Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Monday, July 06, 2015

Looking Around, Do You Ever Suspect Bigots Are The Endangered Breed?

It is not just a fact that unjust privilege exists - it is a toweringly obvious fact, but the biggest lies are the ones people swallow. Sometimes, the biggest lies fall under our hardest-held virtues.

Everyone is equal.

In America - that's both. It's a biggest lie, to the degree we fall short. But it's a hard-held and absolutely vital virtue, in that we must hold it to be true, even in the face of generations falling short. It is something that will change over time. It has changed. Every generation has fallen short. But every generation has fallen forward.

We die in the direction we give our lives, and the strong majority of Americans believe in freedom as well and as actively as they've been able to understand it. They live in that belief, and their attitudes and actions are suffused with it. Their outrage is suffused with it, when it can be woken.

Equality will be a greater greater ideal, as it remains held true and the effects of our hard hold upon it continue to tell, continue to radiate, continue to pull us forward. Its denial will be a weaker and weaker lie, as we fall less short.

The change began with the adoption of the ideal, and it has continued with the ideal dragging us forward through mire after mire of bigotry and inequality. It continues today as we grow in our refuse to extend our tolerance to bigotry. It will grow all the more as we are accepting of and embrace bigots themselves. Those who come to realize are willing to admit what an idiot, shit deal they got shoveled into their braincase ages ago by the jerks who were responsible for it ten, twenty, thirty years prior. It will change BECAUSE they have woken up and realized - I am responsible now. I reject this, because it is shameful. It has always been shameful to be a bigot. I don't know now why I bought this lie.

Or, it will change because they die! And as they are loaded into the furnaces and graves of our nation's funeral homes, the kids will be alright. They'll cry. They loved the old bat, the old coot! But at the wake, over clear plastic glasses of white and red, cans and bottles of various kinds and white paper plates of cheese cubes and fried crab-doodles, somebody'll definitely have some cracks to make over "GOD, though! What a fucking BIGOT good ol' grandpop was!" And a wide circle will exhale and laugh a sad laugh at that. Because it was sure true, and we are all glad THAT part is over at least. And remember all the embarrassments they gave us all, we family of men and women? We survivors.

Requiescat en pace.

As everybody nods and conversation moves on, watch for the one uncomfortable dude a little off to the side. Glum and scowly. Indignant, biting his tongue. You can tell what he's thinking, but you don't want to engage him? Don't. Don't do it. He's not ready yet. Let him steep in the stigma and shame of it all a bit. The shame of his bigotry, which he'd love to raise in some way to defend, and holler, and start a tussle at the wake, if he could conceive of a great way to frame it in honor of the departed! Let him off easy. Everyone has cause to be sad today. He just loved the old guy, like you did, too. As to those nasty-ass benighted views, have some hope! He's alive! He has the chance to get better one day. He'll realize.

Or, he will die, into the dust, with the rest of his kind, and that part of him at least will be increasingly unmourned by any of his survivors.

Good riddance to bad rubbish. ONWARD HUMANITY.

In another two hundred to one thousand years, that memebreed will be classed as incomprehensibly benighted. Kids will be assigned term papers on "What the fuck was up with those bigots?" And you know damn well, some irritating kid in the back of the incorporeal classrom will pipe up "Well, what about the bigotry we have towards the Refusoids?"

"Johnny don't use that word! For those who have fought and won a sanctioned exemption from mandatory gene-grafted appjack 'port installs, we say 'Unevols' or 'Incompatibles'."

Um. Yeah. Onward humanity!

Friday, July 03, 2015

Vaccines Don't Work!

Vaccines don't work. A 2011 study conducted in cooperation between Devlin-MacGregor Pharmaceuticals and the A. Jude Robinson Institute (presided over by Dr Charles Nichols no less) tracked a group of over one hundred hypochondriacs who were inoculated with a placebo vaccine, and compared their results with a control group of faith-based abstainers, inoculated with the power of prayer. No difference. The study made no difference. It couldn't be any clearer.

Vaccines? No good. Don't work.

Fiction Friday: Hi! What Do You Do? I Break Spells.

I break spells. I work for the Ministry of Disenchantment and I break spells. I am Blackmagistrate of the High Council for the 6th Global Division AntiSuperstitial Peacemaking Force. Basically, I break spells. Wizards fucking want to kill me, especially the bad ones.

Even the good ones though, by a large majority in a silent vote at the last Expo, would very much like at the least a chance to perform what they'd excuse away as a "prank" on me. It's not likely to happen, as they're well aware I'm legally licensed to kill any practitioner of magic who isn't able to successfully defend self against me. It's my Office. Seems a little fucked up, but it fits my particular line. Surviving what I do to you - without getting too technical, if you're unscathed, or if you're very scathed but pull through - it ends up being a disproof of your guilt. Or say rather, a practical defense against the charge. Proof of reasonable doubt, in any event. You're almost certainly not doing anything to deserve dying over. But within the natural limitations of how I'm sanctioned to operate, yeah, I'm pretty much MI-8's answer to a double-oh.

I do it all - I'm using "spells" up there very broadly. I cancel ensorcellments (however they spell them), break curses, lift bewitchments, loose enchantments, whatever ya got. I basically smack the crap out of whatever's been put into peoples' way as "bad magic power."

I would love to be able to revoke misspent wishes, but that would take magic. Which I do not have. In practice, I have its opposite.

It's such a fun job! The best part is I get to have such gall. You know what I love to do? I go around canceling all this shit, and then the explanation I give is - I claim it's because the magic involved didn't actually exist. Claiming it never existed! See, its effects are easily dismissible as powerful subconscious action of belief in superstition, often used to top off or fix in place some poor victim's delusion that whatever physical force or psychological effect they've been afflicted by (if any) is supernormal in nature, and therefore, not susceptible to cure or reversal by any normal means. The only recourse this leaves the poor victim is to go deeper down the rabbit hole into la la lu lu land, and frankly - practically all those scumbags have even less magic than ME, you know? And that's saying something. So I like to take the piss a bit, be a huge and ornery "debunker" as I go.

I'll go around doing my rounds, making my calls, busting in doors or visiting the sick or injured on some surreptitious pretext - ideally they have no idea I'm there on business. I'm just all "doop de doo, Oh, Magic, you say? Magic did it to you? That shit's not real dude. Totally not fucking real - look, watch!"

Whatever wammie I put on 'em (or more accurately, unwammie) I excuse away with a wink and a bit of psychological technobabble. Which, okay, I admit to a twinge of conscience, time to time. But who gives a fuck? They get better. And in most cases, recovery brings with it a pretty strong inoculation effect. They're left immunized against the next one who tries, done how I do. Not 100%, but pretty strong.

Total fucking asshole, though! As far as The Community is concerned, or The Industry as I prefer to call it? "Magic doesn't exist," hehehehehehe!

Well, partly I'm absolutely justified. In that it's my job, and damn good at it. The antisuperstition charge is a nice complement to the operation itself. It's got some real therapeutic value. Even if its action is strictly placebo in nature, it does help.

To break a spell, I know no better way than to destroy its physical and psychological direct effects, while simultaneously purging their victim's faith in the typically false, supernatural aspect that was presented - easy meat. I zang the "customer" (or as like to call them "the mark" - but it wasn't me running the con on them; it was the other guy) with my patented "2-Way Wammie": a good double-barrel GLARE EYE gaze-lock to burn a persistence-of-vision rhythm right into their visual cortex - the "eye rhyme," I call it, carried in by their own optic nerve current - and exacerbate THAT with a concurrent/countercordant "chantment" for ya FACE. In through the ears and bounce around, building word on word into a skull-resonant harmonic and a noodle-jiggling staccato shake! Result? A delightful release of imposed neural modes. That's one wack-ass combo, prone to induce total meme-seizure and expulsion, leaving all the noncontagious structural and systematic thought and memory elements intact, but cleansed. Purged, but with nothing lost except the hold. The hold over the will, too low to notice for the mark's conscious mind. Basically, I drop a fucking free-form rhymeless NEURO POEM SLAM on 'em with a post-hypnotic recursion ("post-hypnotic" not strictly accurate, but whatever - it works) that has a general effect of relaxing obsessions, removing involuntary induced fixedness from idees fixees, or however you spell it - it leaves the mark in full possession of their memory, and with their same understanding of every thought or idea they've ever held, overthought belaboredly, labored under or worked for all its worth. But from a standpoint of possession, or obsession, and especially, imposed fixation - it's a fucking full-array circuit-breaker reset!

