Payroll

0.29708516

Total

0.0

Total

0.33177353

S.MG assets

Account

01.01.2021

Net change

31.03.2021

Cash

8`446.18591980

0.33177353

8`445.85414627

Tangibles

309.16703579

0.00064554

309.16768133

Intangibles and goodwill

79.28856946

0.00064554

79.28792392

Total assets

8`834.30975152

S.MG liabilities

Account

01.01.2021

Net change

31.03.2021

Player holdings

119.78118634

0.00263473i

119.78382107

Shareholder equity

8`714.86033871

0.33440826

8`714.52593045

Total liabilities

8`834.30975152

S.MG has a total of 88`096`605 authorised shares outstanding.ii The shareholder equity per share implied value is thus 0.00009897 BTC.

Provisional statement, will be considered accepted within one week of publication. Make any observations or corrections below.

Miscellaneous

Quoth last quarter, last year, last decade (nevermore) :

I fully expect the Endless Lands thing to be fully deployed this year ; and as large a part of everything else as humanly possible.

As a factual matter I've just taken a pleasant stroll through endless maps. It's all computer generatediii, and on-demand at that. Not quite production-ready just yet, but steady work and diligence will definitelty get it thereiv ; and so much further besides!

———If you're wondering how the hell's it possible everyone comes out green -- why, it's the golden goose! [↩]S.MG has Special Stock Warrants outstanding, representing a total of 105`448`912 shares for a total value of 10`549.6605 BTC (thus a par value of 1.00047), alloted to the following RSA keys :

#

Fingerprint

Shares

BTC

Par

1

6160E1CAC8A3C52966FD76998A736F0E2FB7B452

88`096`605

8`809.6605

1

2

E72DCCB73A5E06694C5CD781D5196EE6390F999E

15`430`000

1`543.0

1

3

EA0FAD90985B3025576A5061454B0FC0BC07B87E

1`400`000

140

1

4

5015BD3D0AE659C8B8632F31CF2950F23C844002

192`307

25

1.3

5

FC66C0C5D98C42A1D4A98B6B42F9985AFAB953C4

150`000

15

1

6

57EE94EA6F2049A47DAFA8568F4CE8F777BC59F9

150`000

15

1

7

260FA57BCE677A5C04BF60BA4A75883CC1B1D34C

20`000

2

1

8

BBB0A99950037551F533850A677ABD62D0AEE7D7

10`000

1

1

T

105`448`912

10`549.6605

1.00047

SSW certificate blocks corresponding to employee compensation used to be formally issued in January, using the meanwhile... obsoleted deedbot infrastructure (mostly s'as to have some kind of use for it, I guess). I don't intend to bother with automatic issuance of RSA-signed certificates going forward, thoughit remains available at the interested parties' request. [↩]If we were shittier people (like the sort of deplorables making up google & all) we'd be calling this "ai", because hurr. It ain't anything like that ; algorithmic futzing over large uncomprehended datasets ain't nothing like artifice, to give inteligence a rest already.

It's just computing, aite ? Yes, I'm aware your cluckers meanwhile gave you a fuckmake-over, and you think computing's something quite stupidly pointless, much like the baby tomcat's hearsay notion of "fucking". Nevertheless... [↩]Which is a damn sight better than how that year started. As it turns out, shaking loose of all that helpful help the "republic" was providing's by far the best thing that ever happened to Eulora. [↩]

« 3 + 3 = 6

A nice time at the movies »

Category: S.MG

Friday, 16 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

L'ultima carrozzella

L'ultima carrozzellai is a delightful story from the slow days of yore, back before propaganda was a thingii. It enjoys (and readily spreads the enjoyment) of the square, Roman, comforting and comfortable flow of a story told because it's a good storyiii, and because we're good together, and because all's well. Almost painfully counterdistinct from the volatile, vituperating flow of a spirit recounted because someone's trying to sell us some tupperware. It's like warm baking soda versus boiling vinegar, it's like olive oil versus oil of vitriol, it's outright impossible to miss. Even if one's trying, even if one's so inhabituated to the abrasive life in baths of aqua regia, even if one thinks he's managed to forget humanity -- nevertheless the simple presence, the unassuming display of the artifact pierces through all that nonsense like the fantasy of the holy cross supposedly piercing through the lures of the Enemy. Art works in fact exactly like religion's missrepresneted in the imagination to be working in fact yet never does, ain't that the bitch of all time.

Many lesser actors, and lesser writers, and lesser thinkers -- indeed many subhumans also -- have attempted over the ages the being Aldo Fabrizi. It didn't work out so well for them, which I suppose is a second reason to see this film, though perhaps persuasive for a different sort of viewer than the first. There's also a (relatively) young Anna Magnaniiv being thoroughly annoying and outright reprehensible, and not just "as a character", either. I can't imagine how Rossellini managed to not beat the shit out of her on a regular basis, for reals.

C'era 'na vorta tutto quer che c'era...

———1943, by Mario Mattoli, written by and acted by Aldo Fabrizi.

Very ineptly re-titled "The Last Wagon" for its limited English release notwithstanding a carrozzella's got about as much to do with a wagon as an American with a person. [↩]Very technically speaking Aldo Fabrizi is mostly a scion of the Italian Avanspettacolo, itself an... emanation of the fascists' notions of using the tax code to "shape" society (for "its better", of course). Something I'm sure you're well familiar with, not like the socialists won the war or anything. Right ?

Yet it's the fate of the world that early cancer looks a lot healthier than healthy tissue later on. [↩]Which, of course, means something else in that context. [↩]She's thirty-something, and quite a distance from the absolutely deligthful fifty-something in Mamma Roma. It could (rather, it should) be pointed out Anna Magnani's a rare case of one of those women that are at best insufferable in their youth, only to mature into an absolute delight as they age well out of what dour dorks misrepresent as "the window". How is it, anyway, that I'd buy Mamma Roma la fruttivendola all the wine she can drink any place or time she cares to drink it, yet I deem centottanta lire an indefensibly excessive outlay for Mary Dunchetti, canzonettista ? [↩]

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

Ioai pisa-v-as in freza de tolomaci supranumerari... »

Category: Trilematograf

Wednesday, 17 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

La Ragazza Che Sapeva Troppo

La Ragazza Che Sapeva Troppoi is a kinda-sorta nothing in particular. Broadly regarded as the first giallo (though the link is superficial at best), it's a romantic comedy trying to do Hitchcock and Gaslight at the same time. The result's neither arousing, amusing nor afrightin', but more like a comestible domestic failure. What'd happen if your fiance attempted to make strawberry shortcake, Blackforest cake and baked Alaska in the same pan ? And... would you still eat it ?

It makes entirely no sense, in the 70s porno sense of "makes no sense"ii ; it's shot in black-and-white (the director's supposedly famous for his excellent use of color) ; it utterly fails to display the unremarkably unendowed chickies to any standard. There's just... pretty much nothing there.

I suppose the only reason to watch this thing is the same reason you'd opt to drive around in a Yugo : you're being Michael Cera.

———1963, by Mario Bava, with Leticia Roman, Valentina Cortese. "The Evil Eye" in the US & co, a terrible re-cut horrifyingly re-scored. Their period fixation with Les Baxter rescoring on Italian imports is sheer lunacy from a contemporary perspective. [↩]In fairness, it includes a disclaimer as to this point within the first two minutes : the weird dude who waited until the plane was landing in Rome (ie, 16 hours) to interpelate the lone teenager sitting next to him, a strictly inconceivable circumstance (females being kept on as short a leash then as now, when's the last time you saw a solo teen flying transatlantic ?) offers her a cigarette which she doesn't want and besides she has her own except where's she put them oh no take the whole pack of 'em I don't mind. So she does. After which his next like isn't "well, try this buttplug with nipple clamps on for size then, if you're that fucking submissive why the hell not."

Instead, he's arrested waiting in the customs line, by some dorks so utterly unprofessional they actually open up his double bottom briefcase to expose a buncha Kent "marijuana" cigarettes and what, does he use cocaine for borotalco ? [↩]

« The Time of Your Life

So some dork asks me for a "designer" job... »

Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 11 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

La nostalgia...

Ho passato tutte le estate della mia vita

facendo proposti per Settembre. Ora non piu.

Ora passo il tempo ricordando le proposte che facevo,

e che sono svaniti. Un po' per pigrizia, un po' per dimenticanza.

