Sedea un prost prin ceva bar
Sedea un prost prin ceva bar, si din penita scirtiia traznai de-a lui pe coala grea, in forma cam asa :
Look left, look right, the hills are bright. The dales are light between, because 'tis fifty years to-night that God has saved this Queen.i
Now, when the flame they watch not towers about the soil they trod, lads! We'll remember friends of ours who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right, to fields that bred them brave, the saviours come not home to-night: themselves they could not save.
It dawns in Asia, tombstones show and Shropshire names are read; and the Nile spills his overflow beside the Severn's dead.
Ca multi tonti de vita veche din infriguratul Nord ie si-asta-ntr-o ureche -- us' la el ce chestii crede, numa' dume de-necati ; in cestimp prin Viroconium de-i zicea si Cornoviorum pin' sa-nvete pictii-a scrie nu se mai citeste nema de prenume din Ardeal. Nici nu-i cine sa citeasca (dac' s-o apucat a scrie Chukcha nu mai are vreme plus ca l-ar putea distrage slovele cursive-antice de la ce funii cu noduri si-o croit el dupa mintea-i) nici n-or mai ramas pietroaie.
Ca asa e la morminte, stau si ele-n urm-o vreme, da' incet-incet se sfarma, cum maninca viermii corpul tot asa le roade ploaia, si cu vintul se fac una cu pamintul fix ca al' de-i stau memento.
Nu-i el vesnic, nu-s nici ele, dupa un mileniu-doua nici poveste nu ramine, sa poata afla magaru' despre Thracia Auxilia, de pe cind veneau Romanii sa le faca lor pe-acolo drum si scoala si la pizde borta noua hapt in cur dinjos de noada spre deliciul tutelor tuturor.
Asa ca... cui ii mai pasa ? Sase ori cinspce generatii tat dracul acela ieste, si-ai de-acum saizeci de linii tot pe ma-sa or lasat-o, tot cu frati s-or dus pe drumuri, tot c-un drag s-or dus sa moara, tot incolo, tot incoace... si tot de-aia. Ca... de care ?
Alta nu-i, nici nu-i nevoie ; doar ca astia ai mei pe vremuri s-or bagat mai moale-n seama, nefiind ei bietii proaspeti chiar precit amarastenii inventati prin sinteza la 1700 de Stadtholderu' de-Olanda si ce-or mai gasit strinsura cind cu Chwyldro Gogoneddus.
Hai, adio si-un praz verde, plus traditionalul vale!
———Meanwhile "god"'s had enough of her or something. They're never very explicit on that score. [↩]
« There's nothing inside the box.
The eggers »
Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
Friday, 05 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Say it like it's 1937
Three particulars of the times : vertical invasion by vandals, dominance by the stupid, betrayal by proper men. As to the first : vandals invade, not from other continents but from the bottom. Redditards. They somehow float to the top. To the second point : in the plainest and most literal sense, the stupid came to power. Thus in spite of any economic interest and all political sapience they do stupid shit, like the indolent imbeciles they are. Thirdly : instead of opposition, proper men take on stances of well-meaning expectative, pretend not to see, not to hear, betray in a word. They shirk from their duty. "Impartial" and trustful, at the most they take note silently. They're the superlatively guilty.
The chunk comes from a Romanian jewi (convicted as suchii), who was also (inexplicably!iii) an obscure Orthodox monk (surrounded in recent days by a very lively cult). It was lifted by the anti-Stalinist-socialist agentura of the Rooseveltian-socialist sect, because it seemed to them promising of broad appeal (especially to non-socialist minds), and broadcast from their vehicle at the time (Radio "Free"iv Europe), so it's not like it weren't well knownv before my act of mercyvi above.
And it was written in 1937, which is to say too soon to know the tree "by its fruit" ; but plenty late enough to know the tree by its tree. The author didn't yet know what "Nazism" isvii ; though he knew Hitler.
Then again, neither do you, though so do you. Sieg hail!
———This phrase, "a Romanian jew", denotes just about everyone, by the way. You don't ordinarily realise this, but then again... [↩]The national-socialists didn't much act on it ; the middling brother did. [↩]In the same sense of "inexplicable" as found in the perenially plebeian "I don't see how". This jew was inexplicably a monk just like the hundreds of thousands of "improper Germans" who were also Great War veterans, somehow. Inexplicably! How'd the rapacious cosmpolite die for its country one generation and conspire towards its demise the next generation, anyhow?!
Inexplicable!
Ultimately, the indictment of mediocrity consists of a lenghty list of crimes of lese-imagination. [↩]Free in a sense very much alligned with the "freeing" of, say, Mosul. [↩]"Well" as an epithet, applied to anything, pointedly and by definition implies your exclusion. Because nothing can be well that you're involved with, and therefore of fucking course it's well known and you didn't know about it before, of your own power, in your own time. That's why it was well known ; and now that you know about it, it's actually slightly less well known than it was before. Such is your obscurantist nature. [↩]Acts of mercy are intrinsically ambiguous in a moral perspective. [↩]To a certain standard of knowledge :
An observation about the middle class: they have it deep inside their psyche that though they are taught to make prejudicial judgments based on hearsay, they are not allowed to show that they made them. The middle class think they are lawyers.
That kid was up to no good. You knew it as he walked to Louie's table, even before he opened his mouth. You knew it. But Louie/we were constructed to act only on what happens, not what you think is happening. Since the kid was polite, Louie had to be polite back, even though the kid was obviously being a bully -- you're not allowed to respond to that. "Hey, I was just being friendly!" And prove he wasn't. The kid offers to shake Louie's hand, "Hi, I'm Sean," and Louie has to shake it because so far the kid is being polite. We relate things to our future cross examination: "isn't it true, sir, that sticks and stones can break your bones but names can never harm you?"
Since we're already knee deep in race: back when I lived in various bars in NYC, I frequently saw what I assume to be intelligent people allow what I assume to be dangerous black males come up to them at 2 am and ask them if they knew "the way to get to 44th St." Just for my Danish and German readers who generously donate, here's a geography lesson: Manhattan is a grid, in numerical order. Asking a New Yorker which way is 44th St. is like asking a Florida orange farmer which way is sky. But these white devils were willing to put their lives at risk -- not because they didn't want to appear racist, I saw the same hypnotized compliance when the perp was a white guy -- but because they are amateur lawyers: "he didn't do anything bad to me first." So we follow the script: guy asks for directions= "ten blocks up make a left." Guy pulls a gun= "look, I have 50 bucks, just don't hurt me."
[...]
The Bully Dialogue -- where they spend ten minutes chatting nicely even though both of you know you're eventually going to get stuffed in a locker -- is another Cognitive Kill Switch, which is about reversing power and dominance. The aggressive "Hi, what's your name, that's a nice shirt you got there" works because you're not willing -- you feel you're not allowed -- to respond to the situation for what it is: a bully trying to dominate the conversation. You feel obligated to reply to their words, and not the meaning. So the bully gets to bully the conversation for ten minutes, after which point it hardly matters whether you get stuffed in a locker or not.
There's a model for everything in childhood. In this case it's when the parent, rather than a direct confrontation (i.e. teach the kid how to be a man) tries to lead and trap the kid, like a jealous woman trying to catch her man in a lie. "So, Tommy, how was school? Anything interesting happen today?" At this moment everyone knows it's a trap. Dad knows what happened, and Tommy knows what happened, and now Tommy knows that Dad knows, but Tommy still has to say, "oh, nothing really, " all the while thinking, "oh, great, I got to play this nutty game now? When I turn 18 I am so outta here."
[...]
This is a video of Lil Wayne's deposition about some nonsense that is beside the point here. Big surprise: Lil Wayne doesn't take the proceedings seriously. I know, I had to make sure it was really him, too.
I'm no judge, but he looks like he's in contempt, certainly contemptuous, and at 2:45 makes some serious threats against the lawyer: "you know he [the judge] can't protect you in the real world?" Watch that part, empathize with the lawyer. How did you feel? Did you feel intimidated?
Note that no one reigns him in, no one stands up to him, no one ends the interview, no one demands nothing. Part of this is deposition theatrics, but even the attorney's demeanor changes, he starts acting the way a person who doesn't want to show he's intimidated starts acting. He gets flustered, he pauses, he backs up. Wayne is 5'4" and by all accounts has chronic bronchitis, but everyone is intimidated by him. Why?
The first fear is an instinctual one: the lawyer could physically fight back if he had to, but when he looks into those cold eyes, he has a sense that there are no limits, everything is on the table -- from insults to decapitation, anything could happen. That's the fear of the uncanny, which we experience outside of a horror movie when we face: masks, artificial faces, psychopaths, and even ordinary objects which we are told are uncanny (mirrors, basement freezers.) "I don't know what he's capable of" means "I know very well what he's capable of, and it's everything." That's the kind of fear that fits a street fight, but it has no place in a court; he may want to decapitate you, but he won't be able to. So why are you afraid?
The interesting thing about being taught that violence is wrong is that of all the lessons we were taught -- no means no, all men are created equal, a bird in the hand is something something -- that lesson actually stuck, it became part of our core identity. Most "normal" people aren't afraid of the consequences of violence (pain) as much as of the violence itself. Fighting itself is bad. The lawyer isn't afraid of getting hurt, he is afraid of there being a fight. Wayne may be the aggressor but the voice inside asks, "what did you do to provoke him? Why didn't you stay away from him?" This fear is so primary that the lawyer backs down from Wayne for Wayne's sake, not to avoid getting hit but so Wayne doesn't have to hit him. Wayne is feared not because he's good at winning fights but because he's good at starting fights, and its oddly been indoctrinated in us that it is everyone else's job not to provoke fights with those you know will fight, even if you're in the right.
I want to point out how this dichotomy is very much predicated on a difference between people, not a sameness, and it's felt to be part of the hardware, not the software. There's you, who "knows better", and there's him, who "fights", and that's just the way it is. And since you "know better" it's your responsibility to not let this get out of hand. Pro-gun proponents can be seen as the logical consequence of this position: ok, I'll accept your societal commandment not to fight, but I want to preserve my right not to have to back down, either. The sad, logical retort to this, and I'm going to term it the "liberal" position not because I'm slamming liberals but because it comes from a place of compassion, though, when I write this out explicitly, is really just a kind of kind of classism: "it's best just to back down from them... because that's they way thems are."
To get people to be more afraid of fighting, even in self-defense, than the physical pain of an assault takes a lot of years of training, good thing we jump on it early. First off: associate getting hit with guilt. Even if it's not your fault, it is still felt like it's your fault, and this can be verified by every woman in a domestic relationship, which is why they stay. This isn't innate, we learn this: your parents hit you only when you do something "wrong"; parents separate their fighting kids, "both of you go to your rooms!"; a schoolyard fight is never judged according to fault, the school punishes both people equally; "zero tolerance" says the institution that cares nothing about justice, only the preservation of power. "Nothing gives you the right to hit another person!" Nothing? Seriously?