Shakabuku. That's the one word for it.

I try to minimize this aspect, as it's nothing to do with my job, but...on top of what I'm trying to do, a lot of people do seem to spontaneously stop believing in "Intelligent Design," at some point during the process. I hope that's not me! See, it's possible some twist or swerve of the way I do - it's possible I could accidently leave a bit of a thumb's worth of meme-print in the ol' noodle myself. If so, it's something I haven't been able to eradicate despite full mastery of practice, dedication to perfection of union between form and intent - basically, I'm really fucking good ok? And it's the best I can do. I don't think that's getting in from me. Maybe it is, but I don't think so. What if the idea itself is a little bit bankrupt? A decent alternate explanation, maybe?

Man, they give me such shit over this in bible study. I never should have told her. Fleepin' BLABBERMOUTH!

Anyway, at least she's got the whole natural selection part down, now.

It's a fucking cool job, and I assure you, whatever may be involved in chantment - and I am a chanter, primarily, though I'm a pretty much "all-rounder" in terms of all the practices and crossdisciplinaries. I'm an adept all around! Witchcraft, I do dewitchments; Spells, I unbind - if they're pure verbal or if they involve somatic or material components, it hardly fucking matters - you just smack and bang and fuck shit up! Break into their very constituents, demystify their ingredients, rebuke claimed basis, use whatever direct action can best oppose or reverse whatever physical effects are being held bound by the spell. But of course, with impact spells...with a spell that acts at once to create a physical effect, or a physiology-bound psychological effect, and leaves no magic behind to "hold it bound" - those physical effects are simply damage, basically. Damage to the body. Not much you can do about those, because no spell remains to unbind.

Still, you can unbind the victim's mind. It's worth doing. Unbind it from belief that the damage was caused by fucking nonsense, at least. Whatever healing is possible, it's going to begin way better without THAT crap!

My strength, as I say though, is definitely in chantments. Ain't an enchantment woven I can't break edgewise into and buckle up into a self-contradiction. Into recanting itself, basically. My chantments are some fucking "class A" grade. I've never even needed to resort to will contest with the spellcaster! My argument is literally with their words.

Guys, the fact is, there's really nothing magical about it. In terms of what I actually do, I mean. Because obviously, I need the shitload of training and academic gruntwork I put in on the practices themselves. I wouldn't know the best angle in, otherwise. You've got to know what a superstition believes about itself, if you want to shock the shit out of it and get it to bolt in foaming panic and incomprehension. But in terms of what I actually DO?

Nothing more than a good grasp of public speaking! Voice, body language and elemental psychology, really.

As Chesterton noted, the single most powerful act in oratory is a SUDDEN AND UNEXPECTED CHANGE IN VOLUME. Lowering one's voice to a clear and piercing hush can be as powerful as raising it to a ringing shout - more powerful, depending on the effect you're after. And you've got your understanding of eye contact, of the posture and shapes you throw in another's mind, of the music your voice needs to cast in terms of tone, cadence, texture - and you use picked words. Whatever language you need. I find a combination of the mark's mother tongue and for the "wammie words," some well-drawn neologisms works an ace! Sometimes it's a gently altered word, enough to pass for instant recognition but with that subtle unheimlichness to it - that's the spoonful of medicine that let's the sugar go down so well. Other times, I push the made-up aspect so far from the phonemic analogues and antecedents that the resulting neologisms amount to NONSENSE WORDS. But again - with beguilingly familiar parts to sound subtle notes of alarm or wrongness, eldritchness. I pick nonsense words chosen for a sound of power, of clangor, of discord they convey. Nonsense words that sprang to life in just that one moment! - yet they pack power and impact that in the mark's mind feels every bit the equal of the whatever supposed "magic words" they were subjected to. And that's why it works. My nonsense words contact and connect and convert their "magic words" into what they actually are. Nonsense. When the two touch, their equivalence is established with a clang and a class like a cell door slamming open.

Power of association, basically. Put across in a "motherfucker-of-elocution" style - they have called me The Elocutioner, I know, I know, I suggested it - to leave the poor befuddled superstition victim CHARGED, SHOCKED and SHOT THROUGH with a sudden unfuddlement! Reeling in clarity and a sudden release. The sudden unbinding of an attachment to the "magic" that they'd been made to suffer under. The idea that it WAS magic, was more than anything else what they'd been in thrall to.

They were never really in its thrall, you see. They were simply tricked into a belief in and consequent complaisant acceptance of the fact of their thralldom. Only that complaisance made it a fact. It was in essence, their own choice - but tricked into it! A dirty fucking trick. And once they'd been hoodwinked, any renewed effects and persistence of effect were essentially powered by...their own free will. Their free will, trapped with a trick, and misdirected to another's aims.

I fucking can't stand those who go around throwing phenomena at people, damaging and altering bodies even sometimes, but the worst part that puts MY wrath out of joint is when they have the temerity to tell people the abominable shit they just did is magic. They tell them THAT is magic. It's a fucking unconscionable thing to say. To make someone believe. Whatever they do, by whatever means - and hey, some of these folks are legitimate casters of HARD-CORE PHENOMENA, you know but I don't give a shit! You try to fuck people up with shit and then to claim your shit... is magic.

Oh boy, you just hit the jurisdiction you son of a bitch. And I don't care who you are or what color magic you claim yourself, your spell is broke. Your card revoked. And by law, your self is mine.

FUCK your soul. Not interested.

My absolute favorite is going up against those real wiznerds who do the witchcraft to summon demons (or whatever the fuck you want to call it - supradimensional entities of whatever kind, usually and traditionally bound using some variant of the "true naming" principle), or who employ sorcery to conjure and shape forces into the seemings of demons.

I can not fucking stop laughing sometimes, when I come across one of those guys. They're sooooo serious about their fucking hobby. No one ever makes a legit living at that crap - how can you? This one guy tried to sell a demon to the army one time - it wasn't even a demon! It was just some bullshit force pull he'd crammed into the body his mind had imagined for it. HE was convinced it was a demon! You have to laugh not to cry with these guys, and I've had to make virtue of necessity. For these encounters I tend to incorporate raucous, mocking laughter into my chant style. Believe me, it makes it even worse because on top of everything else I give them to deal with, they're extremely put out over my "unprofessionalism" and every added distraction adds to my side of the ledger. The smile on my face, when I walk in on some shit like that...the look on theirs, especially if I'm in uniform - which I try to be, for any businesslike Elocution maneuvers. But hey man - like I said, I don't care who you are or what you call it! Or what color your fucking ROBE is, or what idiot pseudoreligious draw-rings you circle your protective diagrams with when you "summon the being of otherworldly forces." One good wrong word from me motherfucker, and that thing you just pulled into this world is about to make you wish you hadn't.

A lot of the time the look of "uh oh I think I fucked up" in their eyes is so convincing that I literally only need to use one word. And typically, it's pronounced: "Guilty."

If the dude (usually a dude for some reason - and if it's sorcery not witchcraft, the "summoned" "demon" is ALWAYS a rather transparently-designed and improbably-developed female! Does any word but pathetic cover these guys?) seems like basically not a bad sort, I try not to let it go too far. Whatever gruesome thing their personal demon decides (or "decides") to do to them with its new and beautiful but sure-to-be-fleeting freedom. I like to videotape the proceedings "for my records," but I'll typically step in at some point before the unbound demon (or "demon") gets too thoroughly involved in whatever nightmarish and humiliating procedure it uncoils to perform, suitable to the occasion. I try to time my intervention to just a touch before anything permanent happens.

I like to think of myself as one of the lenient sort. But funny or not, it's always a tough call to make. I mean, the danger's probably stopped when I stop it - the immediate danger. But it's a pretty well documented fact. People who play with that kind of fire don't get better, they get worse. Even though 95% of them never descend to the point where they become a world-class or even greater-than-neighborhood-class threat, the ones who do you simply cannot predict. You can see one go from relatively harmless, one-step-realer-than-fantasy stuff to a full heel turn. We're talking about someone in a position to be the absolute scourge of their victim's humanity, and sometimes, that turn takes less than the blink of an eye.