Ma che avvete contra la nostalgia ?

E il unico svago possibile per cui non crede nel futuro!

I didn't copy/paste that tidbit up above. I didn't put it through a spellchecker -- not the kind that "start-up"-ed recently, ready to abuse the thesaurus to "improve" the stolid prosaicism of stolid people, nor any other. I didn't check it in any way. I didn't even read it, truth be told. I just wrote it.

I wrote it as it came to mei ; it's from an old film -- though not that old really, yet as old as a twelve year old Elizabeth Taylor : older than her grandmother, older than dirt, oldest since forever. I'm sure you don't know it, didn't see it, whatever. You wouldn't understand it if you did see it. You never understand anything. You never have -- which'd be the problem, of course ; but it's the problem of other people. We call theose other people "you" to not have to be bothered with them anymore. Not any more than can't be helped, anyway.

The spirit of the time is ubiquitous, all-pervasive. I am awake in the early morning, content yet troubled. The birds are singing their enthusiastic cacophony, the occasional cicada burrs, the Sun, well risen, lights in bright youthful tones the bright youthful jungle all around. It, too, is older than dirt. In fact, it's the originator of all dirt, much like the eager young pleaserii's the genitor of her antecessors. Somehow, don't ask me how, it's factual nevertheless. There's a windowpaned wall in this tower of mine that readily substitutes for a painting.iii Sometimes I sit down to watch a film and I end up watching out that window instead, it's literally better than any painted peisage I ever did see. Not that I despise Manet or anything ; but there's limits to the human hand. What do I see in it ? It's just a few hills, green melting into a bluish haze of cloud and distance, floral reds and yellows drizzled about ; pastoral whites and graytone of little cows scattered here and there, now and again. There's nothing there, or rather, there's nothing else.

It reconstructs itself, somehow. The cows are never in the same place, obviously. It's not even really the same cows, over the thousands of jugeraiv my eye readily surveys multiple farms take their cows to pasture in different places at different times, I merely perceive tiny tips and fleeting flutters of large unperceived phenomenological universes underneath. Yet of course they're the same ; it's the same painting over and over again. The same hillsides covered in the same trees of the same leaves, they just keep changing but it doesn't actually change anything. Does it ?

The spirit of the time : we're well sick of the other. Far from last century's wanna-be-ish garglev's idle enthusements, the other is actually foul. Unwelcome. Undesired. Like midges in butter, this other like any other. Like little articulated carpaces in your flour, moving about distressingly, inappropiately. Like undead mice, bothering a cat by their very existence, disparate and disentangled from any particular activity. Beyond speech, beyond reach, the other's outright vile just for (allegedly) existing at all. This conclusion reforms itself, repeats itself, echoes itself off of itself. It's overpowering. Irrespective of whether it was attained through my extremely complex tooling or merely brute-forced through the troglodyte's simplicity, whether it's "the virus" or sophisticated philosophy, whether regarded through an early monocle or a sophisticated pair of contemporary binoculars -- the hillside's the same. On it, cows graze, and the other's an eyesore.

I can't right now think of a different time. A time such as when the other'd be a welcome sight ; a time when, far from an outright eyesore, the other was a sight for sore eyes. There was such a time. Wasn't there ? I think there must've been, I'm almost sure of it ; yet, like Augustine's notion of beauty, the moment I try to put a finger on it I find myself forced to regretfully take notice there's nothing there. Servants -- meaning, women too internally crippledvi, too mentally destitute, too thymically dry to kneel properly -- are okay, I suppose. Though really, best in moderation, better still in sparsity. One's better than two, and two preferable to four, in any case best with none than with any at all. They'd better wear uniforms, to make them more like objects than others ; they'd better keep their gaze down, they'd better be quiet and always have something to do. Otherness sterilization, all of it, they're being boiled like yuca root, to get the foul other out of them as much as possible ; while at the other end of the spectrum, picking up the phone went out, as predicted by Facebook & co back in 2015, sometime around 2017 I guess ? "Calling people is too intimate ; if you've not seen them naked it's probably an imposition" or somesuch, then&thereabouts.

There's no solution possible -- besides a change of mood, of course, though I can't foresee such a thing. The dislike of the other, the (quite natural, and naturally arising) sastiseala of its unwelcome if inexplicably perpetuated presence, these aren't the sort of thing that goes away. Like slowly drying, browning vomit in a nook of a public bus, it'll perdure. It'll be there, in its place at the end of the windowpane, at the juncture between synthetic rubber and synthetic wood, for as long as you're there to see it. For as long as your life's slowly draining, browning, crumbling away on that busline, now and again meeting the one bus, for that long you'll (at the same now and again) see the stain. Indelible. Not exactly permanent, merely immune to the future.

The children are, of course, different ; but their alienation from their own existence (or whatever'll be left of the simulacrum by then) a topic of historical discussion later. After a time, once their own life's browned out, wilting away before their very eyes. Once they too hold in their outstretched hands what used to be, what used to think themselves their entrails while that particular mask of shock and despair crumples their faces... then it'll be time to talk of the children. So far there's nothing to credit the future ; all we're left with is some attempt or other at reconstructing nostalgia.

———No kidding, it reconstructed itself, in my mind, by itself. I heard it a few times, years ago ; then over time it reformed itself in my mind, cleared itself by itself of impurities, re-distilled its original form, and I woke up with it. I'm sure it's exactly correct, if not formally. Notation varies, but substance is, apparently, not only fixed but self-healing, it re-emerges as itself seemingly by itself. All it needs is the environment of a working brain, a human mind, what I suppose was traditionally deemed the eternal soul in this part of the world. Whatever it is you & the rest of the barbarian hordes do not have. [↩]And how! Have you seen that little bitch ?! [↩]Nor is it alone in playing this strange game. There's a mirror on a different wall, in a different room, so anchored in its unassuming place that, when one's seated on the corresponding couch across the floor, the thing turns into a painting, as if by magic. Vermeer's suspected of having painted with the camera obscura ; I've dispensed with the intermediaries and simply use mirrors directly. It doesn't work as well at night ; but then again no painting does much better. [↩]As much land as a team (yoke, jugum) of oxen can plough in a day. [↩]I'm not going to even bother digging, I'm sure there's some place or other I pissed all over Levinas-Habermas-Boton-what's-his-face-idiot-my-slavegirl-asked-about-yest. They're really not even worth naming, 20th century French wanna-bes & their pale immitators in the colonies. [↩]Some of these call themselves "men" -- but we, of course, know better. [↩]

« A Place in the Sun

Pregnant pauses and other rule-based systems »

Category: Cocietate si Sultura

Saturday, 01 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

La minorenne

La minorennei is by and large gunk, with two shining exceptions, between them long enough to almost cover the space of an advertising break. Blink and you've missed them ; I wouldn't go as far as to say they make this film anything therefore, but I also can't pass them in silence.

Guglielmi, a forty-eight year old who nevertheless somehow manages to look seventy-nine, constructs a memorable character out of thirty seconds and the sparse nothings available in these mean, below-direct-to-video productions. Somehow. I don't know how. In spite of that painfully ineptii scullery maid he's stuck acting with, in spite of the metaphorical grime all around, his "How did it end so cursedly" crowning utterance upon a genuine, directly apprehensible if painfully, slowly erected tower of common life echoes, and keeps right on echoing. It's still ringing in my ears, the day after the night during. How, just how did it ? Hai cinquantatre anni e una vita devastata. Come tutti noi. Allora, invece di farci la morale e di guardarci con antipatia, dovresti guardarci con affetto. Siamo tutti sull'orlo della disperazione. No habiamo altro rimedie que guardarci en faccia e farci compagnia, prenderci in giro. O... no? goes the inquiry, and indeed. A polite man, a cultivated man, a patient, laborious man trying for the best, always, always for the best. Pero... come mai... ?

Then there's the situation where the director -- and I've no doubt it's the director -- manages to extract out of the brute material of a normally developed teenageriii a living icon of those vague, imprecise, approximately erotic, slightly murdersome cvasi-sexual fantasies of the flowered young woman (which is to say, before being deflowered, but after having something there to be deflowered in the first place). An abundance of teenagers -- just as lanky, just as absentiv -- have shared enough of themselves with me over the years, both explicitly and implicitly, for the recognition to readily form : this, indeed, is something. Something deep and true and more young woman than you'll likely ever touch (in very slight part because not anymore, the counterfit distractions of socialism cut the thread in people at an even earlier age, so even something as basic as the normally developped fifteen year old is becoming rare in common experience). That's rather how pre-penis female fantasies of meta-girl life look like, feel like, taste like, with the bizarre cross and the strange fixated faces "watching" and with the tits and so on and so forth.