The only people who learn that getting hit isn't synonymous with guilt are those who get hit inconsistently, randomly -- having older brothers, abusive parents, constant fights with other kids in the neighborhood, etc. You'll observe a certain characteristic true of all bullying: the victim never fights back at all. He takes his beating, as if to show that he can take it, his strength is in not being broken. Why not at least throw a few weak punches? This is why the terrible father's typical advice to his bullied son, over the protestations of his useless wife -- "stand up for yourself! Just punch him back, and he won't bother you again!" -- is absolutely correct yet impossible to execute. The problem isn't that the kid is afraid of the bully only, he's (more) afraid of the system -- that he'll get in trouble if he fights back, or that he doesn't trust that system to protect him if he fights back and the bully escalates. The parents and school raised the kid to instinctively be ruled by the system, and now suddenly they are advising him to rebel? The bully's doesn't have this fear, he has already opted out of the system. And so the victim, after getting beat up, hears how it was his fault: "You know he's a jerk, why did you go near him? Just stay away from him."
This is why, on the day that the victim does, finally, "fight back", it isn't by squaring off and throwing an uppercut -- it's overly violent, vicious, excessive, and that's not because he needs to overcome the bully but the bully and the system that in effect was protecting the bully, the system that controls the way he sees the world.
[...]
That power of being a lawyer isn't inherent in being a lawyer, it only exists if everyone else believes you have it, and Wayne chose not to believe it, so the lawyer didn't have it. The whole fight is taking place inside both men's heads, which is why Wayne is winning. So how could the lawyer get over his fear, what would he have to do to not be intimidated?
Flip the question: how is it possible for someone with no power (Wayne) to be able to scare those with more power? The answer is to do what Wayne does instinctively: make the fight into a different kind of fight. He doesn't accept his "role" as defendant, as someone at the mercy of the court's rules. Wayne doesn't just not let himself be intimidated by the lawyer, he doesn't see him as a lawyer, as an agent of a larger, massively powerful structure that could crush him into oblivion. He sees him as a bag of soot he could easily punch. And because the lawyer's power was given to him by the court -- the lawyer doesn't see it as really who he is (he doesn't believe in roles, but identity) -- it is, essentially, paper mache, and Wayne's blows right through it. Wayne makes him doubt himself and his power, and so he responds as a powerless man.
It's not knowledge. It's faith, obviously enough. Why's it not obvious to you ?
I mean... science, right ? The reason faith's not self-obviously faith to you is your... faith in... science, a "kind" of science miscast as a repository of faith and as such entirely unrelated to anything to do with knowledge.
If The Rational Method (of Voltaire & co) built The Industrial Revolution (latest installment, there are historical equivalents), then this here Contemporary Devolution was most certainly built by The Irrational Method. Amusingly enough I wrote spoke extensively on this topic some twenty-five centuries ago ; but unfortunately I seem to have misplaced it all. Drats! [↩]
« The organized organization and other orrors.
Porky's »
Category: SUA care este
Saturday, 20 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Royal Revolt II Kicks Ass!
Motto: Mna, je ma duc
sa tai frunzai la catele.ii
Vorbim mai pe urma.
The game is simply fabulous ; not since the days of Gothic belated discovery twelve years ago was I so thoroughly satisfied by a video game! I mean, King's Bounty did indeed come arbitrarily close, but this here's the true & genuine Real McCoyiii.
It's a (very mildly)-RTS, I suppose, which indeed is a rare thing for me to enjoyiv, coming out somewhere in between tower defense and... uhm, single-player MOBA I guess ? The graphics are particularly to my taste, exactly the right amount of rounded cartoonish garish ; the game's actually under active development notwithstanding it's been out for a long time, and... well, I've been playing for about a week to much acclaimv.
During that week I reached level 60ish 62, I find by checking the source material (not that it'll last), which is not that hard to do ; and something over a thousand damage, which takes some skill but is far from unattainablevi. Roughly speaking the values are half-way to end-game, a little less. But the game as it stands does indeed offer vast fields upon which strategic competency can (and should!) be deployed, to fantastic effect. So...
Well, what can I tell you, I'm enjoying myself online as well as off ; ceea ce va doresc si voua.
———Fig leaf. [↩]That's indeed what I went to do ; and even did. At first. And second, and so following. Eventually... [↩]Speaking of which, I'll be playing it for a while ; my friend code's YZDLWDHAYR if you want to get in touch. [↩]I generally can't stand twitch-style gaming (those things where the human side of the interaction can best be approximated as "the dude is having a stroke"), but the way that R works out here seems to be just-right and exactly enough to be tolerable, viz palatable, viz quite fucking enjoyable. Who knew dislike's more often a matter of degree than of principle, or substance. I mean me, of course, but... anyways. [↩]No kidding, my league progression was 1st in bronze (first try), 1st in silver (first try), 1st in gold (first try) and now here I am in platinum. I could take the first again, if I stressed out about it ; but I prefer to thread water for one season (ending tomorrow) and then take the first on the 2nd pass. Think of it as a Sabbatical, why not. [↩]Though judging by the vast abundance of other players doing infinitely worse... well, what can I say. Orice se poate spune s-a spus deja macar o data. [↩]
« On being female, and being a woman.
Have you ever read Les Liaisons dangereuses ? »
Category: Trolloludens
Sunday, 13 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
Rose of Washington Square
She's got no future, but one helluva past...i
For some reason theii people worshiping Zanuck generally opt to not remember pot boilers a la Rose of Washington Squareiii, but... well, here it is nevertheless.
It's a musical, of course -- back then people didn't think much worth committing to the (relatively expensive) medium that wasn't singing & dancingiv -- backed by the usual story : gal falls for the "wrong" guy. Back before the pantsuit cooption of this trope and its subversion whereby the wrong guy became the Socialist-Tractorist (which is to say truly and utterly, world-destructuringly wrongv) rightabouts the Last Socialist War, back when the wrong guy was just some rando schmuck thinking too much of himself and constantly trading fifteen grand of someone else's furniture for thirty-five hundred to cover a twenty-five hundred debt from a previous such trade yesterday (plus "living expenses")... what can I say, it didn't exactly work, but it also didn't condemn the piece.
Otherwise the singing's terrible, the dancing not much better (and not just because so narrowly construed), pretty much the onlyvi valuable item in the entire production is some very early commentary (albeit I suspect unintentional) on the nature of technological progress and its tight relationship with inflation. There's a scene of dancing "poor kids" / Irish people (because that's how it went, whadda ya want) who smoke, one puffvii, and then throw the cigarette out, only to have another, right in their hand, ready to go, the very moment they're ready for another drag (offa dat fag). At a time cigarettes were rare (and therefore expensive) enough to be desired, this must have landed upon the audience as sheer magic of a very practically useful sort. Some kinda magic Joe definitely'd want, the kinda magic making the public suspect the people on the stage might not be complete fuckheads. Maybe they get it ?
They didn't get it, of course not. But... Well I mean, for a stretch back there... Hey! It almost looked like they do get it. Like, at the very least, they might. It did!
What can you do.
———
She's Rosie, the queen of the models. She used to live up in the Bronx but she wander'd from there down to the Washington Square of Bohemian Honky Tonks. One day she met Harrison Fisher, said he "You're like roses! Them stems I want you to pose, for a picture on the cover of 'Jim Jam Jems'" And that's how she first got her start bow her life is devoted to art, they call her... the Rose, of Washington Square. She's withering there in basement air she's fading pose in plain or fancy clothes. They say her Roman nose seems to please artistic people. Beaux, she's plenty of those, with secondhand clothes and nice long hair. She's got those Broadway vampires lashed, to the mast. She's got no future but oh! what a past! She's the one Rose of Washington Square.
She's terribly good as a model, the artists are stuck on her charms. Once a feller said he would paint Venus from her -- only Venus... ain't got no arms. Rube Goldberg her figure admires, he dresses her up in a veil and uses her shape for the pictures that he draws in the Ev'ning Mail. He promised sometime when he's free that he'll model a statue of she they call the Rose, of Washington Square.
[↩]Fewer and ever fewer ; owing to the inexorable march of "history" (or something somewhat like it at any rate), the ra-ra-ra-america crowd's well spent by now.
Did it ever occur to you, by the way, that absolutely the only reason any"one" from the future's ever going to consider present affairs will necessarily be some contemplated falsification so as to serve whatever misconstrued "political goals" of his direct if momentary interest ? "How does history relate to me" shall be not the chief, but the only interest in present affairs at another time, as is already the case anyways.
Well, why didn't it occur to you ? What, do you ever go through your old pictures ? Do you even still have any of them ?
Aww, and there you thought "the future" could be co-opted, could be exploited to satisfy (a small part of) your momentary inflationary needs! They were going to provide the usual imaginary horde of angels hovering at their usual place ("right over the horizon"), ready to fall in and "make things right" to your standards, weren't they ? Why didn't it occur to you that future has its own inflationary needs, which are (necessarily) going to be even more pressingly expansive than your own ? Hm ?
Is it perhaps because you know -- for a fact and deep down, however you try to disavow the knowing you nevertheless still know -- your present nonsense's got absolutely no chance in hell of long surviving in this world ? Was that it ?
I shouldn't be too worried about it ; stupidity prevails on whatever timeline. Its representatives never fare well, that much is true ; but stupidity itself... now that's another matter entirely. [↩]1939, by Gregory Ratoff, with Tyrone Power, Alice Faye, Al Jolson. [↩]Id est relatively rare, because expensive, human activity. Perhaps it's remarkable for the same reasons, too ?
And yet they didn't opt to require every cinematic production include trained dogs, or trained cunts, or spinning plates on the nose, or all sorts and manner of equally expensive, because equally difficult, therefore equally rare, human activity. No, it's just tapdancing. Just like that, magically, tapdancing's the one.
That shit's boring, immensely, inconceivably boring, yet you can't find a 30s production that ain't a "musical" in which they don't tapdance at least a little. 0 tits, though most people care more about tits than feet. 0 egg beating, though of the feminine skills of the period (meanwhile "lost") I certainly imposed egg beating upon more nude & distressed damsels than either singing or tapdancing for crying out loud. 0 anything else, and it all makes about as much sense as anything else humans do. [↩]Speaking of which, if you watch this thing you can't miss noticing Cagney most definitely studied Jolson. [↩]Tyrone what's his name, who isn't even black by the way... what the hell is wrong with these people! If his name's Tyrone Power and he's not black he should at least display the common fucking decency of being the one putting on blackface, don't you find ?
Anyway, John White-Smith over there's a terrible actor, if you can call him an actor in the first place. More properly he's a marginal stage hand, really, seeing how the entirety of his actor's craft consists of staring. Not nearly as elaborately as ol' Willie, either -- he's just got this one sorta-kinda stare that he does when he's acting, like a toaster putting the light on while it's toasting. I mean, the toaster's a toaster all the time, even when it toasts (perhaps especially when it toasts), and just so Bill McPaleskin Peckerbergwood's "an actor" all the time -- even when he stares acts. Perhaps especially when he acts stares. [↩]"Bai, tu stii cum fumeaza milionarii ?" [↩]
« Or something like that, anyway...
Overheard in my harem »
Category: Trilematograf
Thursday, 08 April, Year 13 d.Tr.