I do what I can to make sure I wink before they blink.

Anyway! That's me! I hope it's pretty obvious, I fucking love my job.

For the uninitiate, there are six practices within magic - though of course there are a great many more names for A) specific acts and effects, such as scry, charm, hex, curse, et cetera, acts and effects which for the most part can be achieved by the alternate means of each practice; B) narrower disciplines or specialties within a given practice; or C) crossdisciplinary intersections/combinations of more than one practice. Technically though, there are only six practices of magic. There is Sorcery, Witchcraft, Enchantment, Ensorcellment, Alchemy, Physiomancy, Miracle. I have mastery of all five of them.

A lot of misunderstanding and misinformation on some of these - especially Alchemy, but I'd have to write a fucking book, and as it's the one I cross the least - who gives a shit, basically. Alchemists are a problem for Vice, primarily, or for the Home Office in certain cases. Physiomancy is often miscalled Neuromancy. No. It's not fucking Neuromancy. The discipline runs far deeper than some dumb fucking nerve clumpy shit you keep in your thick skull. You do not think with the brain. You perceive with the brain? Okay, maybe, be that way. Limit yourself, but this is not a perception question: you think with your whole fucking body dude - or at least, with a living majority of the structures, coursing or fixed, that fall anywhere between your deepest marrows and the twitchimost tips of your fur. I swear, people! You people with your big "brain-centeredness" complex are the easiest fucking marks out there, and you know what I'm kind of sick of bailing your lame ass out OK? It's BORING. Too easy to bind, and too easy to loose, and you're only going to get bound up in the next dumbass fucking thing you come across that flatters your idiot, limited conception of how self works. Learn some elementary self-defense would you? The most basic grasp would make you ten times harder and sharper to deal with, OK? You are not a thing within your brain. And NO ONE is, and that's a fact that's got fuck all to do with "magic." OR with "spirituality," or with "soul," so-called - as if you've ever spotted the least spark of such through the "windows." I doubt it. Not even in your own morning mirror eyegazing ritual. Sheeit.

I've never really liked the way they lay out Enchantment and Enscorcellment, but I concede that as similar as their aims are, and even to some extent their methods, the techniques and fundamentals are so alien to each other, so mutually-exclusive that you pretty much have to divide them. To put a spell on with voice is an entirely separate practice than to put a spell on with sigil, mark, rune, and what not - even if a vocal spell can itself burn a permanent mark! There are spellcasters who make a mastery of blending the two, and typically it is a rune-burn that is vocally thrown. That's some hard fucking shit, dude - lucky for me, I don't have to have fuck-all skill at Enscorcellment to bust its shit up. You can do that so easy, man. I got a fucking custom water pistol that heats crayons to liquid wax that I like to use. A few extra ingredients infused at the trigger-pull - I can unspell your fucking vorpal sword midswing if the manufacturer over-relies on rune. And crazy, but way too many of them do, I don't know what the fuck their problem is. That's a QC issue in my book.

But yeah. Primarily, I'm an Exchanter. Dechanter, Mischanter, Dischanter. I do it all. I chant the fuck out of whatever they put you under.

It's my job!

Six practices in magic. I have mastery of all five of them. As I like to crack, in a manner I try to pass off as wise. Although I suppose I should probably say "mastery over."

A touch more accurate. The right word can be pretty important!

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Precision Definition of the Day: "Geekery"

Geekery is a deep enthusiasm with a disproportionate joy in the details, and a felt kinship with those who share it.

Everyday Advice #1: for Thumper's Mom

"If you haven't got anything nice to say: say it nicely."

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Me Pt.4: Memory

I love my memory. It's like a book I haven't read yet! But other people have been talking about it, so these bits drift back in sharp, floating focus.

That metaphor was inapt, or possibly inept, in more than one major way. My expansion on "book I haven't read yet" did not characterize any experience I've had with any actual book I haven't read yet, nor extend nor clarify any of the ways in which my memory could be likened to such a book. Nor, upon reflection, is my memory in any describable sense akin to a book! At least, not any that I've read.

The metaphor was deeply, fundamentally flawed, and folks - I knew it. Even as I typed it, I knew it was as flawed and invalid as any metaphor you've ever heard from me.

And I proceeded with it, heedless!

It is as if my discretion - which some characterize as "the better part of valor," but I correct them: discretion is the faculty by which the astute are able to find valid justifications for their cowardice - were a book I haven't read yet.

Friday, June 12, 2015


I wish I could describe what she does.

I mean, I could, but it seems a bit tacky.


Let's just say - if you're a fan of Japanese anime, there's some inspiration there - and while she is primarily a Lioness themed Evangelical half-angel half-human KAIJU BEAST (not necessarily Diakaiju! She's never grown to giantess proportions in battle, but everyone who's gauged and guessed at the nature and extent of her powers suspects it's simply because she hasn't seen the necessity or had the opportunity to slap down any giants), her various warring natures - nobly savage animal, self-loathingly heroically flawed human, angelic above all - make her extremely unpredictable and all-but-impossible to plan for. Or rather: plan against.

She's got a particularly infamous reputation for pulling so-called "angel powers" out of her ASS, basically (NOT LITERALLY). In the middle of the thick of it, knocked back and bleeding from the mouth she might bristle a bit (or "bridle" for those of you who prefer that word but - TRUST ME. EVANGELIONESS BRISTLES NOT BRIDLES), narrow her eyes, bare her teeth and - GROWLINGLY, leap to her feet and, with right arm upthrust to heaven and palm outstretched, SHRIEK in a voice that is clearly three different impossible-to-the-human-larynx distinct and reverberating notes: "CALL ANGELIC SWORD!!!" while the various enemies lunging and fleeing about her stop in their tracks - some protesting "Has she ever even DONE THAT before...!?" and others frozen mid-move in a panic lest whatever's about to rain down rain on them.

The smart ones - and especially, those with sufficiently humiliating past experience - if capable of hypersonic or teleportational evacuation, usually will bug the fuck out and not wait around to see. Find a fucking tv and tune to the live broadcast, right? Her fights are ALWAYS popcornworthy.

For a supervillain, combat with Evangelioness is typically regarded as ideal practice for their "THE FUCK OUT OF HERE" protocols. Particularly courageous and powerful supervillains do seem (up to a point) to love hanging in there blow-for-blow, trying to test her limits and/or psyche her out of her game. She's a streaky player, an emotional overwhelm superstar, and it's widely believed that "if you can get inside her head," you'll take her out easy - child's play, even.

Oddly or otherwise, it hasn't happened yet.

But her worst most feared power is worse than even that.

In a duller villain's mind her uncertain strength (no one knows how strong - it really does seem to vary, and sometimes, she will struggle with enormous effort or even fail a feat that would not daunt a weaker hero! - but what consolation is that to an evil mastermind, when the upper limit she's exhibited breaks the established scale), fury, and inhuman recovery abilities (not invulnerable in the classic sense! But incredibly resilient and durable, and - guys, THE BITCH CAN FAITH-HEAL HERSELF if you give her the wrong moment to collect!) will be far to the fore. But a good number of villains - by eyewitness, not by first-hand experience, for reasons that become evident - have tipped to the fact that she is a projecting emotional empath.

Nor any garden-variety projecting emotional empath. Evangelioness is a projecting emotional empathy of monstrous order. And oh no, she isn't a saint at all as it turns out (no one thought so but her anyway, and only in her best most saintly ego moments, but regardless: oh, no. She isn't). She's a half-angel at best - in fact, Halfangel was her first super-name before the beast powers began to manifest. As she got more assured (and powerful), as villains got progressively more outraged and frantic and as battles got bloodier and brusier, she started constantly freaking out all hair-flying-lioness-ROAR on you, and shit - and her appearance, already quite fearsome when at high-angelic pitch, altered accordingly (and disconcertingly to some, especially some of her co-religionists with negative associations surrounding "Beasts," albeit - she kinda sorta secretly loves this!). But back to oh no, no saint.

She ain't.