The film immediately falls down once the boys are introduced, because, amusingly enough if just as inescapably obvious... the crew just didn't know how to write for a man. The regrettable ordures of Italy's own graduates, even weaker sauce, immediately drown anything and everything ; and then the "politically correct" absurdities of the time, well... frankly, the production never had a chance, from the get-go. It started as the attempt at building a Dyson sphere by some suburban middle school science club. So... we shall be thankful for what it managed, and move on, without concluding that the deliberate organization of suburban middle school science clubs is a worthy expenditure of public funds.

———1974, by Silvio Amadio, with Gloria Guida, Augusto (Marco) Guglielmi. [↩]Her "rekindle intimacy with adolescent daughter returned from boarding school" scene looks so much like a -- bad, tritely bad -- lesbian scene it makes skin crawl. [↩]Gloria Guida is nothing more and nothing besides a biotypical adolescent female that's willing to (somewhat, but still, more than the other stupid cunts then contemporary) show it. Her eye's dead, unlike say Lynn's. Her face is dead, as dead as any fish that ever slowly asphixiated in a hobbyst's "aquarium" / slow choker by accumulation of unwanted metabolytes. She's more of a houseplant than most houseplants ever were, except for the part where she looks just like what "we" were fucking back then -- meaning just me. Besides her functioning as a walking, occasionally talking vaginal mold she has no practical function, and I suspect no capacity for any function. [↩]The idea that adolescents are present within their bodies, or within their lives, is at best approximative itself. [↩]

« The deplorable generation

Amarcord »

Category: Trilematograf

Saturday, 05 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

Kit's such a whore...

The man snuck quietly in the dark room ; the curtains on the large bed throning in the middle unmoved. As he removed his garments by himself her voice came, sleepy, from a daze beyond, just like a lullaby.

"Come to me, love."

"I'm soiled, Kittyi." he offered, as he climbed inside the contraption. She wallowed and struggled in her chemise like a seal moving on land, her pregnancy quite as advanced as to appear over-term.

"Is my sweet rod covered in some whore's secret juice ?" she inquired, sing-song voice betraying much excitement on her part. "I wonder if I can guess which one!" She put her lips to his liberated manhood carefully in the dark, and licked it exploringly. "Oh my! This is no whore, not just yet! This is a maiden's eager young blood!"

"So it is."

"An hour old ?"

"I just left her but a moment ago."

"So fresh... so lovely... she is so healthy... was she a great fuck ?"

"That she was. I expect she's still bleeding in my cum inside of her."

"Please Johann, force it into my womb. I want to feed its taste to my boy I'm feeding inside me for you, so he remembers it when grown."

The man did her bidding, helping her on her back and then stroking her much engorged flower slowly on his bloodied rod.

"I'm keeping tally of them all, you know." she whispered to him, past him. "When he'll be grown I'll bring them over, one by one, and say to him 'Behold my son, that woman. See her ? Mark her well ; for when I was rounded and full with you as yet unborn, your father slayed her in the lovely way. He took her maidenhead from her, and that's how she became a woman, while you were becoming a newborn boy!' And then I'll say to her, 'Come, show my son where on your body his father wounded you.' and they'll strip naked, or maybe just lift up their skirts, and spread their legs, and show him womanhood ; and he'll fuck them all."

"What if they're married, Kitty ?"

"It is his birthright! Besides, they won't mind... Who was it, which shy little young maid did you ravish tonight ?" The man made no answer. It wasn't hostility or disinterest, on the contrary, he was watching her with happy, smiling eyes, half convinced she'd guess, half teasing her, egging her on to try. "I bet it was Griet, that young slut from the country. She was eating you with her eyes so..."

"That's right."

"How did you do her ?"

"I gave her to Pieter's boy for amusement, to play with her while he ate, and for her to eat him like a Frenchwoman afterwards."

"Then you walked in on them ?"

"Indeed."

"And he was on his back, her bent over him, suckling him ?"

"Precisely."

"So you went over to her, and took her from behind ? Did she struggle ?"

"No, she parted her flesh with her own hand."

"Eager little slut."

"So I said, and she agreed. She says she'll do it anytime."

"What did Mssr van Ruijven's boy say ?"

"He wants to marry her."

"A good match. Will you permit it ?"

"I think I will, once we're done with her."

"You told him so, no doubt ?"

"Indeed."

"May I ring for her ?"

"No. Let her have her whore's pay, why suck it right back out of her ?"

"Because it is delicious. And I love to! Sucking the lovely cream filling back out of their choux a la creme... you scatter it and I try to gather it all back inside me, isn't that we do ?"

"Besides, the boy will want his own way with her. So he can never know for sure whose she really was tonight, once they are married."

"You think he's smart enough for that ?"

"He seemed smart enough ; besides, she's there to press it on him. I think she wants to marry too, and what is better for a servant than that doubt ?"

"It is the best way for the first time, when they are thoroughly filled and their womb makes its own choice, secretly, inside of them. Shall I have her in my bed tomorrow night then ?"

"You long to make her caress you with her mouth, don't you."

"I do. I'll have her kiss my monstrous, engorged cunt, while I tell her fanciful tales and imagined stories of pregnancy, whispered horrors in her ear."

"You're such a whore, Kit."

"Thank you, milord."

———Really the historical character's name's just perfect! Dutch Catharina can be affectionately rendered Carine, Cato, Ina, Kaat, 'Kaatje, Rina, Nienke, Tiny, Toos, Trijn, I think there's perhaps a dozen more, all of which would work splendidly. It is the first time, and a mindblowing experience of record setting in my tortured existence as a calophile, whereby there's such abundance of perfectly workable options to impossibly choose among. Life always almost plays out the other way, when one's stuck choosing between three or four miserable candidates that none really work ; that's what I hate the most. Sometimes there's a self-obvious single candidate (though self-obvious means it's seldom obvious to anyone but me, at least before it's written down), which is how most of my writing proceeds, the words are hammered in place since before the world began, just, nobody was there to know it then. This time, though...

PS. A calophile is one who writes considering the actual words he uses, as opposed to one whose preoccupation is with the "ideas" he supposedly "expresses". I know you didn't know.

PPS. Speaking of that ridiculously retarded nedeflorena whose principal claim to fame'd be, as far as I can tell, having completed her scullery training at something called The Chevy Chase Highschool : Vermeer did not use "Indian yellow", it's Old Master's yellow, aite ? Dumbass. [↩]

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Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte

Thursday, 14 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

King Creole

King Creolei is amusingly childish ; yet in its extreme simplicity manages to cross no major red linesii. Unescapably it then comes off as a two hour cartooniii, making it the perfect Elvis vehicle quite naturally (and also his favourite cinematic self-exploitation, let it not be said the King never had any sense). The rich, nut-buttery rendition of 1950s New Orleans, physically trapped somewhere between its Rust Belt destiny and its glorious past rather drips, like molasses, right off the screen ; and the drop dead gorgeous Jonesiv rather reminds me of my own teenaged dolls back in the day, their punctilious needlework rather returned in dialogue along the lines of "So, this is where you live ?" "No. This is where I visit."

Indeed a budding harem stands before the man -- the presumed, the supposed, the "let's find out" man. Just two girls, but well spread out : the intellectual and the dedicated, the urban and the rural, a dollop of each. All they're awaiting is his magic wand, the touch of the axis mundi in his pants to bring, to stir their lives to life ; sadly... well, he's a boy, did I mention ? The tragedy of not one, ripe, ready to go, long awaiting woman but two ; and... the boy, yet a boy, still a boy... forever still a boy.

What can you do ?

———1958, by Michael Curtiz, with Elvis Presley, Carolyn Jones, Dolores Hart, Walter Matthau. [↩]Consider the point where the willing, the self-abandoningly, eagerly willing young filly asks the man -- the man in her eyes-- on the very threshold of life : is this how you learn the Torah ?