Pregnant pauses and other rule-based systems
I just got back from the gym... well, in fairness that was a few hours ago. We were occupied by shenanigansi ulterior to my return therewith, it's been six hours or thereabouts.ii
Are the gyms closed where you live, by the way ? Supposedly here, too ; but I am perfectly if structurally immune to rules, and therefore the gym where I goiii... that's open. There's a spot for the Mercedes (not the bra one ; a different one) right in front, jealously guarded by the local parking attendants ever since a coupla trips ago when there nearly wasn't a spot for me and I got slightly pissy (they ushered some dizzy careerwoman, two small kids in tow, way the fuck out of there, and made room, so no harm done). They figured out whenabouts the black car's showing up, and have been doing their job accordingly ever since -- which, besides the abundance of birds fruit & such, is the great advantage of this blessed land : people at least try doing their god damned jobs. It's not to say they always manage ; but it is very much to say that any time they do not quite manage it's through sheer simplicity, never through the poisonous indulgence of Methodist idiocy and assorted Scottishnessiv so very typical by now of their (outright and unforgivably evil, and correspondingly ever more troglodyte) counterparts up North.
Anyways, so I just got back from the gym, we played & fucked, and had quiche. Yesterday we had lamburghers, which aren't hamburgers eaten in a lambo, but made out of lamb.v I mean, fresh lamb leg that my slavegirl hacked to pieces with her own two tiny hands (you wouldn't believe the size, by the way, her hands are smaller than most babies'). She baked the buns herself, out of flour, I cut slices of Mimolette cheese for up top, then we had strawberry-topped brownie with ganache (a la mode) for which I cracked open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, a fine French wine -- cracked open being a term of art in the harem, the bitches line up, pouting their butts my way, and I shoot the cork at them. It's vaguely sexual, in the sense that one (or more) buns end up sweetly sticky as a result, plus there's sometimes bruises. Why, what do you do with yours ? The corks I mean, not the bitches -- I know that part, for, obviously, they tell me. Speaking of which indignity of fate : I'm getting a fresh shippment of teenaged, technically "illegal" cunt from over Yurp these days ; and I thought best I'd mention it just in case any rigtheous do-nothings need their jimmies rustled. Perhaps we can point and laugh at "FBI agents" thinking "crimes are being committed here" all over again, like last time ?
I'm pretty sure there was more -- after all, it's been two whole days in the harem, which is like nine and a half years to five infinicadesvi in socialist dog-years -- but... well, I kinda got shit to do. Bye!
———Since I know how eagerly these tales are consumed... let's see here, how did this go... oh, yes!
So, last week the fellow in charge of my comfort there (he runs around wiping down the machines after I use them, lest I could be bothered [and though I am escorted the slut's mostly there to stretch dat ass, putting the shocking lack of underwear straps on sheer display and, I suppose, drive my car], comes up with little coreographies & dance arrangements -- every day he takes time to think through what novel little pains he could bestow upon me, the aspiring Torquemada -- and so on) gave me a massage. I noticed the tool he was using, because it was quite noticeable. I asked him where they get 'em, he told me he could probably get me one, I ordered him to -- the quickest sale in the whole history of that, no doubt, though I don't think he even knew he was selling, or for that matter that he was being (unwitting) a part of what pompously calls itself "an industry" by now, I'm sure -- and today he delivered it. Comes with its own little case, has accessories, it's basically a hand-held drill for one's muscles ; and quite powerfull, too!
Thus the naked sluts spent an hour or so drilling each other down immediately thereafter, to giggles and excited peels of laughter and more giggles and really, it was like in one of those Babydoll scenes you love and hate so. And then, once they were loosened up to the state of complete pancakes I said "Hey, kiss my cock, and you eat her out. I'm going to fuck you in the ass." This, far from an excitation-driven string of random expletives, made perfect sense in context, where it is both meaningful and descriptive. So the acts unfurled, we played with the multiorgasmic fucktoy's multiorgasmic fucktoyness, and then I fucked her a little too, and then I sent the anal queen for handcuffs, lube and a shopping bag -- because yes, now and again I'll assfuck her while she uses a plastic bag exactly the way infants shouldn't. Do you suppose they enjoy death that way, by the way ? Obviously infants don't ejaculate, but orgasm they do. So do you suppose, upon encountering a blue body weighing about the same as a dog (the body I mean, not the soul, yes ?) that... well... it probably had fun on its way out ? Which is so very much more than will can be said about you, rotting away by infinitesimal degrees in the "retirement" home that even now grimly if patiently awaits you ?
Anyways, it took a while, then I made a mess (by which I mean, I crumbled chocolate brownie in a mug of freshly shook batido, mango en leche -- which in itself is a whole production, because it takes pre-frozen, Orotina-sourced bananas, I wouldn't touch your despicable dole with your dentures, let my palate alone -- and added specially imported rum and well, I call the result a mess, though you'd prolly think of it more as a Sundae, even though it's as plainly Wednesdy as ever can be.
So this is why. [↩]Oh look at that, what a fitting header today! [↩]The cardiologist in charge of explaining to yours truly (and only) Superman that "You see Mr... the human body deals with 99.9% of anything it runs into. Something you had ; but it dealt with it for you." as the crowning denuement of the recent scare -- thereby upon retelling yanking out of the poor Bimbo (whose previous owner had a real and quite dire such infraction, unlike my very piddly and unconvicing ersatz) a most disbelieving "so... you cured your own heart attack..." -- also declared herself unimpressed with my peripheral circulation generally, and recommended her go-to rehabilitation clinic, which is a very well appointed gym run well by a competent fellow by the name of Eduardo (not Caruccio, something else).
And I followed her advice, not merely because I wasn't any more impressed than her with said aspect of my superbly functioning, divine in its nature (hey, it's what you believe, quite literally -- that you of all things are exactly divine in nature and superbly functioning) body, but also because one of the greatest ways to have a fucked heart as a sixty year old is by having shitty peripheral circulation as a forty year old. And so, not being a great fan of paying interest, I... for the first time in my life, mind you... am now going... to the gym! Bought a pair of sneakers, too, which I never owned before, and such things.
The girls say they're the best, and I trust in them, because he who doesn't know must trust. [↩]At one point one of these cunts actually said to James there's two kings in Scotland, King James and King Jesus [but the latter's better because hurr].
That James hadn't the presence of hanging the knave then and there's doubtless the darkest stain on his rather foul mantle. [↩]She's been watching these delightful Azerbaijani couple, living out in their little hut, making traditional foods like they always have ; and it's proven an inspiration to her. [↩]Like decades, except endless. Each and every last one of them, just as endless as all the other four.
You figure it out!... Not like you ain't got time... [↩]
« La nostalgia...
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Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 05 May, Year 13 d.Tr.
Post partially
Motto: Hey, remember these two sluts ?
Isn't postprandially a great word ? I like it very much, myself, and therefore post partially, you see, is what happens after a party. Hence the title ; and the illustration ; and also my sorry state.
I am crushed, utterly and totally. It's Sunday, well past noon. I just woke up, at a bare crawl I went about some reduction of morning business. We partied until all hours of the night Saturday, which I mean literally : the birds were solidly singing Morning by the time I kicked all the nudes outta my bed and crashed, finally, an expiration in the eager light outside.
But now I'm seated more or less comfortably -- they suffering of cocktail flu are never truly comfortable -- with a mug of iced water I sent a slave for, and thereby write, such as can be done. The last item I clearly remember are the fabulous steaks in the late evening. My Porterhouse went down so readily, so easily, so well. The whole two and a half pounds of it, faces criss-crossed in delicious creole mulatto tones, the inside rather cold. A mouthmelt, like so many others, such as only few experience -- and I, daily. Multiply. Perpetually. All the dog manded titme!
There was an old whore there, also. At the party I mean. At least early on ; I remember seeing her, my gaze fixing upon her anciently fixed tits. They looked great in her dress, well built for a well built -- and eager, too -- ninteen year old. Her exemplarily toned legs comfortably stood atop most decent four inch platforms. Not screaming bloody murder through excess like's the lot of youthful nubiles (if they be worth two spits or half a squirt -- in the respective holes nature carved in lustruous luscious lasciviousness for the very purpose), but definitely making the point. The heels tell it all : you're not her. You'll never be her. You'll neither draw my eye at a party nor command my commendation. Of you I'll never say to my own escort (who, of course, knew her, from their gym, the only good gym in this liliput country tiny enough to only admit one of anything) "go talk to her, she's evidently curious about you two and if you don't it's too much like a snub. You're the younger woman, it's not her place to come to you, don't let her hang."
The old whore's leathery face, tanned under the imperious demands of daily Suns over (I'm sure) sixty years, crinkly and thoroughly lined under the incessantly ceaseless demands of her discipline -- to smile the whore's smile, again and again -- rather resembled a laptdog's. I quite enjoy lapdogs like her around and about, in strict preference of most any alternatives (no, "robust beauties" don't even qualify, don't even inch above water level). She dominated, readily, with the expert whore's ease, the elder gringo tub of paste in tow. Just to make the point, to clear my eye of any possible misunderstanding, like a civilised man among savages might discreetly flash Eton to another. I never knew her before, I never met her before, she knows what to do just as well. Between this Spanish speaker native and Romanian speaking natives the decades bridge, with ease, effortlessly. By themselves. Like anything else in this life worth doing, it does itself, coincidentally, while other things ongo.
She had a younger, darker whore with her, twenty-something maybe, their relationship clearly professional, vaguely tinged in mentorship ; the twenty-something very late in her life yet thoroughly clueless, her body carrying a superficial layer of extra fat readily testifying to the state of her spirit. No, it's not babyfat after adolescence, that ends with puberty ; although... The young'un was there to service the tub's associate -- some junior business partner, like for instance a "son" in these cucks' manner, made one day with some woman they don't remember for never having inside her owned anything. We didn't long linger -- they have to earn their daily bread, and us, after having ingurgitated our daily portion of animal life (& death) -- for no meal's worth the name if no part of it had parents, that loved it, and in bloodied pain begot it, and then you ate it -- went on.
It's going to escape exposition, that on ; for your needs such as they are suffice it to say that unrelatedly, outside the walls, the mendacious audacity of the idiot party continues unabated, raging as fiercely strong as it has for the past year. That's also a kind of party, yes ? Perhaps it'll never end. Perhaps three hundred years from now actual women and actual humans'll wonder what the fuck did "we" do, not knowing in their benevolent malintension that indeed -- there is no we. Just I ; and then the rest of you, such as you are, and can't be counted among anything. Not even food.
That idiot partyi eagerly goes about -- with "arguments", no less! "There's no other seasonal flus anymore", they'll gleefully point out. "Clearly the masks work", they'll clamor. Surely, after having fraudulently misrepresented every temperature increase of any source as "covid" -- going so far as to even eschew autopsies, and therefore making everyone dead these days the same sort of inconsequential, sub-human mongrel as they of the 1700s and prior -- isn't it a wonder that no other anything else "exists", after their fashion ? The necessary as it is unavoidable fate of the socialist mind : forever the infant's game of peek-a-boo, forever looking for and forever finding exactly the same thing. What thing ? That thing they who can not want misrepresent themselves as wanting, whatever it may be. Vacuous nothingness and perambulating undeath, of course.
So afraid's the stupid party of the -- to speak frankly, to them mostly hostile -- environment, they're now all burka'd up. Like little bitches, waiting for the Arab daddy ; or, fail that, at least his horse...
Yet I am not your horse ; and you are not my whore ; and so on.