Because in that moment of complete contempt and rage for you personally YOU - with good reason, surely right?! In the moment, justified! "Bad guy"! But she about scourges herself forever afterwards for these, though. In the moment - and it doesn't happen too often, but when it does, no trace of such conflictedness! - in the moment, she has been seen to very joyously and uproariously enjoy inflicting a little personal "instrumentality moment" on a particularly vile opponent - and especially, those known for mind games. OH NO! EXCRUCIATING BODY-WRACKING SOUL-BLISS MIND-JOY NIRVANA MOMENT OVERWHELM! So much for your A.T. Field dude. "Sorry"

Personality go pop.

To say nothing of the mess to clean up. Oh - no, the person's physical body is still there! Completely unharmed, but better bring a hose and some fucking diapers. We're talking - perhaps "hot mess" is what you'd say?

Evangelioness prefers the term "warm mess." She'll be very "up" and happy talky laughy for a few days, maybe weeks depending on how bad the bad guy used to be, but she knows the crippling guilt, depression and regret are "in the mail."

Let's not be too hard on the poor girl. It's a BAD GUY right? And they'll probably recover in a few decades, right? Albeit, maybe that person will not the same "person" technically. Hard to say. Do you believe in spirit, in soul? I mean, most don't! But we're talking same brain right? Seat of the personality? And same DNA? It's the same person, gotta be. They've just been, in a very non-salvific sense, "born again." Gotta start from scratcheroo. We can look at it as a good chance to test those nature versus nurture theories, given the right hospital! Your only bet's probably one of those fucked-up anime-related psychological-injury wards, with a fully-trained rehabilitation staff that's willing to humiliate themselves wearing genderneutralsexy-stylized Sailor Nurse outfits and responding with the requisite WIDE EYES and OVERSIZED SURPRISE-CIRCLE-MOUTH jaw drops to whatever gibberish the patient is trying to communicate.

Evangelioness does her penances visiting the sick and imprisoned, and generally, has to go to confession AGAIN afterwards. Yeah, Catholic. One of those. And gloating, okay - while technically not a sin, know. It's unbecoming.

She has such high standards for her own emotions.

Pet Shop Boys: Winner (official video)

this is the moment
we'll remember
every day
for the rest of our lives

time may rush us,
hurt or love us, but
on this day we've arrived

been a long time
coming, we've been
in the running
for so long
but now we're on our way

let the ride just take us
side by side and make us
see the world through new eyes,

every day

you're a winner
I'm a winner
this is all happening so fast

you're a winner
I'm a winner
let's enjoy it

while it lasts

I've been a loser
paid my dues.
I fought my way up
from the ground, now
at this moment: the crowd
acclaim us - will you just

to that sound

been a long time
coming, we've been
in the running
for so long
but now we're on our way

you're a winner
I'm a winner
this is all

happening so fast

you're a winner
I'm a winner
let's enjoy it,


while it lasts

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Martial Arts Mastery #2: Tai Chi Do (Full Contact Tai Chi) REVISED: It's "Taichido" Damn It. CORRECTION: "Tie-Chee'Doe" or "Ti-Chee'Do" - either one works, really.

So yeah.

I did have one girlfriend who was into kung fu in some sense - we created a martial art together, albeit I wouldn't say we "mastered" it, we did claim the honors: I the Master of Tai Chi Do, she the Mistress naturally. As a staunch feminist she'd occasionally embrace, occasionally reject the gendered construction of the title - and so if she claimed "Master," we'd have to FIGHT FOR IT.

Tai Chi Do is a slow-motion martial art which emphasizes form, deft touch, and grace of motion above all - but with a strong emphasis on grappling and holds as well, and a powerful focus on the buttocks. The arm/leg strikes and blocks, speaking very generally, are direct lifts ripped off from Tai Chi itself, but each Tai Chi Do practitioner is sure to incorporate inspirations from various other forms. All as the practitioner deems fit and useful, in the decisive moment of honorable combat.

It was originally conceived as "Full Contact Tai Chi," and evolved from there. Both Full Contact Tai Chi and Tai Chi Do are wholly-owned with all rights reserved unto the Master and Mistress of Tai Chi Do.

Tai Chi Do should only be performed in a dojo-grade fighting space and only under the supervision of a qualified instructor. As with any style of Martial Art that is either traditional, or rooted-in-traditional-forms, Tai Chi Do is useless for physical defense on the street and will almost certainly represent a greater danger to the practitioner attempting to mispurpose it in such a way than it will to the prospective opponent.

***UPDATED FOR IMPORTANT CLARIFICATION: Having Goolged it, looks like somebody may already have come up with what they have termed "Full Contact Tai Chi," some great many years if not centuries ago. Therefore it incumbs upon me to clarify.

The art of Taichido, all one word, a wholly-original and proprietary martial art with some passing spiritual kinship and inspiration from the age old public domain folk tradition of "Tai Chi," incorporates a host of original strategies, forms and techniques with the best of traditional kung fu in a unique and cohesive, wholly-original martial art form. Taichido is designed to be practiced for fitness, as a trust-building trick exercise, and also purely for amusement.

You may take it from me that there can be no purer amusement than that which one gains from standing over one's crumpled and moaning opponent!

a final update. hopefully



Also TIE-CHEE'DOE, Tie-Chee'Doe, TiCheeDo, Ticheedo and every variant of the words "tiecheedoe" or "ticheedo"; whether with or without interstitial punctuation, and notwithstanding the likely misuse of the word "interstitial," there.



Who fucking knew martial arts mastery would be such a pain in the ass?

For my next installment, Martial Arts Mastery #2, expect me to do any requisite trademark searches first.

Martial Arts Mastery #1: Pretty Much Sums Me Up

In this, the first of an ongoing series examining the various styles of unarmed combat which I myself have invented, and which I am therefore in some sense entitled to claim the title "Master Of," even if I might also in some sense "suck at it" (who can say the martial art was not simply designed that way?), I will be finishing this opening sentence and paragraph, and proceeding afresh in the next one.

I am as any of you may know a neighborhood-class martial artist. But did you know I also have designed and perfected a number of distinct and original martial arts styles? If you did know that, allow me to apologize for the extremely confusing beatdown from which you no doubt gleaned that knowledge. I deny all. "It all happened so fast." "I was in fear of my life." Pursue your case now and my pro bono lawyers will eat your finances alive, assuming I even give them the chance to consult on the case!

Note: it's not really a "pro bono" situation. It's more of a special payment terms thing. I get 2% 10 Net 30,000,000,000 day terms. If they ever lose a case, my ancestors may have a bill to settle with whatever their limited liability corporation evolves into. But by no means can their service be described as "pro bono"! No way. They put their top two or three highest-hourly-rate flunkies on it. They're pretty sure when the bill comes due, it will be to the other guy's account. For my part, I've always enjoyed my time around the ol' conference table bullshitting with their lawyers on this or that aspect of intellectual property rights law. It's typically a huge fucking laugh. Their accounting dep't is pissed at me for never cashing any checks, but I tell them "Suck it: send yourself to collections asshole."

So yeah, basically? The upshot? Not worth it. Don't bother.


Maybe I'll let this serve as my introductory post, to this sure-to-be-regular feature. And in that spirit, in that vein - why not a TEASER?

Coming up fast in Martial Arts Mastery #2: THE DREAD ART OF TAI CHI DO

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Thought of the day: orderly

"Order is the constellation you trace across a chaos of stars."

AGAINST PURPOSE #17: A Reprint Of An Earlier One I Suspect. Or Identical Sentiment Thereof

Purpose is a false god. Too many lives, punctured and immolated upon that altar. Too many acts, uselessly dedicated to that incontrovertibly empty, and therefore ineluctably corrupt, religion. The worship of purpose, founded on the dogma that things should be done for a reason.

Well ladies and gentlemen. I don't need to tell you where I stand on that. I don't stand on that. I stand as far away from that as possible - but at need, under attack from it, I shall give you my vow now: I shall not shirk to stand against it.

Come, shelter in behind me! Together, I have a very odd combination of means ready to befuddle the ends of the beast's defense. Then we trip it! "Shoot past, break North, crack a forty and laugh," as they say.


Friday, June 05, 2015

All-Action Plan #1 (Revised): Now Incorporating Bad Will as a Possibility!

1. Suspect the worst in everyone.

Future actions, past motives. Cover all branching possibilities to a depth and breadth in proportion to subject's power to harm, irrespective of any probability-based risk assessments.