He runs away ; for he is a boy, not a man (nor can her confusion enact him into other-ness). Had he not ran away, had he stood as a man, and used her as a man -- as a man uses a whore -- he'd have had one, and she'd have had one. And therefore, later on, when the (alleged) man of the production confronts him, with "proposals" and whatnot nonsense, his manly way'd have been self-obvious before him : "Listen Maxine, I'll take her off your hands if she's too much for you ; as for the rest you can as well go dangle." and thereby readily preempt whatever nonsense in the vein of "oh, what were you talking about, let me see, ah yes, 'Max doesn't enter into it' or something" and, at the end, when the wanna-be gangster shoots his woman from under him (as I suppose he must) they could've ended up best of friends. Or enemies, meaningfully, not of the girlish but of the manly sort. The difference's altogether slight : the greatest enemies are actual men who broadly agree.

Yet in the fact that this story's about a boy not about a man no heinous crime's being committed. Not all stories can be about me, owning to their scarcity (yes, I notice I missed an n back there, but honestly... fix ? fix what ?) and so occasionally stories will necessarily have boys in them, like this one does. No he's not man enough to be a man ; but yeah he's plenty boy enough to be a boy, and after all that was the idea, wasn't it. [↩]Imagine this wonder, Matthau, of all people, cast as the heavy. Matthau, Walter Matthau, of Buddy Buddy and The Guide For Married Men, Matthau of Park Plaza and The Odd Couple. That Matthau, the consummate Goosy Boy, he's the evil gangster that "owns everything" in that sad Southern town.

It works out about as well as it sounds : a perfect villain for a cartoon, for a story of boys told to littler boys, that's all. [↩]The original Morticia Adams, and, in being there earliest, necessarily the model for Aaron Spelling's later gaggles of "actress" girlies (incestuously enough, principally figuring his own daughter). [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 21 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Killing Them Softly

Killing Them Softly i is one of those gay gangster productions with an all-dude cast and a lot of talking. You know how schoolyard "fights" between "real men" (such as can be found in schoolyards) consist of a lot of shoving ? Well, the gaysters consist of a lot of blather, it can't be helped.

This is however a pretty decent offering in the regrettable vein, not because it's funny (which is the way these generally rescue themselves, though this one really isn't) but because, on one hand, it's a shockingly accurate, if not in detail then definitely in general, depiction of the sad shitswamp the "underworld" fell intoii ever since that fateful day socialism burst through the wall and drowned the world out. In particular the very realistic use of principal photography, framing and cutting with nary a care for the gay "niceties" of the genre, really brings out the contrast between what it's used to have been and whatever's left. That contemptible fuckwad with the boyish facial hair, his "inner struggles" in step with the mental world of redditards... Bleargh.

The whole thing makes me want to puke. Not so much my lunch necessarily, but definitely on you. Directional rather than substantial vomit, the necessary end result of positional rather than substantial gangsterism.

There is no other hand ; though the amusing counterposition of the entirely hollow blather of "leadership", first the retarded Bush runt and then that retarded cvasi-nigger they let in to play with the supposed controls of the sinking ship once it became clear there's no rescuing it (and no sooner)... Heh. Whatever, it's really none of my business. Now fucking pay up.

———2012, by Andrew Dominik, with Brad Pitt, James Gandolfini, Ray Liotta. [↩]The 1970 vs 2020 contrast can barely be explained to the greenhorn ; while to the old timers, to people who used to break convicts out of the pen back before your mommy was breaking the sad news to your daddy... it's beyond words. You know what the faggots do in jail these day ? They jack off, all day long, "hey jack gimme a pose" being the handshake token of sexual social exchange. To put it plainly, doing a stretch these days is a lot softer than secondary education was fifty years ago ; but significantly more bureaucratically annoying, also. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Sunday, 28 February, Year 13 d.Tr.

Kid Galahad

Kid Galahadi is remarkable on a number of distinct counts.

First off (at least inasmuch as the sensibilities of its period were concerned), the neat depictionii of a "no fault divorce", an entirely novel concept : "Sorry Nicky, I fell for someone else. See ya around." It's unfortunately dolloped in a thick saucing of cuckiness, but that's as spurious there as ever, and washes off just as easily, too.

Secondly, the ready alliances with natural enemies along gender lines : Nick will shake hands with some turkey mobster before he'll shake down either sister or slavegirl into some semblance of comprehension of their place & role in lifeiii ; the spurned lover will shake hands with some country bumpkin (magically uploaded with urbanity for no apparent reason other than "she needed some"iv) before she'll be straight with any man. It's odd, really, but then again it's also perverse in exactly the way of mankind, so not necessarily surprising.

Finally, it's one of the few (indeed very few) instances where typically American summaries of high culture for a mass audience work well enough. The Faustian character, "tragically" dead upon fulfillment of his life's promise ; the kitsch-Galahad, breaking betrayal through keeping faith ; the man trying to be a man and dying alone with it, for the dumb broads gather 'round the cuck in their flight from reason to simplicityv -- they all work, well enough, certainly in proportion to the means available within the very limited (if abundantly over-supplied) receiver.

Post-finally, the recording of a shockingly inept Bogart's early days is just as remarkable for the film historian. This production rather convinced me that most of that man's craft and facility at his art he owes, if indirectly, to the Lolita he accreted later in life. I suspect that the only reason Bogart ever became a great actor was because a teenaged Bacall asked him "Daddy, daddy... how does acting go ?" and he went "Uhm... I... I..." then picking up a book and reading from there "I tell you, cunny, like this and the other. Hmm... Like this and the other, huh!"

Life, you know. That necessarily unfortunate pile-up of inconvenient inadvertencies.

———the 1937 one, not the Elvis 1962 vehicle. By Michael Curtiz, with Edward G. Robinson, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart. [↩]In this it mirrors the much less remarkable attempt at a cuck's view of a shrew in Tuesday After Xmas. [↩]No, I don't mean the sister's to stay a child, god help us. [↩]I can't be arsed to search through Trilema for the scribble of some typically Argentine wall reading "donde hay necesidad nace un derecho". The attitude (for an idea it isn't) is common enough among the unwashed and in filthy environments generally, for it's as naturally arising as flies and their maggots. [↩]Really, why's the lesbian lover-sister couple gathered at Nick's death-table ? "Because he's dieing" you say ? No, that can't be it. That'd be about him, not about themselves, and we know the socialist state's imperative is self-actualization, not self-sacrifice. In no case may they recognize their role in life, god forbid, what'd then be left for politruks and bureaucrats ?!?

They're there because they're saying good-bye. And why are they saying good-bye ? Why, because they've found an even softer meal ticket than the 30s cuck : the 50s ox! If Nick hadn't the decency to die, they'd have left just as well. Right ? Well...

Wouldn't you rather die Turkey Moron's death in there than any other available alternative ? Go go go Casa de Filme Unu, you've made the scum more appealing than anyone else ever managed! [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Thursday, 20 May, Year 13 d.Tr.

Ken Russell's 70s : The Boy Friend, Tommy and Altered States

The Boy Friendi is... well, I suppose a decent cinematic attempt at half a vaudeville show (specifically missing, as you no doubt can guess, the actually interesting part). It benefits from the services of an excellent stage crew and chorus line (the jump-rope tap-dance scene being the clearest indication of substantial female quality wasted in there) ; but it's so horrendously written as to bring to mind the very Frenchii. The only possible moral's that girlhood's wasted on girls ; boy-howdy does this regrettable offering ever live up to the bitter truth therein incumbent!

Tommyiii is such epic waste as to befuddle imagination. You'd think if anyone bothered to get those two together they'd do something with it. Well... not this fucktard. His idea of cinematographically employing Ann-Margret's having her tits weep under spurious coverage on some railroad platform once and that's the fuck it, whole lotta salad and somebody forgot the steak. This thing should be re-shot, properly, which is to say without fucking Tommy, who gives a shit about the Hamlet-lite wanna-be, and without all the gowns and crap. I don't mean completely without, they may just as well start dressed, it just can't fucking end that way, what the fuck. Ann-Margret'd totally have Madonna'd up that brown bitch, so where's the actual film ?! And why the fuck did they package and publish the droppings on the edit room floor ?! That is what I want to know!

Altered Statesiv is not even worth mentioning. This 1980 piece of shit looks exactly like Kubrik's 1968 piece of shit re-shot, poorly, on a script as terrible as whatever David Mamet churned out.