———Also a party, yes ? After its fashion ? [↩]
« Degeneration, by Max Nordau. Adnotated. Diagnosis.
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Category: Zsilnic
Sunday, 25 April, Year 13 d.Tr.
Porky's
Porky'si is yet another coming-of-age film "of highschool life" bla bla bla. I can't imagine why they keep making these, except perhaps because they keep trying to convince themselves of nonsense ; there's nothing much to see here to recommend this failed attempt at flattening the cowlick over all the others in overabundant supply, except for a coupla circumstantial items.
First off, the hottie head cheerleader / junior cheerleader trainer / whatever the hell she is, losing her mind (well, losing her momind anyway ; finding her whore mind, more properly speaking) upon sniffing used jockstraps (literally) and turning out to be... quite the little screamer. As circumstances dictate she makes room for the junior coach inside herself right behind the thin separator wall (and neatly within earshot) of a gymfull of young colts an' heifies. The adolescents, mostly virgins, thoroughly sexually frustrated, suspended in the irreality of a purely absurdist situation called "P.E.", get to confront the facts of the matter, and of life generally.
There, under her suddenly unbridled wails of unadulterated joy, a bunch of teens stuck in ridiculous outfits (as "proper" for the time and place), short pants and tight blouses supposedly "with no sexual undertones whatsoever", engaged in a purely "non-sexual" activity (as fucking if) get to perceive first hand the utterly pointless nature of the santa fantasy. Because no, there can't be such a thing as sexual clothing. Absolutely not, out of the question, sex is a human behaviour, not a textile property. Human sexuality is the product of the workings of the human mind, not a byproduct of mordants and wheft ; and therefore there can't be such a wonder as non-sexual outfits, positions, circumstances or activities either. Because how the fuck would that go ?! D'oh ?
And so these kids get (and at school of all places, improbabilia improbabilis!) the most useful of all life lessions lessons : they discover firsthand the bullshit doesn't matter. They're too chickenshit to actually turn the supposed "P.E. class" into an out-and-out orgy, as it self-evidently was meant to be, and as better young men and especially young women would've ; but also they can't unsee their own inadequacy to their own lives driven by their own buying into bullshit. Whether this actually does anything is, of course, up to them ; and, just as of course, up to you.
The other circumstantial item of note is the young women in the nude. The particular mix of pretended "fear" and genuine curiosity, the yelling and the excitement, the very natural if very obstinately disavowed interaction between the wet maidens and the penis... it's well done, really. I can't readily recall to mind another instance of this particular anthropometric measure so correctly rendered on celluloid, making this film immortal from that certain perspective.
And so it goes...
———1981, by Bob Clark, with a (nude) Kim Cattrall (the chick pretending to whoredom three decades later with horseface & co) debutante and some other (just as nude) random girlies. [↩]
« Say it like it's 1937
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Category: Trilematograf
Monday, 22 February, Year 13 d.Tr.
Parasitic parenting
We're gonna do a source & translation thing, because I don't feel like taking thei time to produce actual English equivalent for literary Romanian expression on one hand, and you're as helpless as newborn kittens on the other (ie, machine translation's just about worthless for anything worth translating in the first place, though admittedly it works well enough for all the dumb shit that needn't be translated at all).
So... first, the source :
diana_coman ajuta in sensul ca a. nu mai tot trimit listele alea de vertices si triunghiuri pt ce e oricum mereu la fel b. face acolo cs ca are deja forma regulata si gata
diana_coman deci da, ajuta
diana_coman da' nu-mi dau seama daca ne-o parea rau dupa aia sau ceva, cum sa zic
mircea_popescu pia atunci hai sa facem asa. cerul e mereu aceelasi mesh, fa-l ca un sferoid turtit. si texturi punem dupa locatie, sau "cer" sau "ceiling" ce e
mircea_popescu auzi, fa-l tu ca un sfert de sfera si va fi foarte ok.
diana_coman lol, cum tu un sfert ?
diana_coman trebuie sa acopere totusi acolo
mircea_popescu deci o sfera sectionata nu la mijloc, ci r/2 distanta e centru
diana_coman a, a, nu un sfert ci ca partea de mai sus
diana_coman hm, sa vad ca stiu ca cs are pt sfera si pt hemisfera da' am asa o banuiala ca e bou si n-are parametru sa ii zici cat vrei
mircea_popescu pai un sfert lol :)
mircea_popescu tai in patru felii si iei una
mircea_popescu doar ca tai plane paralele
diana_coman ahaha, asa-s sferturile la tine? oricare 1 din 4? lolz
mircea_popescu pai ce-ti pasa de cs daca-i dai tu mesh ?
diana_coman pai la cer mai sus ai zis ca sa nu-i dau?
diana_coman deci : daca ii dam mesh oricum, poate fi orice
mircea_popescu pai ii dai ~o data~. nu ? il tot pui sa-si faca ca bou' ?
diana_coman tu, da' "o data" ala ca adica ce, ii fac acolo hard-coded zici?
mircea_popescu exact
diana_coman ca de incarcat tot le incarca
diana_coman ugh
mircea_popescu nush, nu insist.
mircea_popescu io doarzic, bine ?
diana_coman ma rog, presupun ca intr-un final o sa ma chiar uit cat dracu' e de mare in fapt meshul si daca-l fac pe server si daca nu e urias il si trimit si termin
mircea_popescu da' io nici intr-un caz nu vreau sa-l trimiti de fiecare data. ca ie stupid ce plm
diana_coman ca pana la urma de ce e fix asta fix sa ma trezesc apoi ca ma impiedic in el sau ceva
mircea_popescu nu e doar asta. si caracterul il dai gen o data.
mircea_popescu fa-l sa fie un singur obiect mereu, si nui ti-l tot cere atunci. nu ?
diana_coman pai teoretic fiind *acelasi mesh* nu-l trimiti de fiecare data ca na, are fisierul si deci nu-l mai cere, nu?
diana_coman aia, asa
mircea_popescu asa da. asa ar fi f bine.
diana_coman dar na, il trimit odata *per client*, drept
mircea_popescu deci" i-l dai de fiecare data" da' aia inseamna ca tre' sa ceara, si tu nu il schimbi deci el nu il cere.
diana_coman exact
mircea_popescu io zic ca asa ar fi ideal. leverage si ce design frumos avem noi fix pentru a fi util asa.
diana_coman cam asa
mircea_popescu noa. asa io zic ca e f bine.
diana_coman bine, tb deci sa schimb ierarhia aia da' aia e oricum in lucru asa ca nici nu ma asteptam sa n-am de schimbat la ea, nu e incotro
mircea_popescu si apa ca i-o tot dai per sector nu conteaza daca zici ca e douar 2 tri, si gata.
mircea_popescu pai noa, astea-s schimbari foarte benefice imo
diana_coman da, practic cu asta atunci chiar sunt linistita ca sunt toate in fapt decise real pe server si deci putem schimba daca e ce si cum vrem
mircea_popescu si e si frumos ca nu tot calculeaza dobi
diana_coman iar clientul pune ce i se da si basta
mircea_popescu sa vezi ca taie juma din load din asta
diana_coman ahaha
diana_coman dar hai, ca la load era rapid deja
diana_coman ce astepta sa primeasca fisierele si atat
mircea_popescu pai si ce daca e rapid nu se poate taia jumate ?
diana_coman lol, ba chiar si asa, un sfert de sfera!
mircea_popescu vai ce haterita si invidioasa pe succesu meu te-ai facut
mircea_popescu tu, io am si instafan! tu ai ?
mircea_popescu noa ? ATUNCI CE MAI VB!
diana_coman intre timp ma rontaie pe creier ca in fapt ar tb la generatorul de texturi sa ii pun sa genereze totodata si normalmap
mircea_popescu pai ar.
mircea_popescu dat fiindca
diana_coman pt ca e si util real si se si poate si e algoritm in ma-sa, si si si
diana_coman da
mircea_popescu da.
diana_coman da' am facut lista proaspata azi dimineata ca teoretic "nu era nimic" si tot creste, lol
mircea_popescu asa, asa.
diana_coman ah, am vazut ca ai fanfan
diana_coman i-ai schimbat si viata, ca acu' pune poze cu tine nu cu altul
mircea_popescu ceva arabel lol,
mircea_popescu uneori ma si intreb stii, plm, pustime din teheran. da peste trilema. ce plm hemoragie cerebrala
mircea_popescu daca ma gindesc la mine in cluj gen 1991... tu infarct faceam
diana_coman tu, mie astia tot imi par asa de... feminini in ma-sa, cum sa si zic
diana_coman ca nu fac si ei infarct masculin sa puna mana sa faca ceva de nervi
mircea_popescu apai is foarte muieratici. ca copchii bizantini in epoca iegzact.
diana_coman ci fac asa feminin ca lesina la tine pe prag si iti canta osanale
mircea_popescu asa, ce frumos era, mai retii /
mircea_popescu acu' mnoa, se tem sa nu cumva sa violeze pe vre-una.
diana_coman iaca, scrii tu pt femei da' 90% din "ele" sunt din astia, pfft
mircea_popescu aia ar fi grav. sa nu faca nic tata ziua nu e problema. numa' sa nu fie vre-una plinsa pe undeva ca ei nu i-o venit.
mircea_popescu da lol, ne cracanam de ris prin casa ca 90% din readership e fix asa, soymale 15-30
diana_coman dadad, se "tem" ca adica ce bine e sa aiba scuza aia, cum sa zic
mircea_popescu ie. ca femeia-i facuta din vise si nori, poti s-o omori asa, fara sa-ti dai seama.
mircea_popescu fantasme.
diana_coman ce pot zice, macar nu ma aia la cap pe mine astia ca m-ar si enerva
mircea_popescu ma rog, acu' fair is fair, s-o apucat ala sa puna tot musulmance in situatii compromitatoare si poze de prin trilema, nu poti zice ca nu face
mircea_popescu cu dumbphonu', ma rog, da "face"
diana_coman eu nu pricep ce facut e ala ca pui poze, da' in fine, multe din astea nu pricep eu
mircea_popescu nu ne e dat noua sa pricepem totul
diana_coman asa, asa
mircea_popescu si asta nu e chiar asa rau cum suna
mircea_popescu nici io nu pricep, da'... plm, teheranu' lor, sa si-l aia.
diana_coman ooo, nici nu, chiar sunt unele chestii de sper sa nu ajung sa le chiar pricep, lol
mircea_popescu ce sa si faca ?
mircea_popescu e o chestie deschisa asa. ce sa faca ? se baga in boko haram ?
diana_coman lasa ca gasisem si eu unul de scria de grafica asa chiar cu cap si coada si sens si matematica, pfuai. Am tot cautat sa-i gasesc un email, ceva, neam, da' am gasit - e din egipt, bun, da' ...e clar cu totul in blender, ugh
mircea_popescu io is de acord cu obiectia, "pune poze cu tine nu cu altul." bun. sa faca ifarct asa ca barbatii, macar ca baietii. sa faca ceva. bun, ce ?
diana_coman adica descrie si algoritm si tot dupa care ca-cum sa faci din "nodes" si nu stiu ce, sa tot plimbi cu mouse-ul in blender, ugh
diana_coman si lucreaza pt ei chiar
mircea_popescu apai nu ma mir.