2. Assume the best of everyone.

...& Act Accordingly, of course! Act bold, and in accordance with their best possible motives for the past act, and their best possible intentions regarding future acts. This basically fucks up their plans and has 'em scrambling to put a better face on what all they already done! As soon as they can see they already got you fuckin' fooled. The onus is all over them, at that point.

Make it easy on 'em! That's the trick here, basically. Don't let on about how fucking suspicious, and in fact - you really don't even have to bother with Step 1. If you're in a hurry, skip it. Step 2 is where the magic happens.

And as to the people who aren't taken aback and scrambling, shot through with pangs of regret because they really secretly do want to be the bad guy to you, and are now salivating over how deep you've grown the profuse wool they think they've sown 'pon the fertile fields of your innocent brow, eyes-wise?

WHUUT! Can you repeat the question?

I believe you know full what to do for those people. VERY WELL.

We'll cover it in a later post. Hehehee

Pro Tips for Amateurs #1: How to GET OFFENDED

If I get offended by anything, I rapidly put myself through THE OFFENSE-POSITIVE THOUGHT PROCESS.

It goes:

"This offends me."

"Why does this offend me?"

"Is it: A) a fact being presented? B) a distortion of fact, or other mistake - including a misconstrual of something or mischaracterization of someone? Is it C) opinion being presented? Is it simply D) an insult (whether flat-out or slipped-in!)?"


And now!!

As promised...!

Detailed process notes. Follow along, see if anything sounds like I'm trying to trick you. ~ Report any instances of perceived trickery in the comments queue of this very post. ~

"Why does this offend me?"

"Is it: A) a fact being presented? B) a distortion of fact, or other mistake - including a misconstrual of something or mischaracterization of someone? Is it C) opinion being presented? Is it simply D) an insult (whether flat-out or slipped-in!)?"
SUBROUTINE A: if it is FACT being presented:

"Why am I offended by FACT? Chill, man.


Argue using facts, don't argue with facts!

Perhaps offer other facts, facts that one does not disagree with, to balance out the mix. I mean - if it's a fact, why disagree at all? But if it's that the fact is something it's possible to change, perhaps then disagreement can bear fruit. Offer plans and dreams and scenarios towards retiring it as an active fact."

SUBROUTINE B: if a distortion/mistake/misconstrual/mischaracterization:

"Why am I offended by what is not true, or only partly true?

Is not the true part (if any) valuable on a what-its-worth basis, and cannot the false part be pointed up as false? If it be not demonstrably false, then in what sense do I call it false, or am I just an asshole or WHAT?

Sometimes a distortion/mistake/miscontrual/mischaracterization is mistaken (by you) as being an opinion, instead. In that case, proceed as if! Offer up one's own view, to share, perhaps as a corrective! To the degree one's own view incorporates a reality visible to others, and presentation of it is managed with a minimum of distortion and slant, others are quite likely to recognize said reality as observable, even if not as palatable. They may even concede the truth, validity or usefulness of the particular slant you've offered, on the reality you've demonstrated as not only observable, but observed."


"What is my fucking problem, dude.

Why am I offended by opinion?

Haven't I my own opinion on the thing being opined about, over or to/towards?

What if I don't! Then what's my problem? Getting offended at an opinion where I have no conflict, no disagreement, no opinion at all! And if I do have my own opinion - why not offer to share? Am I a FAG?!! Am I a PUSSY?!

If one is a member of a disadvantaged or persecuted minority such as fags or pussies* then one may have good reason to refrain. Otherwise - WHAT ARE YOU, A PUSSY!? Got something to say that's worth getting offended over, out with it! Or if I dismiss the opinion as being on an issue that's pointless to get into - why am I offended then!? Offended at the POINTLESS...?! What! Come on!"
*not a minority. Seriously. "NOT a minority!" is an understatement! But here we have an example of a category sometimes called a "power minority" - technically, the demographic constitutes a majority of the population sample in question. But because those who make up the demographic are disadvantaged, power-wise, due to whatever reason (but typically, blame the man), and for that reason, you end up feeling like a bitch pretty much. So the right thing to do by them is - for the people in the POWER MAJORITY, I mean (usually just me): BE KIND! Treat them like an oppressed minority.

That's right.

The fucking KILLER of potentially-offensive scenarios. An actual insult. You do realize you were totally classing all those other ones as if insults all along, right? Insults to your intelligence! To your judgment! To your disposition! To your honesty, or your faculty of observation! Or dumbest of mother fucking all: INSULTS TO YOUR OPINION.

But no! They weren't insults at all! You were just being a fucking asshole, because HERE is where we deal with the genuine bona fides of insultry! HERE is where we take on statements blatantly intended to offend and belittle you.
Includes: a statement which may or may not have been meant as an insult. A statement offered with no intent to insult, but where the statement by its very nature is irredeemably offensive. A statement which in itself is not an insult, but behind which I construe bad or insulting motives.
"Why am I offended at someone insulting me?

Is the insult accurate? Because if an insult is simply dead wrong, a clean miss, off-target - how can it hit me to hurt me? Why am I not laughing my ass off! A CLEAN MISS! What a dork! What a bad shot. Shouldn't I kind of laugh, at least, consider laughing - and then divert to Subroutines A, B, or C as needed?

OOOO. WHAT IF THE INSULT IS ACCURATE, THOUGH? Well wait a second though. If the insult is accurate - shouldn't I take it for all it's worth? That's some fucking grist for the milk-barrel, there, I can get some spiritual and procedural nutrition out of that shit and then BELCH IT OUT in a BIG, BOOMING "THANK-YOU FOR THE IMPROVEMENT TIP" to the arrogant fuckwit dumb enough to have tried to insult me with a free life-coach lesson!

Face it. A lot of one's friends are far too nicey-nice to hit you where your actual weaknesses are. Where you most could use to improve. Enemies perform this vital service wonderfully!

Or, whether the insult is accurate or inaccurate: am I offended not by the statement or its content, but rather am offended simply because the person is 'being mean'? And if so, should I maybe consider what the opinion of a complete and obvious asshole is worth? An accurate valuation here could prevent an embarrassing overreaction, or better yet - give rise to yet another big, booming belly laugh! Folks, if an opinion is worth shit to me, or if I know that it should be worth shit to me - let's not insult my intelligence please. Am I the kind of dorp to give a worthless piece of dross great weight in my esteem?

Am I the kind of emotional mastermind whose idea of a great plan is to let a piece of opinion assessed-to-be-shit-value cause me pain, solely on the grounds that to cause me pain was what the asshole who shat it at me was trying for?"

Shit. If so - you just decided to align yourself with the asshole's goal to hurt you! Don't blame the asshole for that. You can't blame the asshole for your full and willing cooperation.

Wait technically yes: blame the asshole, but make sure you're blaming the right asshole, asshole.


That's the sweet trick for how to GET OFFENDED, my little ones.

It only looks laborious.

I assure you after the umthousandteenth time (and believe me, as one of the far-too-easily-offended {oh, admit it, my belligerents, belles dames sans merci and belov'ds - come on, compared to me at least!} you'll have plenty of practice options and opportunities), the above process becomes pretty damn near automatic. You will be autocorrecting your valuations of a person's opinion faster than they can finish translating their weak, jumbled hostility into what they think is witty English.

For a pro-am like me, real-time opinion autovaluation takes about the effort it would take most people to get a joke and erupt into raucous laughter. For about the same reasons!

Thursday, June 04, 2015

Reason, #1: Reasons are not and have not Reason.

The last two years of my life have been wasted, I think. From a certain standpoint.

But then, by my current way of thinking so were the 42 prior to that. And no regrets. It's only a judgment upon how it's all added up. During the living of it, I assure you I had neither concern nor intention involving any such queer math!

And each moment was not wasted. Not one moment was. It's just that parts of me, parts of my life - I can admit now, were lived with a thought towards adding it all up. To certain ends, towards certain goals, whose certainty no longer appeals at all.

I plan to keep on as I've begun and as I've gone, all along: to waste no moments.

The thing I'd care to change is this. To abandon my expectations for life to add up. For things to come to any sum total more than all that they simply are. It was never any goal or aim of mine involved, in all this highly-questionable math. So this adjustment should be relatively easy, if indeed there is any more adjustment to it than simply to note the truth. The expectation I'd care to abandon was never mine to begin with.