Basically Ken Russell rotted over the 70s. He started out as a promisingly fresh cowpie, and ended as disgustingly grubby as fresh cowpies end up (in the moist climate of perfidy or otherwise). Sad, he showed real talent in The Devils. So... what the fuck happened ?! That's what I want to know!

———1971, by Ken Russell, with Barbara Windsor and some inconsequential twig. [↩]Let's not forget such ever-shining glories as Cool It Carol also come from the same period in the sad island's painfully slow degradation. [↩]1975, by Ken Russell, with Ann-Margret and Tina Turner! [↩]1980, by Ken Russell, with nobody. Blair Brown is little besides the best advertisement for getting fake tits one could dream up, and I mean... Bob fucking Balaban is seriously in there! What the fuck is this, made-for-tuna-cans, the next step down from made-for-tv ? You can't have that dork in a film anymore than you can have actual monkeys on actual stages, what the fuck! What next, casting that fat fuck that ruined Reservoir Dogs with his utter inability to be filmed without burning the celulloid ?!

Daytime tv has meanwhile recuperated the lead in this atrocity. They called him something that momentarily escapes me, and was substantially taller though to no great benefit. [↩]

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Category: Trilematograf

Friday, 08 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

Joseph, bekannt Joe

The biblical figure of Joseph -- so neatly reconciling with the archetypical cucki and therefore struggling to raise as best he could children actually conceived by, and impregnated into his wife by, and so therefore sired out of his wife by a professional father otherwise dinsterested in the management and handling of his own offspring other than in a most theoretical and general sense. This Father, disinterested as he finds himself in the solving (or even approaching) of problems encountered by or raised by his own son (majuscule irrespective), or even in the solving (or even approaching, for that matter) of actual problems actually encountered by actual individuals (as reported, for instance, through prayer -- if indeed omniscience needs any reporting), will nevertheless preoccupy its idle hands and idler still intellect with the solving of the problems of imaginary others, as imagined by... himself. Do you recognize this recipe, incidentally ? Some schmuck "solving" problems, but mind : not his own problems ; not even the problems of others as they are (god damned racists and misguided bad-at-math-ers as they are as they must be for the needs of this fantasy). No, instead -- the problems of some imagined people as he imagines them, and therefore "they must be". Turns out the twitter reference was not in the slightest misplaced : the imbecility machine's been working its wonderous inflation, and so now the problem's aggrieved : far from the legions of tarabostes, little knownii nobles without lands pullulating idly about the landscape a short decade or two ago, there's now ample supply of "gods" of this sad ilk of Christianity, bereft of anything even vaguely like powers let alone superpowers, pre-emptively withdrawn from the landscape into their "plausibly-deniable" godcapsules of their own devising, wherein they can "undisturbed" carry on the great pretendin'. Christianity, far from being creatively involved in any capacity, was from the beginning the seed of doom, always awaiting its realisation : the destruction of Western civilisation. That was throughout its role and function : the ever-resilient refuge of refuse.

———He being as he allegedly was the merely notional father, a dismal figure to his misfortune recorded in the scriptures of bureaucracy as the holder of a role he didn't either merit or fulfill merely because they had to put something there, and that something necessarily would be fitting the afore-given forms, such that upon immaculate conception the registrar of births will still write down as "the father" the known name of the pre-existing husband in preference of the unknown name of whoever the fuck it is the unknowable name denotes. Because how do you even spell that ? Every bureaucrat is given, at the onset and right along with the dismal tools of his dismal trade whatever they may be (and even be they nothing much at all) also an unbreakable, incontrovertible an' unretractable promise of sufficiency -- not merely that the crude wooden sporks will be adequate to any task they might ever face, but, most importantly to the bureaucrat (and also the unyielding reason bureaucracy never lacks nor ever did lack candidates & applicants), that his application thereof, however shockingly inept or glaringly inadeuqate, will be nevertheless necessarily "deemed" (whatever that may mean) sufficient, and unreviewably so (though some idle rituals may be applied to offer some thin veneer of plausible-deniability atop that substantial unreviewability that's truly the bread and butter of the congenitally deffectives, irreparably insufficients and other regrettable byproducts of uterine fermentation).

But to return to theological preoccupations -- could you take seriously (well, you know, "seriously", like you do) some alleged divinity that's not even got a phone number ? How does it even register for twitter, if it doesn't have an email address ? What sort of a bum god is this supposed to be anyways ?

PS. The link's to the Romanian version not because I forgot there's a translation in the meanwhile ; but because of the word rost, and other such finesse not available in the universal doggerel. [↩]Which is to say, known in their own mind, and there only. [↩]

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Category: Gandesc, deci gandesc

Tuesday, 19 January, Year 13 d.Tr.

Joe Jokes

You know how Jesus ended up kinda blond and faggoty-looking by the time the Irish got their grubby potato-paws on him ? I mean, nigger slave from twenty centuries ago Africa, but still, every goat thinks its Jesus a goat of the same age, sex and coloration, what can you do.

In keeping with the basic mental functioning of the faithful these days Jesus gotta thus be a faggoty metrosexual type made of firmly held personal convictions and awkward, hesitating procedural approaches. But still, being Jesus he's not the kind to JOI, not a camsite token to his name, he just...

As his Christmas dayi was fast approaching, the apostles got together and took him to a bordello. "Don't worry, we'll tell you what to do and everything" they said on the ride over. Half hour later a naked young woman was busting down the door, screaming, flailing her arms and pulling her own hair.

"What the hell happened in there ?!"

"I did like you told me! She started taking her clothes off, I started taking my clothes off."

"Right..."

"She sat on the bed, I sat down on the bed too. She put her tongue in my mouth, I put my tongue in her mouth. But then, when she showed me that horrible wound she had between her legs... I healed it for her."

~ * ~

Few know this, but the hunchback god originally had sent two men to the garden of Eden. They wandered a while thereabouts, until they grew bored enough to actually read the documentation for the place. Much to their surprise they thus found that Sophia had designed the thing for a man and a woman, not two men. They half-heartedly set up a conference call with the demi-urge and inquired about the matter.

Realising the beginner coding error he'd made, the hunchback poser asked the two who wants to be the woman ? Obviously neither did, so the tard came up with a typically brilliant solution : "Ok," he said in a booming voice, his halitosis good enough to wilt the bushes for miles around, "I'll hide your penii. The one who finds it first gets to be the man."

One guy found it half an hour later. The other one's still looking for his.

~ * ~

In a parallel universe, where Jesus was a student (living with his parents, long hair, bad friends, and if he did a spot of work it was a miracle) his college room-mate, seeing him crucified, called 911 and then rushed over through the crowd to remove his buddy off the cross.

In that parallel universe the traditional Easter greeting's a cartwheel followed by yelling "First the feet, motherfucker!"

~ * ~

Jesus was playing golf with the dove. On the first hole, Jesus drives the ball with a putt such that it goes around the turn and lands an inch from the hole. Suddenly a birdie comes from the sky and grabs the ball. An eagle falls down on the birdie and catches it. An albatross pecks the ball from the dying birdie's grasp just as a boogey scares it away. The dove puts its arms on its hips : "Go fish, you fucking cheater!"

~ * ~

When god stole Adam's rib and fashioned woman, he also gave everlasting proof that nothing good or lasting's ever built on theft.

~ * ~

"What did you do today ?"

"Nothing much... ate some fruit for breakfast..."

"The forbidden fruit y compris ?"

"Bien sur."

"And then ?"

"Pegged that bitch everywhich way all day long."

"Where's she now ?"

"At the river, she said she had to wash or something, whatever that is."

"Oh for fuck's sake. All the fish is going to smell that way now."

~ * ~

Joe Biden's 2nd lateral cousin from Pescara comes up with a novel species of genetically-engineered pigcowchicken of record-smashing productivity, efficiency &c. Clara das Neves orders the building of a super-compound for the commercial exploitation of this scientific advance with a view to alleviating the constant food shortages in The Richest Country In The World.

Nothing is actually built, but the bureaucrats in charge report (virtually) a virtual first : a government project completed on time and within budget. The reports keep flowing in, each more brightly shining than the next (at an average increase rate of about 6% the first year, then 7.8% the year after that, and so ongoing 11% the third year etcetera). As no food is actually being delivered at any juncture however, the fascists, racists and other enemies of the people band together and organize an inspection of the alleged facility. The bureaucrats secretly redirect some men and materials from the army's corps of engineering, transport two boatloads of dongs freshly arrived from China somewhere in the New Mexico wilds, and blow up the pile.