mircea_popescu tu, daca vrei sa lucreze pentru noi vezi ce cere. io is pentru sa evaluam un egiptean
diana_coman pai sa iasa din casa, sa dea un party si sa faca poze la el cu fete ori ma rog, la fete, nabii
mircea_popescu ahahahahaah
diana_coman sa se duca la coltul strazii si sa faca poze daca chiar e asa greu
mircea_popescu meri tu
mircea_popescu tu nu esti normala la cap. tu vrei sa VORBEASCA CU O FATA ?!
diana_coman da, precum s-a exprimat unu' revenit anul trecut ca a vazut younghands "tu tot asa ai ramas de pui lumea la treaba"
mircea_popescu dilia vietii, SI AIA SA VORBEASCA CU EL !?
mircea_popescu tu de pe ce planeta esit, astia n-or mai vorbit de 20 de ani.
diana_coman pai atunci sa clipoceasca numai din mobil la ea, in fine
diana_coman da' macar asa cu directie, cum sa zic
diana_coman sa-si faca o instalatie cu 10 brate cu mobile si merge cu aia pe strada de face cate 10 poze simultan din diverse unghiuri
mircea_popescu tu se caca pe ei. si pe-aici, merge sclava la ceva pisi, "imi place de tine, cine esti ?" alea. aia "maimi mami!! MAMI!!!!!" fuge dupa ma-sa.
diana_coman poftim
mircea_popescu aia ar fi ceva.
diana_coman pai zau, am stat si-am "gandit" aici 3 minute da' el "n-are ce sa faca", cacat cu perje
mircea_popescu da' pe bune acuma, tu nu stii ca nu te-ai dus sa incerci. da' nu is capabili sa interactioneze social cu necunoscuti. s-o pierdut aia.
mircea_popescu meri si vezi daca nu ma crezi, vorbeste cu una.
diana_coman zici ca or reveni la "nu ne-a facut nimeni cunostinta"?
diana_coman o fi, tot parte din revenire, lol
mircea_popescu iar aialalta, ca-si face robotel... ma rog, cum e diferit de clipocit ? ca "l-o facut el" ? pai tot din bucati il face, nu e ca si cum il face din sine.
mircea_popescu fix acolo, da. nu IS CAPABILI sa negocieze social cu necunoscuti. daca-i ceri directions pare 100% ok, daca-i iesi din cele 2-3 scripturi de-astea de 2-3 replici e 0%.
mircea_popescu nu au nici o conceptie de limita, nici o practica sociala, nimic.
diana_coman apai in afara cazului cand il face din matele proprii, tot nu e din sine, da' macar nu e reteta existenta, cum sa zic, acolo de clasa 1
mircea_popescu aia zic, ca nu mai e posibil. acum si ca sa se descurce cu un robinet ce n-o mai vazut intra pe reddit sa vada.
diana_coman mda, aia cred pt ca si de unde experienta aia cu negociat ca na, nu e voie nu se poate nu aia nu ailalta
mircea_popescu nu mai au incredere in ei insisi sa faca ceva ei pentru ei. deloc.
mircea_popescu ca noa, cam toti astia de ~20 or crescut fara parinti
diana_coman mda, cam aia e de fapt. Doar acu' cateva zile chiar i-am zis unuia ca bai, tu esti "helpless" de fapt, aia-i problema ta, ce sa mai
diana_coman si mda
mircea_popescu prin care intelegem fara tati. ci cu doua pizde anxioase, una "mami" cealalta "tati" da' la fel de cum sa zic... nici maica-mea nici maica-ta nici a nimanui n-o fost veci asa ghei ca astea
diana_coman mai rau decat fara parinti ca daca erau fara, n-aveau incotro si trebuiau sa se dumireasca singuri cumva
mircea_popescu exact. or crescut cu paraziti.
mircea_popescu aia e. nitwits exact. nici macar orfani, ci parazitati emotional.
diana_coman cam asa, ugh
mircea_popescu si atunci n-au nici resursele, nici rezultatele practicii istotrice a acumularii resurselor.
mircea_popescu si iata. intr-adevar. mi-am scris articol pe azi, numa' bine.
diana_coman lol, tb sa gasesc cumva si eu o modalitate sa scot cod din conversatii.
mircea_popescu stii ?
mircea_popescu chiar ma gindeam aici, bai da' o exploatezi la singe, nu ase numa'.
And second, as it behooves it, the (summarizedii, centralizediii and homogenizediv ; but also checked for root failurev) transation :
"It helps in the sense that I don't have to keep sending descriptors for immutables, they're just built in place. I just can't tell if we won't live to regret it is all."
"Do it that way, the sky a flattened spheroid and textures will go in by location, sky or ceiling or whatever. make the flattened spheroid a quarter sphere and it'll be fine."
"What do you mean a quarter ? It's a dome, it's supposed to cover the rectangle."
"A sphere cut not in the middle, but half a radius away from the center."
"Ah you don't mean a proper quarter, just the topmost section"
"What do you think a quarter is ? Cut something in four parts and take one. Just, you cut parallel planes."
"That's your notion of a quarter ? Any of four non-equivalent pieces ?"
"What do you care about the client's doings if you give it out explicitly anyway ?"
"Didn't you just tell me not to give it explicitly ? If I do, sure, it can be whatever you want."
"But it's given once, not re-computed all the time."
"What's that once to mean ? Hard-coded in there ?"
"Sure."
"Otherwise it still gets loaded... ugh."
"I don't know. I'm not about to insist. I'm just saying things by the book here, theoretically."
"In the end I guess I'm going to check it for size. If it's not huge generate it server-side and be done with it."
"I don't want you to keep sending it over the wire. That's just dumb."
"If you want this one thing fixed it'll keep cropping up for being different."
"It's not just this one thing. The character mesh you send over just once, and other things. Make its hash immutable, it doesn't keep asking for it then, does it ?"
"At least in theory it being the same it won't be sent but once. Right, that."
"Alright, yes. That'd be very good."
"It still gets sent once per client, that's all."
"In this sense 'send it each time' becomes each time it's asked for, and its hash doesn't change so it doesn't get asked for."
"That's exact."
"I'd say it's also ideal. Leveraging the perfect design we have, made to support this very case and so on."
"Right."
"Very good then. And water doesn't matter if you say it's just two triangles, and that's that."
"Alright, I'm going to have to alter the hierarchy model, but it was being worked on anyway so I didn't even expect it stays put, there's no way out."
"These are deeply beneficial changes in my opinion."
"Yes, this puts to rest the matter, everything's done server side and so usefully mutable. The client paints what it's given to paint and that's that."
"It also takes out all the spurious local calculations which is beautiful. Watch it'll cut half the load away."
"Hahaha. Come, come, the load's quick already. Net-bound only pretty much."
"So if it's quick it can't be halved ?"
"Sure, even quarter-sphered!"
"What a hateful person invidious of my success you've become.vi. Listen, you! I've even got a fan on instagram. Do you ? Well ? WHAT ARE WE EVEN TALKING ABOUT!"
"Meanwhile it's eating me that the texture generator should also spit out normalmaps."
"It should. Given that therefore."vii
"It's both actually useful and definitely possible, and algorithmic and and and. Yep."
"Yep."
"I started a fresh to-do list this morning, for there was 'nothing left' theoretically, and I'm getting more sheets for it."
"Good, good."
"But yes, I've seen you've got a fanfan. Even changed his life for him, now he posts pictures with you instead of someone else."
"Some Arabic kidviii. Sometimes I wonder, you know... fuck, kiddos from Teheran. Rus into Trilema. Da fuck, cerebralo hemorrhage. If I think of myself back in 1991... It'd have stopped my ticker."
"Nevertheless they seem to me so... feminine, how shall I put it. They're not having a male heart attack to set themselves to doing something out of that fury."
"They're very girly, that's true. Like perio Byzantine kiddos exactly. How nice it was, do you recall ?"
"They do it very feminine-like, fainting on your doorstep and singing hossanahs."
"Whadday ya want, they're concerned they might rape some chick. That'd be regrettable. Doing nothing all day long's no problem, just as long as there's no cryied out chickie anywhere who didn't feel like it right then."
"Yeah, you write for women of which 90% are this kinda woman, pffft."
"Yea lol, it's a subject of constant amusement what large proprotion of the readership's exactly the 15 to 30yo soysexual."
"Yeah, yeah. They're 'concerned' in the sense of, what a great excuse it is."
"It is. Because woman's made of dreams and clouds, you can kill her just like that, without even realising it. Phantasmesix."
"At least they don't come bothering me."
"But, fair's fair, he took to posting muslim chicks in compromising situations and pictures culled from Trilema. Can't say he's not doing anything. With the phone, it's true, but it's still 'doing'."
"What kinda doing is that, posting pictures... but whatever, many such I don't understand."\
"It's not given us to understand everything."
"Hear, hear."
"Nor is it as bad a lot as it may sound. Their Teheran, let them mind it."
Very much so, there's things I hope never to come to understand."
"What could he do ? It's open enough. What ? Join Boko Haramx) ? I can subscribe to the objection, 'at least pictures of yourself rather than another', ok, let him have male heart attacks, or at least boyish, fine. let him do something. what ?"
"Forget it, I had found someone writing sensibly on graphics, math included, everything. I searched and searched for some contact, eventually it turns out guy's from Egypt, ok, and... fully invested in Blender of all things."
"I am not surprised. If you want him to work for us see what he wants. I'm not against evaluating some Egyptian."
"Get out of the house. Throw a party and shoot the girls piled up on him. Or girls in general, from a distance, bloody hell."
"Hahahahahaha"
"Let him go out on the street corner and take pictures."
"Go away. You're unhealthy in the head. You want him to TALK TO A GIRL ?!"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Like some loser checking in to see if younghands maybe folded into his fold put it, 'you haven't changed, still putting people to work'."
"Nut of all time. HER TALK BACK TO HIM ?! Da fuck planet are you from, these idiots haven't talked in twenty years."
"Let him blink his dumbphone at her then, whatever. At least it should have some directionality, some intentionality. Something [that breaks the PD fantasy]. Let him build a ten arm robot and drive it down the street and take 10 simultaneous shots from angles. There, I spent two minutes with it, but he 'has not what to do' bullcrap."
"They'll just shit themselves. It's no different anywhere in the world. Slavegirl goes over to some kitten, 'hey, I like you, who are you ?' like God meant it. The 'victim' runs off, 'Mom!xi MOM!!!' immediately. Seriously, you don't know about it for lack of trying, but they're not capable of social interaction with unknowns. That's lost. Go check for yourself if you don't wish to believe me, try and talk to some girlie."
"You're saying it's running back to 'we were not introduced' ? I guess, part of the general... revolution."
"And on the other hand, making robots... I beg your pardon, how's it different from blinking ? He did it ''himself' ? Still made from parts, not like he can make it from 'himself' neh. The broader issue's right there : they lack the capability of social negotiation with unknowns. If you're limiting the interaction" to asking for directions or something it might seem 100% working ; but if you go out of the coupla preloaded scripts worth two-three replies each, it suddenly and irretrievably drops to 0%. They've no conception of limit, no social practice whatever, nothing at all."
"Ok, unless he makes it out of his own viscera it's not 'from himself' absolutely. But at least it's not a pre-existing recipe on the primary school level."