It's always something based on the other person's expectation and not yours. And they can't explain why they want it, or why it's important, and for goodness sake I never had the slightest talent or knack grasping any of it as anything real. Expectation for some plan to come true?

I know how to execute a campaign. I know how to stage an operation. I am through with fools who take a dream and call it a plan. They do nothing to break it out into achievable stages, assess the probabilities of success for each incremental step, identify the factors whose manipulation can improve on those odds. They just take a dream and call it a goal. They do nothing to make it real. Some plan!

1. Have a dream.
2. Wake up, or claim to be.
3. Declare the dream achievable,
4. Declare yourself dedicated to its realization.

A better term for such wan "realization" might be "wish-fulfillment." What expectation should such a "planner" have for their plan?

Expectation is something I have when I throw a rock.

Or, for when I choose a rock. I look with an eye towards its shape or color, and I grasp with a hand for its balance and heft. There are expectations I have for the rock I'll choose, for the particular rock-based purpose I have that day discovered. Maybe it's just a pretty rock! One that caught my eye. And so I choose it for that reason and - whoa! It feels so good. Cool and smooth in the hand! Mission accomplished?

Yes. Expectation leading directly to satisfaction with a reality that quantifiably measures up. This is the sort of expectation I have, and want. The kind I've always had; the only kind I've ever actually wanted, speaking now for myself. The kind of expectation I can make use of. The kind I understand, and so can manage. Quite easily!

Expectation is for immediate guidance. It is not there to provide an excuse to indefinitely suspend one's dream-based disappointment. The word for that is "faith."

Expectation is to pick up and throw a rock. Aims. Goals. Metrics.

Expectation is not something anybody would need as they're picking a path over a range of hills or climbing a mountain. Expectation adds nothing to your efforts, here. A map? Sure! Why not? If you need one. If you're no walker, if you're no climber, you might need a map. If you have any business out there, you don't need a map. You really ought to be able to judge the easiest course from the landscape, and steer by the sky. And if you're out there for the right reason, then you are in no hurry. Exploration is for detours. Exploration is for doublebacks.

Expectation is for the rock your palm and thumb can meditate upon, as you grasp your stout walking stick and keep an eye out for pumas.

From the world expect gravity. From yourself, balance.

From others, expect them to regard their delusions as your self-improvement list. There's nothing wrong with this. We can all stand to improve, but no one changes for another person. If you change, it will be because you have understood why, and because you are the kind of person who has difficulty doing anything the stupid, dumb, wrong way, as soon as you've understood why the better way is better.

Reason is mine.

Purpose is not my problem. Excuses are not my problem. Justifications are not my problem.

"Reasons" are not my problem.

Reasons are miscalled. They are always either justifications, for the weak who need justification to act, or excuses, for the fool who refuses to act without an excuse, or for the fool who demands that others cannot so act. But justice can only require a justification for a wrong act. Justice must show why the act is wrong, if justice wishes to limit liberty. Justice can require no justification for an act that is harmless, blameless.

As to excuses, it takes a fool to require one and a sorry individual indeed to provide it. "Reasons" have no relation to Reason. I say things should be done for no reason or not at all.

A thing should be done because you just did it, and because I've got nothing to show that should've stopped you doing it. I've got no shred nor scrap to show, as to why I am the one who can ask or compel excuse or justification from you for your free act.

Do the thing because you are alive. Do the thing because you are at perfect liberty to do so. You don't need to be pursuing happiness at the time.

I'm sure as hell not. They only put "pursuit of happiness" in the Constitution for the pussies who need an excuse to act. Luckily, you can tell them by certain signs. Whenever you propose a course of action, they claim not to see the point, or they claim the act will not achieve the desired result.

I don't fear or detest purpose. I quite enjoy the plans and dreams of others, and often act in ways that pull their lame ass out of the fire just for sheer enjoyment, because I either love to be of service, or I live to show off. There's no difference between the two.

I plan to enjoy. Pretty open-ended plan, otherwise. In particular I plan to enjoy every exchange of views with the weakling or fool or requires plan, justification, or excuse to act. Don't worry!

It's always fun for them, too.

Monday, June 01, 2015

The Finn Brothers - Anything Can Happen

In Many Cases #1: The Exceptions

In many cases, you find the exceptions will guide you on what to do for that particular instance. Typically, the particulars themselves are peculiar to the particular case, which is partly why they're called that. In a case like that, trying to go by a general (let alone an absolute!) rule, you're liable to throw your hands up and wave them only this time, you won't be faking it: you will in fact just not care, at that point. Because: why bother? When there's no way to judge right from wrong using your own mind, and previous experience, as compared against whatever general paradigmatics you've picked up on your own hook by listening to idealists and other absolutist assholes and salting to taste?

Especially if your taste tends to take more than a grain, or if you like me have been characterized (wrongly) by others as a "salty dog," by the time you may find you end up with more salt on your plate than suet you're liable to reconsider your whole line of thinking. And then what do you turn to to guide you?

The exceptions.

I mean - usually, you will. Not in every case, but you can't go far wrong or you look like an asshole. People will be pointing you out when you turn the other way, saying things like "sotto voce" and indicating in as many ways, hey, that's the fucking guy. He went far wrong.

Fact is, once you've got a reputation for acting a certain way, people aren't going to credit your exceptions very much. And that's where they go far wrong, but sadly, as a total fucking hypocrite you're in no shape to call them on it.

I think that's probably a pretty rough-hewn yet nonetheless kind of sort of decent take on the overview, for something as tough-to-get-ahold on as the exceptions in any given case, and in particular, how they stand in relation to the established norms and observed to be generally valid generalizations. The "forest for trees," if you will but remember, though - consider the exception! But don't take exception. Don't take it. Take it into account, yes! You have to, or else, well, we've already covered the risk picture on that one. You look like an asshole, and taking exception isn't going to change anybody's mind on that score. So don't.

I suppose if you have to, due to your own rough-and-trouble hand-hewn hardscrabble principles on the matter in question, then you're pretty much stuck. You'll have to take exception no matter how good my advice to the contrary clearly is, because its your principles at stake. You're beholden to them like nobody's business, pretty much, or else everybody's going to look at you and say "How does he sleep at night?" Principles, baby! That's how. But as long as you have no principles, sure, in that case take whatever exception seems worth the risk of looking like an asshole.

With principles, there's really nothing much you can do but follow them in every case regardless of exception. You have no choice - nobody wants to risk looking like a moral coward or worse - an intellectual.

This has been the first installment of our new, soon-to-be-recurring feature, "In Many Cases!" In which we will attempt to type things that seem related in some way or in any event, relatable, to the phrase itself. Here, we went the exception route - and can you blame us?

Nope. Not hardly.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Knock It Off #1: "The Conspiracy," Or, "KEEP THE FU*K CALM, and GROW THE *ELL UP!!"

Friday, May 22, 2015

Knock It Off #1: "The Conspiracy," Or, "KEEP THE FU*K CALM, and GROW THE *ELL UP!!"

Quit worrying about the conspiracy already. Grow up.

Yes. The world economy is on the brink of collapse.

It's because money doesn't exist, assho*e. Economists have been clued in about this disconcerting bit of ancient history since about James Bond III's original theatrical run for Christ's sake. GROW UP. As long as there's a picture on the money of a powerful enough Caesar, the separation of church and state will remain in place: every bit as strong as it was when it was originally ordained and invented by your ole buddy of old and mine, Thomas Jefferson, by Paine and/or Voltaire, depending, and by (originally) - the big man! The guy in the sky with a seat to the side, YOU know him! HE needs no intro, it's Mister Emmanuel "Manny" J. Christ himself!! So FUCK OFF already! Grow up. Money's worth exactly what it always was: pixel dust.

Now go clap for tinkerbell why don't you, and think wonderful thoughts, and while you're at it - why not enroll in one of those "power of prayer" medical studies? That's so hot right now! Free placebos, motherfupper. And why not? What's the upside to what ails you, anyway? Why not try the old home remedy? I bet you find a spoonful of sugar pills helps the absence of medicine go down delightfully.

And also: YES.