As the government Pravda is calling for exemplary justice be visited upon the fascists, racists and other enemies of the people that blew up the people's facility for famine control, dongs are raining all over. One of them ends up in heaven. Santa Girolama picks it up, caresses it warmly, kisses it lovingly and runs off to Mary.

"Holy Mother blessed be the fruit of thy womb and you among &c, what is this ? I just stumbled on it, I've never seen anything like it before. What could it be ?"

The "virgin" gives it a good look, weighs it in her hand, then very pensively "It rather feels like the Holy Ghost."

~ * ~

Jesus comes back to life after having been crucified. The audience is very much impressed, everyone's clapping, whistling and yelling for an encore. Jesus, taken by the energy of the crowd, goes through his stock in trade once more : produces some fishes and turns bread to wine, touches whores and lepers, the works. Towards the end he walks off a pier into the water. Unexpectedly he sinks and drowns. The audience lets out a disappointed gasp. A fan mutters shaking his head "Well... he still did pretty good considering the holes in his feet..."

~ * ~

Democracy was born when god made Eve and said unto Adam : "Choose yourself a wife!"

~ * ~

Jesus was idly walking about Nazareth like any other vagabond, when he came across a group of people preparing to stone some dude to death. Simply to be contrarian, Jesus ran in front of the target and yelled out "Whoever's without blemish, let him cast the first stone".

A contundent clump flies unerringly and lands on his forehead. Jesus falls to his knees and grunts "God damn it! You're really busting my balls, mom!"

~ * ~

The rebbeh of Haifah was a real golf maniac. One time he couldn't play for a whole week because of inclement weather. He prayed every day for relief, growing ever more desperate, until finally the sky cleared... Saturday morning. The poor rebbeh was besides himself, but eventually decided to sneak a few holes off anyway, secretly. Who's gonna see ?

His deceased father, the previous rebbeh, spotted him and reported the matter to the allmighty, begging for punishment fitting the crime. God assured him it'll be done ; then the rebbeh hit a hole in one.

"What kind of punishment is that ?!"

"Think about it : the best stroke of his life, and he can't tell anyone about it."

~ * ~

A muslim dies, so he shows up at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter nods at him. The muslim is very much taken aback, but gathering all his courage eventually dares to importune him : "Excuse me your excellency, but... I am a muslim."

"Yes, I know that. Would you like a cup of coffee ? Or maybe some tea ?"

"I... I could use a cup of coffee thank you very much. And... could I see the Prophet, Mohammed ?"

"Sure. Hang on just a minute." then turning and yelling "Hey, Mohammed! Coffee! And hurry up!"

———You know, the day they sacrifice the scapegoats. [↩]

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Category: Prz arhscrt

Thursday, 17 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

Ioai pisa-v-as in freza de tolomaci supranumerari...

Straight from the MG boardroom :

diana_coman salut

mircea_popescu salve!

diana_coman m-am uitat o tura mai adanc in CS a propos de cum dracu' se chiar calculeaza inaltimea ca nr

mircea_popescu asa

diana_coman si uhm, ceva am gasit da' inca imi pare dubios o tura

diana_coman pt ca in fapt calculeaza nu doar pe baza heightmap

diana_coman ci si pe baza a doi parametri suplimentari de-i dai cand incarci terenul

mircea_popescu tu zici inaltimea terenului la un punct, sau inaltimea unde e pc sau in general ?

diana_coman ceea ce imi pare dubios asa

diana_coman inaltimea terenului la un punct

diana_coman pt ca mie aia imi trebuie, nu?

diana_coman ca sa pot sa verific si/sau mut pc/npc

mircea_popescu a. tu, chestia e ca ei au pornit de la niste idei foarte restrinse, dar FOARTE restrinse, si apoi au incercat de pe acea baza punctiforma sa "faca in general", practic sa revina la o perspectiva larga construita dintr-un nimic.

mircea_popescu ca ei tot asa mereu fac, ca idioti ce sunt.

mircea_popescu deci cu ideea ca "este un singur heightmap" fixa in cap, "cum sa facem sa fie optiuni"

mircea_popescu si atunci... noa.

mircea_popescu da' noi nefiind asa de idioti ca ei, nu avem "nevoile" inchipuite de ei in idiotenia lor.

mircea_popescu deci tu poti scoate linistita tata parametrarizarea si mataraia aia. ca io nu doresc sa "poata fi si". ca mai mult incurca.

diana_coman mda; si bonus "totul se face grafic" ca de aia pana acu' nici nu gasisem nimic util pt ca altminteri la miscare si cand face acolo "daca-cade" , el ce face e collision detection cu *mesh* in ma-sa pe gheata

mircea_popescu io chiar n-as pierde timpul.

diana_coman deci nu are treaba cu heightmap ci se uita ca daca loveste in meshul de teren gen, sa moara veta

mircea_popescu pai nu ? ca la prosti.

diana_coman apai faza cu "scoate aia" e dureroasa in sensul ca inseamna ca intorc pe dos in CS ca asta e adanca in CS. Ce e mai logic de facut, zic eu e dimpotriva ca mi se rupe mie ce face clientu' lu' ghita, ci fixez ca ba asa se calculeaza si tu incarca acolo cu ce parametru vrea muschiul tau da' numa' sa se potriveasca

mircea_popescu hm

diana_coman practic e un size care e ok adica dimensiunea lumii deci la noi 1024 pe 1024

diana_coman dar e si un gridsize

diana_coman care are a face cu "cate cell si cat e un cell" din cum face cs terenul

diana_coman ceea ce e treaba lu' cs doar

diana_coman curent acum asta e setat la 257 din ceva motiv, nici nu mi-e chiar clar de ce exact

mircea_popescu lmao 257

mircea_popescu bai frate, astrologie

diana_coman pai il vrea 2^n + 1

mircea_popescu a ? de ce ?

diana_coman da' de ce fix aia tot nu stiu

diana_coman exact nu zice de ce si din bucata aia anume nu reiese da' probabil pt usurinta (gen si ds tot asa lucreaza frumos ca sa aiba apoi 2^n intre

mircea_popescu tu, asta oarecum suna a paramentru pentru procedura de triangulation. cum ai scris tu cu cuburili.

diana_coman ah, ai dreptate tu si da

diana_coman pt ca asa face apoi meshul, corect

mircea_popescu ei, fac ei ceva mesh find ?

mircea_popescu mnoa.

diana_coman tu, trebuie sa faca poligonizare sa creeze meshul de teren, da

diana_coman ma rog, triangularizare, dracu'

mircea_popescu da' tu nu-i dai mesh direct la teren ?

diana_coman pai are gura sa primeasca?

mircea_popescu noa pula/

diana_coman nu, si-l face din heightmap si alea

diana_coman practic ala e "terrain plugin"

diana_coman ma rog, pot sa fac orice mesh vrea muschiul meu si sa-l pun acolo

mircea_popescu ma rog, asta oarecum ar fi o idee, dat fiind ca-i static ce tot plm recalculeaza el. idioti sa mor, sa tot recalculeze clientu' acelasi lucru, asa or facut designu'.

diana_coman da' atunci practic bypass tot terenul lui

mircea_popescu pai nu e mai bine ?

diana_coman si mi-e ca pica altele

mircea_popescu tu, io zic ca merita incercat

mircea_popescu nu are nici un sens altfel.

diana_coman pai teoretic ar fi bine da' practic daca si merge ca mi-e ca vor pieri altele

mircea_popescu da' uita-te.

diana_coman de calculat meshul ala si-l calculeaza o singura data per load adica nu e ca la fiecare pas ori ceva

mircea_popescu ppai el e fix FOREVER

diana_coman cand incarci sectorul, creeaza meshul si na, aia e

mircea_popescu ce plm, il calculeaza serveru' o data per viata.

diana_coman drept si aia, da' e din categoria hai sa facem "procedural" da' nu chiar procedural ci doar sa fie asa un pic cat nu musca

diana_coman ori ceva, n-am cum descrie mai bine

mircea_popescu pai nu ?

diana_coman mda

mircea_popescu complet idioti.