"That's what I'm saying is gone. Nowadays even a faucet he's not encountered before he'll phone-reddit to see 'examples'."
"That I can belive. Whence's that experience to come, this is not allowed that is not possible the other's bla bla."
"They've not the self-confidence to do something by themselves, for themselves. Not at all."
"Myeah, that's it isn't it. Days ago I told off one, 'dude, you're substantially helpless, that's what you are'.
"The entire cohort around 20 years old grew up without parents. By which we mean, without fathers. Two anxious cunts instead, one 'mami' the other 'papi' but both equally... how shall I put it, neither my mother nor yours nor nobody's ever was this fucking faggoty."
"Worse than without parents. If they were truly without they'd have figured it out as best they could under that pressure."
"Right you are, they grew up with parasites. Nitwits exactly. Not even orphans, merely parasitized emotionally."
"That'd be it, ew."
"Thus they've neither the resources, nor the results of the historical practice of accumulating resources. And there you go. Indeed I've written today's article, not bad."
"Lol. I've gotta find some way to squeeze code out of convos."
"You know ? I was just thinking, 'man, you're truly exploiting her, not just a little.'"
As the man once famously said... that should be good enough, anyways.
———Utterly inordinate amount of, and for absolutely no good reason. [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
Summary translation is that equivalent of a given text in a different language which includes some but not all points of the original with the explicit promise that given a measure for importance, all missing points will fall under it, and all points over will make it into the translation. [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
In the context of translation, centralization denotes the organization of the act of translation around an idea or philosophical proposition, such that all Gordian knots are forever cut and all ambiguities are reliably resolved in the same direction. [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
In the context of translation, homogenization is the process whereby implicit literary reference is kept to the same level for all nodes of the translation tree (this necessarily drags in the implication it won't be a very high level, as is the case with most equalizations), and therefore it has a lot in common with what simple minds fail to express usefully (or at all) when discussing their half-baked notions of "simplicity". [↩]You're in luck, this term is formally defined!
Checking for root failure is the process whereby an omniscient owner prevents the natural compounding of errors from ever exceeding a certain epsilon, and blocks their propagation up the tree of meaning. [↩]There's no way out of this, massive decade-old Gayromeo in-joke.
The gist of it being that some "Internet expert" (the period equivalent of the "social media influencer") with serious socialization issues (and all the rest of the... difficulties, let's say, stereotipically perceived as attendant in such circumstances) made some comments which were remarkably structured given their utter left-field nonsensical composition, and... it stuck.
So stuckily it stuck, in fact, that the whole world has to undergo "social distancing" because the (absent!) parents failed in their mission while all these Vali Perfus multiplied to the point there has to be some kinda societal response to their sheer inability to comprehend personal space. Or in other words : my private jokes are only private to me ; to you they're the very substance of your daily life. Well, "your", whatevers.
Your life is mine. [↩]The Romanian construction "dat fiindca" is circular in a comedic sense that can't be rendered in English because English has no humour (and barely any rhymes at all). It's just not a fun language, in any sense.
It's fucken dour. Just like you. [↩]Technically "arabel" is diminutive and perhaps even vaguely derogatory, denoting the slender build and complaisant social presentation of young Arab kids of reasonably middle class extraction such as'd be encountered in the (very narrow) Romanian social practice some years ago. [↩]As in, the sort of "imaginary" beings that suck one's life away. Vampires. [↩]Do you suppose the name comes from the niggardly miscomprehension of the French word "beaucoup", as in, "a whole lotta things forbidden" ? The "very useful" tardpedia doesn't deem this point worthy of their darkening elucidation, and... well... (I intended for a link to go in there, to whichever article where I went into detail as to how "a quote" exists "on the web" in hundreds of EXACT copies, but never ever with any more context, even to the ludicrous lengths that if the quote were to include a [...] token, out of the hundreds of google-paste quotists NOT ONE will have filled in the blank. After spending some time looking I didn't turn it up, so it stays... blank. [↩]"Mom!" being the exact opposite of "Mom ?". [↩]
« Sextette
Hello, Frisco, Hello »
Category: Cocietate si Sultura
Thursday, 25 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
Overheard in my harem
Pick any pillow in this bed! I will lift it! OVER MY HEAD!
Works a lot better with nude sluts than with surprisingly-still-ambulatory geriatrics, you know ?i
"And check it out, the hortensia I pruned is pushing out a new inflorescence."
"I bet they don't even spell it with a w, like god obviously meant it."
Seriously now, what the fuck's a hortensia even supposed to be !?
Whortensja all the way, I saj!
"But when we have a house..."
"What the fuck do you think this is ?"
"Oh, this... it's just a bunch of connected apartments."
There was a very puzzled pause, after which the voice of reason attempted to rescue the damsel of confusion
"What do you think'd make it a house ?"
"If it... I mean there's no lawn... If there were two floors. Or if we had to mow the lawn..."
In fact there's a fully grown adult farmer guy who spends the whole of his working days mowing the extensive hillside. I wouldn't send the bitches to do what's, very absolutely an' essentially a man's job, not unless exceptionally, for punishment or whatever the hell particular consideration ; but be that as it may -- the girly in question was actually sent to climb on the (unrelatedly pre-existing) roofwork scaffolding to wash the third floor windows from the outside. She didn't fall or anything like that, so a concussion's not in the explanatory running, but apparently the floorcount overflew its toppings or something, it's not clear what exactly.
Oh Master, you're like a tornado of pain and misery!
I was just making light playful fun of some bitch, but apparently I don't know my own strength.
Omg! MILK! Please don't throw anymore things!
I recently discovered they can catch pretty good, on account of the blessings of youth upon the hand-eye coordination system, or a lifetime interest in baseball, or just positive outcomes of the genital roulette, who even knows. Perhaps even the simple workings of incentive systems, because guess who does the cleaning made necessary by having failed to catch (and not by Master -- meaning, me -- throwing in the first place).
But I'm throwing things anyways & be all the foregoing as it may -- most recently, the large glass mug I had just (mostly) emptied of milk. Girl caught it alright, so... disaster averted. For now.
He's going to get a huge sifter and just dust the whole floor in one swift flick of the wrist.
Somebody had left a loaded flour sifter on a counter, and I proceeded to... well, what would you do ?
I proceeded to sift flour all over the place, what.
You're just like a big angry baby!
She's just trying to get even, that's all. EXCEPT IT DOES NOT WORK. Ha!
"Did you ring the bell ? Or am I just hearing things ?"
"You're hearing things."
I have many countless bells ; the pan-demonium lasts all nite long (no solid chunks just yet, though).
"So do you give up ?"
"Oh, damn. Yeah, I ain't guessing."
"Doris Day."
"Wow. Shit. No, you're right. I'd have never gotten that.
I asked them the day before (meaning, yesterday -- because all this has occurred today, so far today) whether they want a trivia question they'll absolutely never guess the answer to. These types of inquiries always end up with the affirmative answer (or else!), and so I profered "What well known female entertainer originally discovered Merv Griffin". They tried the whole day, the poor darlings, but... I mean even Phyllis Diller got mentioned, for the first time in what must be at least twenty-seven years. No dice.
"You've got a pipe cleaner."
"Yeah, I know. I think it's trying to become my pet."
"It'd make a pretty good pet..."
"I don't know. Does it know any tricks ?"
"It knows the trick of cleaning... and also doesn't want much food or anything. You can leave it behind and it'll just wait for you patiently, it doesn't even meow or anything. Or need its thing changed... it's potty trained, it just never needs to go."
Chick's packing, and there's a pipe cleaner on the floor by the suitcase. I think they must've had a pipecleaners, colorful confetti & balderdash fight in her room earlier, because... well...
"That sounds interestingly tupudent."
"Tupudent ?!"
"Important."
"But that's not what you said. What you said was 'tupudent'."
It's true, too. She mangles her syllables into a lukewarm, runny cream.
But anyways, enough of that. I mean, that much should be enough for now, and besides -- it's time to go.
(& I bid you all a most heartfelt goodnight)
———No, you don't know. Of course you don't know. What the fuck am I even asking. [↩]
« Rose of Washington Square
Ed Wood »
Category: Zsilnic
Friday, 09 April, Year 13 d.Tr.
mclaren-semi-2
« Only country in the world...
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
mclaren-semi-1
« Only country in the world...
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
Only country in the world...
This being the only country in the world where a semi can run down a McLaren on the fucking highwayi.
I mean, what next, a turkey crashed into a bullet, an island hit a torpedo, melcul, tusti! din tufis ?
Yet that's exactly how they fucking drive. Selling the Tico poks fast cars is like selling nine year old schoolgirls double-ended dongs. They might like 'em, they might admire 'em, handle them, hit each other over the head with them... but they ain't ever gonna use 'em for anything like the intended purpose.
———To be technical, "una via que viene referida como autopista". [↩]
« The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 14 : Choice Chances And Passing Up
The Re(al)-Pimp, Chapter 15 : Dust Girl Breaks Pepper, Skeleton Girl Breaks Phyllis »
Category: Zsilnic
Thursday, 04 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
Ongoing keks
Speaking of that piece, here's some fine illustration :
Right ? Let no-one say I am divisive. On the contrary : the chitlin gather around my effigy like socially awkward jewtards at a singles mixer.
Which, obviously, begs the question...
Unsurprisingly, there's no-one left to answer.
Maybe they're (mutually) pregnant ? Ah, if only there were an Elsie Shutt for bois, too, so they could continue "working" while "pregnant" just like the girls do! Please -- spread the revolution! Down with the MPatriarchy!
Anyways, it... "it's easy being me", or however that went. Espresso Cubano dontcha know (at the sun drenched Wichita Mini-mall [of America!!!]).
« The State of the (f)Art
BREAKING : USG President-Belect Pidden Announces Plans To Sign Epochal Factaltering Change Footnote Executive History! »
Category: Meta psihoza
Friday, 04 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
On being female, and being a woman.
Being female is a matter of biology, it denotes a specific set of answers to the pressures of group survival. Being a woman is a matter of culture. It denotes a specific set of answersi to the pressures of individual existence. The two terms are otherwise unrelated, save for the happenstance that women were historically born female (at least... preponderently).
Female cows are not women cows, yet they are perfectly capable of "reproduction"ii and some limited cognition -- but neither parturition nor that limited cognition are the criteria for womanhood.iii They're actually sexually receptive, after a fashion, in the sense that if you insist enough you might fuck one. Sexual receptivity in this sense also isn't the criteria for womanhood.
Women differentiate (ideally, with help from older women) from the females they were born as, generally at some point during their second decade of life. Whether this occurs early or late within that decade matters little in practice ; but as far as retarded development is concerned the third decade contains a hard biological limit -- much like children who've not learned to speak by twenty likely never will, so human females that haven't womened by thirty likely never will (simiarily, whether children learn to read at five or eight makes relatively little difference, as long as they're actually reading, as a central and self-defining occupation, by the age of ten or so).