Certain rounds of ammunition DO KEEP running out of stock at your ye local gun shoppe - and, troublingly, it's a coordinated, wide-scale phenomenon. "You yourself" (i.e., your two to three gun nut paranoia addict acquaintances, each of whom has at different times observed and darkly speculated upon the sinister causes of this periodic minor fill-rate inconvenience, and who consequently are pissed and suspicious as hell!! Because they're such dipshits, they can't even manage their inventory on the most basic staples without a next-day in-stock supplier! Are you thinking of relying on these clowns come the revolution...? Because, if so, I sure hope so!) have seen hitting shops all over the State, simultaneously, every time it happens for a given unit of ammunition.

YES. IT REALLY HAS HAPPENED, and will continue to!




At least, whatever's available at the moment STOP

It's not a problem FULL STOP

Grow up.


What you piss your commando fatigues down to and into your combat-boot-clad socks over is called canny spec buying, and competent supply chain management. AND NOW SO CAN YOU! Try it! Place a huge cash-in-hand order for every unit of as-yet-unsold eggs available in stock for immediate next-day delivery to your holding company's warehouse (terms such as no backorder, no reorder, Purchase Offer contingent upon full receipt within 9 "business hours"), and see what kind of deal Cruelty Farms Industrial Might Combine LLC will be willing to cut you, on those fresh, delicious, farm-fresh, cage-free (we use the zap collars these days) and, most likely organic, eggs. It's called the barter system, moron.

The Barter System. We never stopped doing it. We just hired underlings to do the spec buying, according to whatever standard we set and insist upon, and to do the whip-cracking and contract-termination on the overlings we've hired to rock the supply chain logistics. Savvy?

Yes. Yes, it is. But don't blame me! I had nothing to do with it except to underscore a bit. You can't blame me for what humanity's already been doing since before anyone-now-legal-to-fuck's maternal grandparent was born.

We've been on this system forever. We won't be going back from that. Or at least, if we do go back: never, ever buy a brand new car for 2,000 dozen grade A brown-shelled hen eggs. The second you drive that baby off the lot it loses 8,000 eggs in value!

We're going to stick to the barter system, as we always have done, and as currently constituted, evolved, and intelligently designed. It's basically a social Darwin cum Saint Nicholas deal, only Santa drinks Gatorade now and his suit's a camo pastiche of dark, bright and forest green, with a big gray goodie bag of shells, bullets, musket balls and et cetera slung over that fat, privileged shoulder of his! The system works. We're going to stick to precisely this: how it has evolved. And whether you've noticed or not, that status quo works better than any alternative you have drafted, proposed, tested, or attempted to implement. "Qui Bono?"


But, because we're going to keep continuing on our steadfast course of sticking to the best system we've made or ever had, that means we're going to have to have some expectations. Accordingly. We'll have to expect we shall keep seeing these same familiar shocks, jolts and bumps in the road, as our freight-weight portfolio trails and screeches along behind us in broad-arc shifts of its huge, wide load. Nobody has to worry, if they think about it and about how things have been. All your rustlers and money runners are going to continue the mad dance of highway robbery and confidence fraud that they've been doing since, oh, about the time O. Henry was writing all those subliminal hetero rom-porn storybooks. You remember O. Henry? He's the guy where the wife cut all her hair off for a magic wallet or something, for the wife's husband. Sick stuff, man - read it, but don't take my word. They named a prominent prize after him. It's like, the O. Henry Short Storyist Author Award, or something.

Check it out!

The system works because the currency is always based on either an incomprehensible (but robust, and hard-to-crack) formula, or upon a common shared unit of whatever happens to be the easiest/best/most valuable, plentiful object in world-wide distribution at the moment. Today, it's an egg.

Tomorrow? Who knows. Human skulls with eldritch sigils hand-carved into them by officially-certified Malay war-widows of martyred jihadists?

Time will tell! And you, the consumer, will be consoled and lullabied to your daily rest, to sleep easy and soft as pillows on lilypad ponds just as soon as your preferred god-speaking authoritrator tells you what hot commodity you need to hop on next. What to buy up and sit smug on a pile of, just like the asshole moron you gullible capitalists always are - ! You will deeply and obediently abide in faith, in whatsoever the new almighty banzai of buckaroo is declared by acclaim to be. And you will clap for tinkerbell.

And you will think wonderful thoughts. Of mansions, swimming pools, movie stars, until (if there's any justice in the world) your next high-altitude low-opening extreme thrills jump will see you putting the wrong backback on, my dear Geronimo. Godspeed ye, shitbird.

You will clap for tinkerbell, as you and your kind have always done: and your money is as strong as it ever was, and it ever will be. As is ours.

It is because we - the people, and by our combined will, our servants (public) as well - are deep in preparation for the next economic paradigm shit. Fret not. We've got your back, you ignorant, cowering, moral retard!! You plebe of a philistine, you prole-loving, nye-culturny boo-jwah bitch. SURPRISE!!

Go ask Karl Marx, my brother. Inquire after him in heaven and, if you get Groucho'd instead (as usually happens), seek for brother Karl yourself, in the other place. Because economic progress is exactly as he said: foreordained, and implacable as all hell. The wheel of the dialectic turns. The scrapheap of history is reborn in hard and shining forms of plowshares and swords.

And just as we once passed without pause from standards gold to dross, through all manner of gross products national or domestic, so too will the current math that backs the value of our big ass U.S. dollar (which is an algorithm tied to Tony Romo's "quarterback rating," in inverse proportion to his paycheck that week, as adjusted and expressed in "Landry Standard" 1990 dollars) transition very easy, from our current Gross National America's Domestic Quarterback Fiscal Index Standard, to the new, easy, convenient faith and credit backer. The new unit! Dark heaviest gray is the new gold.

The pendulum swang, as it always did swoze, from liquid electric soft, back to the softest and heaviest hards. Once again, our currency will be tied to something real. Or rather, for "will be," sub "is."

Paper money? No problem! Electronic money? Bar code money? Tattoos and library cards, Monopoly money and Negotiable Sociocultural E-Credits?

No problem, because every unit people are willing to value in exchange will at bottom be tied to something hard. And this time, the denominations of hard currency will be a snap to evaluate in either/or: metric, avoirdupois, or even Klingon Halfelven T.R.U's!

(The Tolkein-Rodenberry Unit, folks. Keep up please)

Something we and all hale fellows can hail! Conservatives, libertarians, Republicans and economists alike will rejoice! Meanwhile, Libertarians, drug dealers, Democrats and other liberals will be fine with it, thanks to the cute marketing angles and the convenience aspect. Both the forms and the functions will be unspeakably cute, I assure you. Cute to the point of compelling. We're talking Madison Avenue meets Al "The Ol' Fed" Hamilton by way of the way Old Hickory shot the dumb motherfucker himself.

Mark. My word is this: by this time, ten years from now, anyone not already a certified, convicted, felonious psychopath will be able to carry their spare change (of significant weight! Of meaningful value!) in cute, convenient, hard plastic wallet blazoned with Hello Kitty. Or if you prefer, a spirit wolf, howling at some gay ass near-full moon, or an eagle or whatever. It'll be up to you pretty much. A fucking Transformers logo! Thundercats, pimps, hoes, the Playboy bunny - hell, etch a life-size dick picture of your own schlong onto the barrel if you like! Who's going to stop you?

And for you less-than-hipsters? Fear not, nothing could be cooler these days than that old-school noncomformist rebellious pose, and your easy and predictable lockstep demographic will be served and served WELL. You too will not be left out!

Folks, any real "meme craze" worth its celery salt can pander to the old dogs just as easily as the schoolboy's dream girls or the to the dirtiest tricks in your college alma mater's Greek League satirical party kama sutra manual. For you wide-hatted duster-wearing boot-clomping sons-of-the-bitch-that-you-are, the time-honored ornery habit of carrying a brace of long, elegant six-irons will be coming back in style faster than you can do the one eye squint-glare and spit "Dance!" in a hoarse, whispery staccato bark.

Rest easy, action fans and brand value enthusiasts. Clint Eastwood's estate will be making monthly-if-not-weekly millions off that trademark "guns akimbo" Outlaw Josey Wales poster pose of his. Picture that iconic cool squint etched into the stained woodgrain butt of your twin S & W forty-fours!? Or, supposing you're something of a noncomformist, such as we've seen and discussed, chuckling. In that case, maybe a quintet of .22 Glocks? Both armpits, hip weak, ankle strong and ass-side back pants-tuck), each with a full 22 round capacity fat mag clip. My money's on Wales, to be honest, but who knows? Maybe the whole thing will get bogged down in haggling and offers to trade!