mircea_popescu deci sta clientu' sa faca ghicitori dupa dictare de la server

mircea_popescu mereu aceeasi.i

diana_coman am lamurit si de ce crash clientul acum si da, intr-adevar, pt ca el tampit cum e NU CONCEPE ca poti dracu' schimba "actorul"

diana_coman nu dom'le, nu se poate

mircea_popescu heh

diana_coman si na, eu acolo pusesem asa radical ca sa nici nu ma uit daca e ca "unul nou ori primul ori al zecelea" ci "daca e diferit atunci beleste tot si incarca"

diana_coman ceea ce mergea perfect da' diversi idioti de pe margine ramaneau cu pointeri inca la memoria aia si na

diana_coman ugh

mircea_popescu procedura imbecilitatii universale contemporane : 1. hai sa facem o chestie. 2. hai sa facem TOATE asumptiile posibile, cit mai amanuntitii, si sa zicem "asta e o chestie in general". 3. hai sa observam ca cheista noastra "in general" e de risu' curcilor in particularitatile ei nesfirsite, asa ca sa reparam din bucatele.

diana_coman asa ca ma uit si la aia stramb da' cu creionu' in mana ca na

mircea_popescu "tu cel care esti deja o tomata de 3 kile cu 2 pete si o frunza, cum ai face sa pari o para ???"

diana_coman da, 2 ala e "sa fie perfect"iii

diana_coman fix asa

mircea_popescu ei is complet in plus, desenatii pulii mele.

diana_coman in sfarsit, la nr 3 pe lista de ardente aici, ceva-ceva am dumirit si reperat macar la pc/npc adica intr-adevar, marea nefericire era din cauza acelui "os spurios" pus pt cal3d

diana_coman ca fiind pus acum din start, el punea un mesh si pe ala

mircea_popescu a da ?

diana_coman si na, arata bleah

mircea_popescu aaah. just

diana_coman dar....

diana_coman in acest timp de exersat chestiunea, am descoperit alta faza

mircea_popescu pai iti scrii exceptie in procedura ta corecta, sa match bugul din procesul lor imbecil

mircea_popescu ce poti face.

diana_coman si anume, reusesc sa creez si niste meshuri care apoi faulteaza cal3d/clientul

mircea_popescu ca nu-s inchise ?

diana_coman si n-am idee de ce iar idiotul nu zice nimic util ci pur si simplu moare

diana_coman nu ori nu doar

mircea_popescu hm

diana_coman pt ca intai ca el in principiu n-are treaba si daca nu-s inchise

diana_coman da, se jeleste

diana_coman da' in mod normal totusi le mananca

mircea_popescu pai in principiu nu are treaba, da' alea situatii is mereu cu cintec.

diana_coman si al doilea ca una e sa zica-ca nu poate da' alta e sa crash asa cum face acum ca realmente si asta face segfault (da' in cal3d de fapt)

mircea_popescu naspa

This is exactly who you are, you understand me ?

Nor does it limit itself to code-writing by the post-September generation.

No, it's everything you do, throughout, everywhere, all the time.

You want a girlfriend ? First, you decide blonde (and everything else). Then, you explain away how come the hole you ended up servicing's not-blonde (or anything else). And you ask each other, too, "hey other-cucks, do you figure I handled this in acceptable cuckframe ???"

You want a job, first you decide what it's gonna be. Not who you are, or what you do, none of that. You gotta keep "yourself" in reserve. Save it "for later". You gotta stay the perpetual jolly joker of nobody-could-know and nobody-could-acuse, a mystery wrapped in an enigma of your own fancy. Then you proceed to figure out how what you're actually doing maps could be mapped on what that detailed preconception supposedly consisted of (but evidently doesn't, not after all the torturous bending). You want a cup of coffee, or a vacation, or anything in between ? First you "do your research", then you get exactly what's on tap in the socialist world, then you do your research again, this time as to "what do other people who did my assumptive research say about how to explain away the differences". Gotta know what to say, right ? In case someone eventually asks, ain't that so ?

That's your life : "living", allegedly, after a fashion, in an imaginary world, and from inside there talking of "lumea crypto" as if the idiot with his head up his ass can talk of "the world outside". As if that purely personal outside can possibly have any sort of meaning outside, as if your own asshole you've (for no reason!) shoved your own head up through is somehow in fact, not merely potentially but outright some kinda universal limit, universally accessible, universally meaningful. As if it divides the world, not just your own contorted body.

As if the collection of you little shits, your own shit between your eyes blinding you, constitutes basis for the foregoing.

O look, my own asshole's clearly a universal! Universally meaningful and a basis for distinction because every other idiot just like me that I know of (through the simple procedure of carefully avoiding knowing anything else) has their ass up their own asshole, and we really can't distinguish our assholes from one another anymore than you can, so there! The socialist-xtian paradise realised on Earth!

What the fuck is wrong with you! None of that shit works. None of it will ever work! It's just not how anything ever works!!!

Time to get over childhood trauma already. That 1-2-3 procedure... it's stupid. It doesn't do anything. It doesn't matter how convincing it sounds! It only sounds convincing to you, because it's cultivated you into the mentality of a three year old. It only seems inescapable to you. From outside it's outright indicative, there's no mistaking a three year old for anyone who's not.

Take that head out of that ass already, and get over yourselves! Fuck.

———Considering the heightmap itself is a 1kp x 1kp bitmap, coming to megabytes' worth of data transfer however you turn it, very much can't be the case any kinda trade-off is involved in this utterly baseless design decision. The finished product is of comparable size to the basis it's produced upon anyways. [↩]

Hey little shit we call Johnny, what do you think this unknown word 'could mean', 'in context' [on the basis of your completely absent experience, both with the use of language and with living in general] ???

That's the fucking source, of all the endpoint idiocy, as well as the meta-source, of all the broken processes that reliably recreate it : that fundamentally anti-educational "shortcut" unqualified Moms took to "hack" "growth" or whatever the fuck, cognitive antidevelopment. [↩]And this is what she means by that "perfect" in quotes. If you don't believe me, go right ahead and ask her, then meditate at the interesting circumstance whereby I didn't need to ask her, I "just knew". How the fuck did that wonder come to pass ?

Brainwashing, rite ?

Whose ? [↩]

« L'ultima carrozzella

Urgent update for the Burt Plantcaster Fanclub (official) »

Category: SUA care este

Wednesday, 17 March, Year 13 d.Tr.

Il gatto mammone

Stai attenta, Rosalia. Non mi provocare. Noi altri neanche parenti non siamo. Solo marito e moglie. Ricordatelo.

Il gatto mammonei is a little gem in the vein of Il merlo maschio : the same protagonist engages matrimonial conventions in similarly radical manner, though owing to the substantial difference between Antonioni (who is in fact an actress, just, one of the few who actually do the job) and Guida (who's a glorified titstand, there's nothing going on behind the perpetually dumbfounded mug) this actually comes out much better. Counterintuitive, perhaps (and not to say that the other's bad or anything), but the fact remains that... well, they just didn't know how to write for a woman, I suppose. Antonioni sfiit'd them, I guess, they froze, whatever it was -- the fact remains that once the (apparently) insurmountable obstacle of a competent female's removed, an anodyne nobody can suddenly outgun Pasquale Festa Campanile, the cinematic juggernaught. Riddle me this wonder whicever way you can ; and yes while we readily agree such a state of things is ridiculous, this agreement between us does little to remove its factuality.

The premise does work exceedingly well for the protagonists, and for the story generally, so perhaps it is the case that the simple passage of time meanwhile revealedii that indeed placing the couple in Veneto, against a vague backdrop of mostly imaginary, mostly imagined marital conventions is roughly the equivalent of using a car for a sled ; whereas making the protagonist a sort of Calabrese Er' Piu, and setting him to earnestly travail, belabour an' sweat under the seismic pressures of geologic strata of self-contradictory pretense ignorantly accumulated over unrecounted millennia the much more productive approach. They certainly use it for all it's worth (and the generaly ignored Lando Buzzanca certainly raises to the part) -- take for an instance the very wannabe-MP household scene wherein the eager father-to-be goes through his stores of condoms which he's bought because not being able to admit he can't, for whatever reason, father children, he much prefers pretending he doesn't want to, in public.