What differentiates the woman from the female (or the can of deodorant spray) is specific, narrowly defined and narrowly construed self-positioning, as a subjective and subjectively recognized self-defining experience. Just as armies recognize bridges they never before seen, just so the woman recognizes herself, in her own view of the world surrounding, which includes herself as a self-perceived image of the self. The little girl looking down on her own naked body and thinking "it looks just like a whore's!" finds herself in the throws of the very process of becoming a woman, by herself and for her own needs ; "society" socialism'siv desperate quest to prevent this very fulguration the proximate cause for all sorts of absurdist fiction, from Santa Claus to touching dollies, ultimately driven by the retarded female's existential anxiety, and their misperception that women are throwing the curve "for them", as if women and mere females could ever be on the same curve.v
This is the sort of thing that makes them say, and deeply feel, that I'm the last romantic left.
———Rather amply illustrated on this here only thing currently occuring. [↩]In the sense of parturition, id est reproducing themselves ; not in the sense of reproduction id est reproducing "whatever fucks them". The standard contemplated for this misnomer of a "reproduction" that's mere production self-obviously is that something'll come out at all, and not that anything in particular'll come out whatsoever.
Yet a "matter replicator" (as in the "Science Fiction" concept) that replicated some matter, randomly and as counterdistinct from "whatever matter you put in there" (and to an arbitrary standard of exactness as applied to both composition and structure, because if it only replicates composition what the hell is it, an allegedly advanced blender ?) wouldn't pass muster anymore than this bovine "reproduction" in the sense of selfproduction does. [↩]Nor would be, even if they weren't so drastically limited as Bos primigenus displays. Even were a bioblob genetically engineered capable of reproduction in the strict sense of replication ad idem and limited cognition in the hard sense of Artificial Intelligence, yet still that bioblob, while certainly female, would not necessarily be a woman, nor necessarily any closer to being a woman than any can of deodorant spray or any other byproduct of industrial activity. [↩]There is no practical way to distinguish christianity, socialism, and plain idiocy. They're all the same thing because... well, they're all the same thing, what do you want from me.
Ever tried to delineate the supposed distinction ? [↩]Male ineptitude, muddling the all-important distinction, has perhaps some part to play in this failure, or at least in how commonly it's experienced. [↩]
« Il gatto mammone
Royal Revolt II Kicks Ass! »
Category: Trilenciclopedia
Sunday, 13 June, Year 13 d.Tr.
Object-oriented, format-extension, freedom & self-respect, things an' matters (that dun matter)
mircea_popescu diana_coman, tu da' ada generics nu is pur si simplu ada-oo ? ca io cam asa am inteles.
mircea_popescu ma rog, acu' x ani cind eram la scoala.
mircea_popescu package MT_123 is new MT(123) ie fix aia, nu ? adica, nu-i zic prototype ca-i zic generic, ma rog, da' nu exista de fapt o diferenta substantiala.
diana_coman ada are (cam lipite pe langa) si mecanisme specifice pt OO, deci as zice ca mnu.
diana_coman pt OO ai propriu zis toata faza cu clase si obiecte si extensii
mircea_popescu pai si generice nu poti extinde ?
diana_coman presupun ca poti face o paralela ca adica via generics, iti face compilatorul obiectele direct
mircea_popescu pai iegzact
diana_coman teoretic orice pachet poate avea child-package pe care-l poti vedea drept extensie
mircea_popescu da' tot la fel, nu doar ca direct
mircea_popescu adica io sincer nu vad diferenta, acuma noa
diana_coman da' in sensul asta ada pur si simplu e oo
diana_coman ca child aia n-are a face cu generic
diana_coman deci nu prea pricep ce zici
mircea_popescu genu' de chestie pentru care io n-am zis niciodata asa ferm ca "fara oo". numa' am tot batjocorit la excese, ca ma rog, pulanii un cui au, un cui baga. da' altfel fix in tipul asta de cazuri, ce e asa rau sa ai prototip dupa algoritm
mircea_popescu asta mt e probabil cel mai bun exemplu de oo util si functional
diana_coman pai da
mircea_popescu noa ok. io citind parca am format impresia ca tu zici c-ar fi ceva diferenta asa, categorica. dar... cam nu e.
diana_coman da' OO in general/comun ori cum sa-i zic, ca abordare tocmai, ca nu aplica la algoritm ci la un set date+manipulari
mircea_popescu a in sensul ala zici. bine, da' aia e timpenie. daca citesti originalele cind se propunea 00 in 90 nimeni nu zicea sa ti le pui ca windows format-extension ce plm.
diana_coman da, aia; posibil ca nu e clar, fix pt ca in fine, OO asa nu e niciodata definit clar ci mereu tot asa dupa cum vrea fiecare.
mircea_popescu ma rog, is doua scoli, una mai veche si mai respectabila (oarecum) si astia noi care-s copchii timpiti, habar n-au ca nu s-o mai facut la scoala nici mate nici sisteme nici nimic.
diana_coman apai eu ce pot zice, ca eu vorbesc de ce am constatat practic, nu teorie (plus ca onor poli ne-au "invatat" fix aia, nu teoria ce-o fi fost intai in 90)
mircea_popescu daca-i pui sa-ti faca legatura intre ce fac ei si geometrie descriptiva se caca cutotul, de algebre n-or auzit, banach nu e nimeni, chestii.
diana_coman nici nu ma mai astept sa fi auzit, nu.
mircea_popescu mnoa enfin
~ seven minutes later ~
mircea_popescu de fapt problema e ca ei cred ca un set arbitrar de date si o colectie aleatorie de manipulari e fix un algoritm. n-are treaba cu oo sau cu orice altceva, e chestie de libertate, respect de sine, de-alea.
mircea_popescu aiureala ce-o traiesc ei e viata si-atunci de ce n-ar fi ala algoritm
~ one minute later ~
mircea_popescu da' clar de la nume incepe, uite ce frumos. ca io daca zic catre tine "tu vezi ala mersenne" cum am zis acu' citi ani o fost, ~tie ti-o fost clar~ nu doar ce zic, ci si ce sa faci in practic fiecare instanta, din care n-am dubii c-or fost de-atunci sute. ca n-ai avut nevoie sa ma mai intrebi nici n-am avut ce mai discuta. fiind el ~un algoritm~. in timp ce cacaturi de formate aiurea ce fac ei, pai frate alea nici nume n-au nici nu pot avea nici nu pricepe nimeni nimic din ce-i acolo. ce sa comunice ?
mircea_popescu is multe, ce-i drept, poate avea fiecare viermisor cite sute de mii de catraliarde doreste. "ale lui".
diana_coman "set arbitrar de date si.." - exact, da' exact asta, da!
mircea_popescu adica is liberi vezi, nemo le impune lacessit.
diana_coman la cat de virulent "apara" fix acel tip de "libertate" cam imi pare ca si ei stiu de fapt fix si exact cat e de prostie.
mircea_popescu mai ca-mi vine sa public asta, ce plm.
diana_coman da' nu-i ca e ceva secret, lol.
Neither is it secret nor do you know how to read it, and therefore... its substance is safe with us.
And as for you... it's back to kirk.
« The Underbaker
Somebody embezzled the bezele berrets! »
Category: 3 ani experienta
Wednesday, 20 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Nothing But A Man
Nothing But A Mani seamlessly combines the permanent arch-theme of cuckoldry (or rather, boi->cuck transfigurationii) undergirthing all fiction attempts in our sad North American colonies with a stolid excursion in the squalid and the sordid of poverty. If you think such a dish appetizing... well, you're probably from around there, socially conditioned to get mentally aroused by this crap like Australians get rowdy at the mere scent of rank ewes or something. I see no other explanation conceivable, really.
The story trudges on, like thick bilious vomit down a half-pipe drain in the Winter, there's a whole horde of overgrown pickaninnies who never ever ever wash anythingiii bouncing off each other meaninglessly while the females among them try to find some pieces somewhere in the hot broken mess to pick up.
I suppose it has some kind of documentary value nevertheless ; though I don't believe it's anything anyone's well advised to document themselves in. Some things are best forgotten, and "the identity" of being poor and stupid always tops that list.
———1964, by Michael Roemer, with Ivan Dixon and some "actress" (slash singer, newswoman, activist etcetera) whose name history has not recorded, because nobody remembers little girls. We're too busy with adult women over here. [↩]You know exactly what I'm talking about, "boi '''decides''' he doesn't wanna be like his dad, prefers being like his mom instead. [↩]Excepting for a perfunctory attempt at a windshield once. Once! In one single solitary scene, and even that obviously intended to depict instead the incredibly overbearing nature of whitey. Imagine, he makes them poor idiots wash things!!!
Otherwise there they sit, there they wallow, their problems entirely not similar to say the Irish during the Greatly Deserved Potato Famine, please believe, or the perennial romanians, please believe also. It's not them that's poor, it's anything else "poor-ing" them. Anyone, doesn't matter who. Anything, really, as long as it ain't their self-obvious and self-inflicted unadherence to urban life.
It's whitey, it's "poverty", as if this poverty were some kinda gift from above, not a constructed state of fundamental disrepair. There's a god there, please believe, picking on "innocents" for "no reason", that's totally how this poverty business goes. Improvidence, laziness an' substantial inadequacy have utterly naught to do with it, the poor idiot's "just like you" and all that crap.
No brother of mine, twerp. Go wash something. [↩]
« The duchess' morning stuffing
The vice squad »
Category: Trilematograf
Tuesday, 12 January, Year 13 d.Tr.
Nikki Fucksorry & Hannah Fucksore
Motto : Fucksore's a pretty good name for you. I'm sorry, but...
Anyways, the sore part's because I went to the gym today, where Keylor (no, seriously) worked the shit out of me to the point where I could barely walk. But then, once home, it was discovered that the door to the laundry room's locked, somehow. By itself, pretty much. So Nicole fetched the keys, which... it's a pile of them, you know ? All the keys to the inner doors in the house, like fifty small keys on a ring or some shit. And, surprise! The key marked for the laundry room's not opening the laundry room. Meh!
I mean, I was going to jump in the shower, I'm all drenched from the gym, yet here I am and wtf with the keys. I wasn't even supposed to be there today! Anyways, instead of leaving the bitches deal with it (as is my undisputed because indisputable prerogative) I just pushed my boxers down sorta-kinda and was like "Hey, you! Suck my cock while I try on these keys." Which... yeah, my penis is like Princess Delight over here, the girls dream of the magic moment it may bless them all day long. "Yeah baby, lick my sweaty balls". 'Cuz... well you know, it's good for her. Did you know this ? Sweat from my balls is like St John's Wort, it cures what ails a slut. Inside I mean. Not inside behind the pubis, inside behind the sternum, aaaite ?
Anyway, so as she's licking and slurping and... you know how they do, yeah ? When they're really outta control cockhungry sluts ? You musta seen in in some porno or something. So I'm not really into finding the right key so much anymore, and besides, all keys turn just as well. The lock's actually broken, somehow. I'm not saying whorseplay, because I wasn't there to see it, but I kinda have my suspicions.
But be that as it may : the battle's lost, this door will be for the super to finagle ; we've got a reservation at the Indian place (they're doing this traffic restriction thing here where one day odd plates, one day even plates, and today it's odd plates so I am most definitely driving the even plates because) and besides I also want to shower, but not before I've pounded this eager whore raw. More ferarum, jackhammer all the way, bang bang bang bangbangbang. So now she's sore.