The film's uneven, though in places sparkling with the very shimmer of genius ; and besides, the best vehicle for Guida ever made, so far above anything else she was ever involved in the uncharitable soul could even say it's the only film she didn't manage to ruiniii. Particularly notable, the naturally depicted, unassuming because implicitly obvious, competency of the adult womeniv : they, the wife and her mother, seek out a child-factory in the trailer parksv ; then when that's rejected (on parternity, not efficiency grounds) provide for a widower to carry the child, which doesn't work out (she's not sexually attractive) ; then finally do their best to... well... work with materialul clientuluivi. Definitely a film to see, and think about, and see again. Because, as they say : where the 30 went...

———1975, by Nando Cicero, with Lando Buzzanca, Rossana Podesta, Gloria Guida. [↩]Not merely for Cicero having the advantage of having already seen Il merlo, but probabil Mimi as well. [↩]Crush under her slender thighs, whatever. [↩]Also in the same situation the excellent sets, easily had back then, for a song, irreproducible today, for any sum of "money". [↩]Exquisitely manned by a nameless cow that gets no lines and a diminutive Sardinian (Tiberio Murgia, I soliti etc). [↩]Needless to say the depicted hero's too cucky to actually break and kneel the filly, because how could an actually good film be ever made, god forbid, the world might come undone or something. [↩]

« Hey bitches! Smell my armpits!

On being female, and being a woman. »

Category: Trilematograf

Sunday, 13 June, Year 13 d.Tr.

I vs you

Let me put it this way : we go through a lot of toilet paper. I'm sure there's lots of hotels going through less toilet paper than we do. But come to think of it this has nothing to do with anything, so... moving on.

mysqli> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " I ", "0123456789 I 0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";ii

+---------+

| count |

+---------+

| -91757iii |

+---------+

1 row in set (32.59 sec)

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " I, ", "0123456789 I, 0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+-------+

| count |

+-------+

| -201 |

+-------+

1 row in set (1.28 sec)

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " I. ", "0123456789 I. 0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+--------+

| count |

+--------+

| -14382 |

+--------+

1 row in set (13.30 sec)

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " I'", "0123456789 I'0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+-------+

| count |

+-------+

| -8326 |

+-------+

1 row in set (1.43 sec)

So that's a good & healthy 114`666iv calls to this enigmatic mystery wrapped in a riddle of an I, over the course of a good meaty decade. It sure as heck comes out to more than once a day, and more than once an hour, it's frequent enough that's for damn sure.

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " you ", "0123456789 you 0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+--------+

| count |

+--------+

| -42272 |

+--------+

1 row in set (2.16 sec)

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " you'", "0123456789 you'0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+-------+

| count |

+-------+

| -6741 |

+-------+

1 row in set (1.39 sec)

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " you,", "0123456789 you,0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+-------+

| count |

+-------+

| -1672 |

+-------+

1 row in set (1.28 sec)

mysql> SELECT SUM(ROUND((LENGTH(post_content) - LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " you.", "0123456789 you.0123456789"))) / 20)) AS count FROM posts WHERE post_type ="post" and post_name not like "forum-logs-%";

+-------+

| count |

+-------+

| -2139 |

+-------+

1 row in set (1.32 sec)

Whow, check that out! 52`824 grand total, you don't come up even to half of I! But whodda thunk it (not I, honestly ; I started this exercise fully expecting to see the mirror opposite result)!

Apparently I don't live to serve, and I don't think so much of my "fellow" man. Will the surprises never cease!

———The reason I bother with all the quotage, by the way, is that if I should discover sometime later that I made some mistake (as I often do), I don't also find myself in the idiotic position of having presented some bare magic numbers on credit which I now have to just as arbitrarily modify. I can instead point, specifically, and correct, meaningfully. Which pre-emptive attitude and depth-defensive approach is why my mistakes cost me next to nothing while you consist of nothing besides yours. [↩]The "traditional" (ie, pasted all over the googlenet) solution (namely LENGTH(REPLACE(post_content, " I ", "") ) ) / LENGTH(" I "), ad idem like that) is stupid, because why the fuck should I have to use yet another LENGTH call, and especially for an assigned variable ?!

Yet everyone endlessly, thoughtlessly, mindlessly copies and pastes and copies and pastes and copies and then pastes AND THEN COPIES AND PASTES the same god damned exact SAME GOD DAMNED EXACT string. string. string. string. string. string. Fucking hell! 0 variance, 0 variation, 0 variety. Nothing. That thing's not even perfect or anything! It's just their god damned "consensus", pointles if fuckwitted meatuomatons, they've picked it, they're sticking to it. What reasoned, what conclusions ?

Yet why! Why the fuck are you even here in the first place, bunch of pointless, witless, regrettable momma's bois ? How the fuck is it possible you ALLLLLllllLLLLLllllLL "agree" on the same shortsighted nonsense, God forsaken sad sorry excuses for humanity that "just want to be good" and "do the right thing" and just fucking drink bleach already. Bleargh. [↩]Oh look! Negative numbers. Hurr. [↩]Notice the beast in there ? I've always known you've always "I knew it!". [↩]

« 'Necromania': A Tale of Weird Love!

Degeneration, by Max Nordau. Adnotated. The Dusk Of Nations. »

Category: Oda Superbiei

Saturday, 17 April, Year 13 d.Tr.

I look around...

Well, it's Easter Sunday today, you know. The Costa Rican poks celebrate the rebirth of St. Cheezus or whatever it is very intensely, if very peculiarly (for instance, they reverse the highwayi ; but there's not much candy at the store, and virtually none Easter-specificii) and... well... Hannah made Nicole an Easter egg hunt.

It involved no less than thirteen (wink wink fudge fudge) hardboiled (and quite beautifully handpainted) eggs not to mention a different dozen plastic egg shapes containing clues (and small gifts, including an ancient candy of some sort that exploded inside its wrappings -- without, however, overflowing its toppings) not to mention a bunch of (rather ostrich sized) marzipan eggs in chocolate -- handmade, by which I mean the whole thing, she buys toasted almonds and makes marzipan. Why the hell not ? Doesn't yours ?

Anyway, so I look around and there's this naked bitch on twelve inch pleasers wearing a pink bunny tail around her neck like a sort of bimbo bowtie, and pink-with-darker-pink bunny ears on her head (one ear bent low midway, all sultry like) bending over to look under whatever the hell for her eggs. All the plushies (and good god there's dozens, and they all have names and backstories and, properly speaking, more of a life -- social, or otherwise -- than you with your instagram &tc) are gathered in congress discussing whatever things and matters of plushie import & consequence. Her hair's died pink, I'm having pasca which is a kind of incomprehensibly traditional cheesecake (for St. Cheezus' fuckedhismomday -- or whatever it was) -- homemade, of course -- and sipping bonbon coffee (which I wont explain, for any hope of ever finishing this endless explanatory tree full & replete of explanations) and...

I don't know, I mean there's a blue octopus hat (literally) and you can see clear across the valley, the air's so clean, the sky so bright and clear. There's a baby vanilla growing in a pot this side of a pane of glass, a little clay monkey-kangaroo keeping it company while on the other side (of the same pane, of the same glass) there's the happiest Venus flytrap I've ever seen (composed of two, because as you might remember there's a Burt 1 and a Burt A, yes ?) and I really have no fucking idea.

I don't know what's going on ?

I'm confused, which I understand happens often enough with old age ; but neither am I all that old nor is this level of confusion directly accessible to the human brain I don't think. At least not that I've seen.

That'd be all, I guess. If I figure out any more I promise to write right back.

———I'm not fucking kidding. Nowhere even remotely near anything like kidding. The first time we ran into this wonder we had to park the car on the side of the road and meditate on the topic for a few minutes, because yes, it means exactly what it says, however impossibly inconceivable and utterly taboo that might be in any of the few socio-cultural spaces that produced this whole car&road thing in the first place.

They... simply... reverse the highway, what. It used to go North, but now it doesn't. Now it goes South for a few days. What, problem ? What do you mean, "what if you want to go North ?" BUT WHY WOULD YOU ?! [↩]Not kidding either! The chocolate egg, not to mention the chocolate Easter bunny -- in both proper (meaning, whole) and socialist (ie, hollow) presentations -- are entirely absent. No such thing offered for sale. Everyone displays a cross with a purple sash draped around it in front of their house like it's the German Pinetree used to celebrate the death of Alexander from Abonoteichos or whatever it was, but the chocolate... meh. Would you like some (very very bad) cheese ? [↩]

« The Skin

Or something like that, anyway... »

Category: Zsilnic

Monday, 05 April, Year 13 d.Tr.