The other one meanwhile... well, she's got drainage tubes coming out of her and everything, she's not exactly fuck-cleared just yet. Maybe next week. She still got to sniff my socks, and watch the naked bitch squeal like... actually, like a little bitch, yeah ? In the mirrors I mean, there's perfect angles for my divine ass ramming it in deep and hard, and everything else (obviously if I force her ass down and ram her from above her cunt's on fully splayed display). Plus I also sent her for paddles and whips and whatnot, to help drive the point home ("I think I'm going to burn a hole through the chair. My ass is on fire"). Yet, nevertheless, she's sorry.
Fucksorry.
Actually that's not at all how it came about ; on our way home from the restauranti, to greet the super guy who had squeezed himself in through the air grate above the door and opened it for me in the meanwhile, she misclicked the garage clicker, and then "Fuck! Sorry!"
It stuck, and retroversively fucked the other's byline too, and now here we are.
Aren't you s...
———Where I pretended like I was going to rub super-hot chilly sauce on her bare snatch (because yeah, slaves wear it silky-smooth and always within touch) and also made her show me her tits while the dozen or so people familying safely etc did their utmost to not notice. [↩]
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Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 26 May, Year 13 d.Tr.
Nella citta l'inferno
Nella citta l'infernoi is heavy artillery. Even Sordi, this Brad Pitt of the 50s and 60s Cinecitta, carefully hemmed in, masterfully limited and buffered by the arch-competent Castellani, delivers what's likely the best cameo of his otherwise very unevenii career. Masina's usual alcachofa (as she's affectionately known in the harem) readily plays second fiddle to Magnani's outright volcanic cannonade. She's something the fuck else, that woman. Something entirely the fuck else.
Under her warm, coarseiii ventre the whole cast and the whole story grow like dough -- familiar, loving (after a fashion), happy (after the same fashion, which is to say atemporal, meaningless, silent). She raises them through a pasive, inexplicable sort of fermentation into something quite like themselves, as seen perhaps through the kaleidoscopic lens of dreams. I can scarcely imagine who'd want to leave there, and why would they (excepting, of course, the nubile Cristina -- she's being made a sucker of in the usual way). I certainly wouldn't mind spending some time in such company, for with like Infernos and hells such as these... I truly can't imagine who'd ever bother to seek out paradise.
Alas, 'tis not to be ; nor, as the authors carefully point out at the very onset, was it ever been. Nor could it, because should it...
Anyways.
———1959, by Renato Castellani, with Anna Magnani, Giulietta Masina, Cristina Gaioni, Alberto Sordi. [↩]Yes he gets lucky and shines in Il Vedovo, through (purely coincidental, I've no doubt) match between his limited acting abilities and the very peculiar requirements of the libretto ; but he's just as readily insufferable in say Il seduttore. [↩]The word needed here's the Romanian grunjos, but you don't have it. [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Sunday, 21 March, Year 13 d.Tr.
'Necromania': A Tale of Weird Love!
Necromaniai is frank and earnest, and in that narrow sense a trailblazer of sane, normal, actual cinematographyii.
Unfortunately the raw material is marginal at best, which means 1970s tits and assesiii, and especially the utterly repugnant 1970s genitalia.iv To add insult to injury, apparently nobody involved ever had sex before, which permits them to happily engage in patently insane behaviour such as licking the pubic hairline -- I don't mean towards the asshole, I mean towards the bellybutton. Who the fuck thinks that's something to be done, excepting of course the Sesame Street alien guys, "bok! bok! bok bok RIIIING! cat cat cat" ?!
Everybody -- even the girls!!! -- interact with the clit like it ain't something to be suckled and tortured and teased to death, but a sort of 1800s North Polev : always to be sought, never to be actually reached. I suspect none of them has ever had a clitoral orgasm, because there's no other way I can explain to myself why they spend most of their time licking the labia majora sorta halfway to the side, and exactly never lick inside the prepuce, as a forinstance. What the hell ?!
These all-important considerations asidevi the dialogue's incomprehensibly terriblevii, and the delivery (not to mention movement) scandalously stiff and inconvincing. The economy apartment interiors, with their hallways narrower than even the film Ed Wood could afford to pay for might be excusable if the sluts were young, pretty and sprightly ; but the sad fact of the matter's rape victims are generally (if not absolutely universally) more convincingly complicit and eagerly conniving in their own consummation than this wary band of nuts.
I'm sure there's loads and loads of home videos about on par with this attempt, made a decade or maybe two later. I don't think any of them constitute cinema, specifically because of their authenticity. It doesn't necessarily mean they shouldn't have been made, but it does rather indicate they should never be watched. Unless, of course, one's on a research project.
And to think, this sad trainwreck's still the best you people could produce, the pinnacle of your achievement, the foremost foray into the foreign mists of that seventh and final artform. What sadder testament for (that) America ? Indeed, if anything, Necromania should play at its funeral. Speaking of which, when's the service ?
———"A Tale of Weird Love! ", 1971, by Edward D. Wood Jr. (as Don Miller), after a screenplay by Edward D. Wood Jr., as adapted for the screen by Edward D. Wood Jr. from a novel by Edward D. Wood Jr. All the endless layering's particularly hysterical considering how little actual work is included with all these "works". The whole layered cake's a lot like a rough log cabin somewhere in the forgotten woods that's made entirely without nails yet nevertheless sports a half ton chromed plate on the side, naming the architect, sketch artist, press agent and majordomo.
The (15mm "Home Video", by the looks of it) production's blessed by the starring graces of the likes of Rene Bond (period porno powerhouse, bitch musta made 500 reels, loops &c) as well as "Tanya" whoever that is, "Maria Arnold" and so on. As the footage candidly puts it, "Our cast wishes to remain anonymous" and it's a good thing they so wished, because they'd have remained exactly as anonymous had they wished the exact opposite. It's like a curse, let's say : if you do what comes natural and only that, no-one ever has any conceivable reason to remember you. Not anymore than anyone remembers "individual" water flowing downriver -- the one other thing in creation besides dumb womanhood that does what comes natural to it and naught else. [↩]As opposed to the cuntarded thing Hollywood keeps churning out, wherein women are inexplicably never naked -- indoors or generally -- and all the walkers were apparently made synthetically, out of spun plastic or something, because nobody ever engages in the only known activity liable to produce people replacements (let alone ever practice for it). [↩]You know what I mean, girl stands nude and you think "Well... there's some potential... but it'll need a lot of work to come out from under all that trite gunk".
Actually... no, you don't know what I mean, what the hell am I saying. You don't own women, you don't handle females like meat animals, you don't consider their bodies as objects. I do, but you don't, thus for you none of this is familiar in the settled, vocational, systematic sense. It might constitute the basis or context of states of fugue, but it's never something considered coldly and plainly, in the light of day. Here's the thing, though : your pets look a certain way to you, and a very different (yet actually certain, not to mention actually true to them, for objectification's the only approach allowing for individuality in subjects -- you always see the same woman in all the women, and it's your mother, whereas I always see the bitch that is, specifically because I actually look) way to me.
Anyways, these bitches be okay, I guess... I wouldn't want to fuck 'em tho. Maybe if they gymmed that butt, maybe after they got the silicone udders bolted on, maybe. As they stand they're about as attractive as nine year olds (gender irrespective, because nine year olds don't have genders), or sheep for that matter. They could very well be your girlfriend, I'm sure, but who the hell has the time or could possibly summon the interest to fuck that ?! I'm no everyday careerwoman's fucknurse, even if you'd love to be. [↩]I've not seen a bushy beaver in the flesh in well over twenty years (there was this one time a slavegirl tried out a thin stubble for maybe a week, but it never got anywhere close to the roadkill these unkempt bitches haul between their legs) nor do I regret this. I've also not eaten worm castles in a long while, and somehow (quite explicably) the urge to chow some absolutely never strikes me. [↩]Har har. [↩]Just think if you will : a porno 1made by virgins, 2with mediocre girls that 3really have no idea how any of the gear works, and yet it's still (and by a rather fat margin) the best your sad country has to offer!
How can you fail so utterly ? Why are you so ridiculously inept ? Huh ? [↩]The "Bela Lugosi in a coffin" throwaway particularly grating in its ineptitude. It really evokes an aluminum siding salesman trying to be intertextual on the basis of this one article on contemporary literary fashions he read in Farming Today, the American's Almanac (published continuously since 1-800-DUSTBOWL). [↩]
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Category: Trilematograf
Saturday, 17 April, Year 13 d.Tr.
N & I (meaning H) went to M and...
What, you think I'm kidding ?
I'm not fucking kidding. Send more letters, we're running out.
Meanwhile my writing was interrupted by the girls emerging from the other apartment (apartmently they weren't late, but since I was taking a napi they had retired discreetly & on tiptoes). I had no idea they were even on the grounds!
Anyway, so the steak of game that had been slowcooking since morning being thereby served (since I was up), the other H (that made it) bust out a mindmelting dollop of very fine Gorgonzola. She offered me a taste pre-deploymentii, and... well... what could I do. The events & circumstances compelled me, so I forcibly French-kissed N with it, who a) isn't really allowed cheeses and b) truly fucking hates Gorgonzola. Quoth the thus used,
"Oh, what a great kiss, to be ruined so by that disgusting thing. It tastes like someone forgot Parmesan in a plastic bag for two years."
Which, come to think of it, isn't nearly that far off. Anyway, a nominative convention was ad-hoc reunited to come up with a name for a practice. "Ruined French kiss" failed because there's nothing French about it, "Italian kiss" failed because self-obviously Italian kissing is when you talk while doing it, I guess... I suppose more research is needed.
But yes, by and large this is the enchanted lala-land I spend my days in. Earlier some letter was begging to be beaten, but I never before beat up post-op sluts (seriously, she got her belly knifed and her ass injected, what am I gonna do, start punching her face ?!) and I don't intend to start, except... well... I do have that excellent doggy toy, you know, the blue one that leaves loving painkisses on everywhere ? And she... well, she's got her soles still, yes ?
I beat that girl's feet until my deltoid gave way, yay me. Their greatest regret is that I don't assrape them often enough, it's just... how shall I put this, the stories haven't been written yet for you to envy me, for there's no such thing as envy immediate of the gods. Only through the mediation of myth, snowballed from generation to generation, mouth to mouth just like they do, only then is it possible for mere humans to start forming their stereotypical cognitions. Until then...
Until then you eat v-Gina chips and call it good, what can you do.
It's glute-free, you know ? I know you know, I've seen inside your doggy bags, tyvm.
Anyways, tomorrow we're going to the beach, today we're... I dunno, I guess I'm gonna line them all up on a large bed where we'll watch together some old film, see how much trouble we can get into (and by we I very much don't mean me). Mayhaps Il gatto, why not. What's the worst that could come of it ?iii
Vive la difference (for as long as it's oriented in this sense : with me up here, and you down there)!
———Fie domnu' cit de mic, dupa masa doarme-umpic. [↩]That's the sort of thing they mean by specialty cold cuts ; and then, it being technically a new item (in the sense of a new source) it has to be approved, yes ? Or how do you run your own household ? [↩]I know what you're thinking, but those are your own problems, not mine. In my house the sluts don't whine about wanting more babies ; I bitch and moan about wanting more babes.
It's... different, what can be said. Very, very different. [↩]
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Category: Zsilnic
Wednesday, 23 June, Year 13 d.Tr.