No need to wait, on this one. Don't hold your breath for the headlines, not on the oldest news story since Adam got slapped for sticking his rib in a fake clay porn sculpture of himself that he'd made and hidden in a dark, leafy corner of the garden. Don't you read the news? Don't you check out the tabloids on the way to pay your grocery fees, your union dues?

Didn't you know?

We are already here. The economy is in full boom.

The Bullet Standard.

And yes.

The Franklin Mint will definitely be announcing its collector's-series die-cast silver & gold rounds (act now and receive a decorative, space-age fired-clay polymer porcelain China but-otherwise-authentic flintlock Revolutionary rifled musket! DISPLAY ONLY) for you all you grand romantics and goth-leaning war reenactors out there.

Not much to worry about. At least, not for the rich private citizen - as usual! And not much to worry about for the poor but civic-minded neighborhood-watch leaguer, also as usual. Or for either of their families. Not much to worry about for the beleaguered but honest and true civil servant! All of this, as usual. We have and continually are transitioning, into the age of Business As Usual. God's in Its heaven, all's right with the world, and peace on earth to all men of good will.

The women, of course, just want the money. But this time that's no problem, either! Because speaking generally, most of us men of good will are, by now, pretty much itchin' to give it to 'em! RIGHT WHERE IT COUNTS! Right in her little pink "oh, hello there!" kitty purse!

Or whatever. I guess if your woman is one of those butch deals and prefers the ol' denim-tucked ass-pocket brown wallet maneuver - hey, that's all you dude! Knock yourself out. Let me know if you need help.

Brother. Can you spare a shell? I need it to buy a round.

All I have in this world is one last sawed-off double ought sawbuck, and a few shiny nickel-plateds to scatter around. What will that and the price of coffee get me?! It'll get you up Federali River for one thing, for, ostensibly, bank robbery! ADVICE: PLEASE DON'T. So help me, you try to pull that off where they keep my money, and I'll laugh all the way to the Post Office, where they post things and where I will finger your nose. And if I'm still pissed at your despicably undermitigated gall, I may even add a gloss of new meaning to the term "spitting image."


What's in your wallet?




...and you know,

When I call SHOTGUN
........... SHOTGUN
...then you know I GOT ONE
When I call
...then you know I GOT ONE!
GOT ONE, she slips down
that ladder-rope
that I chucked up
to catch on sill,
she's cleaned out all
her chest of hope
she's bringing all the trouble
and the shells she's saved
she milled 'em all herself of her own free will

And you know I GOT ONE
GOT ONE, when I call

...then I really GOT ONE.

GOT ONE, and she bought the ammo,
I got the rod - and I don't intend to spare no one.
One barrel two barrel plus the stock -
in too-close quarters I'm ready to run
upside your head I'm the jack of clubs
a rock hard hickory buffed to gloss
she's at the wheel - she's the duchess of stunts
I'm in the death seat, aiming for boss

And you know I GOT ONE
GOT ONE, when I call

I snuck in fast
right through the fence
raising all alarms plus electrical bills
her old man's just over the hill
she got the wheel, she daisy dukes
just an all-pro hazard in a muscle car
it ain't no Lee, just a Patton tank
her man's at the hole, trying to call all cars

he shoulda known better than that
he taught her how to act
taught her how to shoot, but I will
he shoulda known better than that
she got the trigger in hand
it’s wrapped around a ring
hold still

I just aim.
And she calls shots
Like fish in a barrel like a deer in lights
bird shot buck shot double pump ought
to change your brain
let go your mind
you’re welcome at the church if you come on time
to give her away ‘cause old man she’s mine!

And you know I GOT ONE
GOT ONE, when I call

When I call SHOTGUN
........... SHOTGUN
...then you know I GOT ONE
When I call
...then you know I GOT ONE!

Truth Bundles #1: "Entrust"

Speak love first to an empty room.

Don't ask what you are supposed to do. Ask who is doing the supposing.

Trust is never given, never earned. Trust involves no judgment, no character, no decision. Trust simply settles, inevitably and finally, on whoever has truly been true.

Honesty is the only debt true friendship can incur.

Children's Book Pitch #2: TALES OF SECRET DOG

(artwork sample available upon request)

Secret Dog lived in a building that said: "No Pets Allowed"
(picture of a stern brownstone Apt building with a bold word balloon coming out of it as the building says: "No Pets Allowed.")
(picture of Secret Dog peering out from concealment in Marda's backpack, seeing a posted placard: NO PETS ALLOWED)

Secret Dog had lived there for as long as he could remember.
(picture of Secret Dog peering out from concealment under the futon)

Every day, Marda and Elos showered Secret Dog with quiet love and affection.
(tickle-scratches, everybody smiling but everybody also looking out of the corners of their eyes)

Secret Dog's dog dish was a regular bowl that would be set out at mealtimes.
(picture of dish)
It did not have his name on it.

Secret Dog did not know what his name was, because Marda and Elos were always careful never to call him.
(picture of Secret Dog looking up confusedly at Marda and Elos who are smiling down at him with love)

So Secret Dog just called himself Secret Dog!
(picture of Secret Dog looking dashing and mysterious)

-Secret Dog felt certain that somewhere, elsewhere in the building, there must be another pet like him.
(picture of cutaway of the building, all apts. darkened except Secret Dog's with him in it up top right, and another apt on the second floor down left side, with another dog in it hiding under a bed)

And maybe more!
(same picture, only with another dog popping out of a closet as the two previous dogs look wistfully in his direction)

But Secret Dog was not sure how to contact the other secret pets without blowing everyone's cover.
(picture of Secret Dog munching from his dish, furious look of concentration and planning)

Secret Dog was proud of the good job he was doing, keeping himself secret. He knew that Marda and Elos would not be thrown out on his account!
(Secret Dog, guard-duty pose in front of the futon as Marda and Elos sit watching tv, eating from a big bowl of snack mix. Secret Dog is chewing too)

Secret Dog never, ever barked.
(picture of boisterous young people walking by the apt. door in the hallway, talking loudly / split screen of Secret Dog plastered up against the door not barking but clearly VERY VIGILANT)

One time Secret Dog thought he heard an intruder trying to get in.
(picture of Secret Dog under the futon, perking up in the darkened living room, light coming under the apt. door with a shadow of INTRUDER)

What would he do?
(split picture montage of Secret Dog efficiently killing masked intruder, bagging the body and dragging it down the back stairwell - then a shot of the bag sticking out of the dumpster)

Luckily, it was only Elos and Marda.
(picture of Elos and Marda coming in late, Secret Dog cowering under the futon).

And they brought a KITTEN with them!
(Marda produces a startled kitten from her backpack)

And everyone was happy.
(picture of Marda and Elos on the futon as Secret Dog sprawls across them getting scratches from Elos. The kitten sleeps on the corner of the cushion)

But that was not The End.
(same picture, only everyone stopped what they're doing and are looking at us, trepidatiously)

The End

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Important Disclaimers #7: Results May Be Simulated

Actually, no. That disclaimer isn't in the slightest bit important. It's too vague! What's it warning us of, even? And more importantly to (or than) some, arguably: is "even" a preposition? Because that seems a pretty cheap way to satisfy a stupid but persistently-(to the verge of heroically, really)niggled rule!

Full-on hypocrite disclosure: I enjoy niggling rules every now and then. Ain't nothing a shame about niggling a rule or two!

But there's no importancy at all to that disclaimer, as stated. It's too vague! Check it, you'll see what I mean. You can't tell what it means! It could mean any number of numbered statements:

1. The results here presented may or may not be simulations.

2. The results here presented may or may not be simulations.

3. It is true of all results, or it is true in general of results, that results may dah, dah, dah... insert any or more probably 3 is "all the above," pretty much. A bit much, but if you think about it suddenly,

Or you can take it the other way. Take it to say that it's characteristic of results that it may be possible to produce convincing simulations of them. Hard to argue that away. Did you see the last guy who tried?

He went thataway.

Folks, if you check the science on it you'll find a fine, drawn-out line between "a reproducible result" and "a successful simulation of a previously achieved result." Stick the most sensitive measuring instrument you can imagine up your ass and tell me: could you tell the difference? See the difference? Feel the difference?

A lot depends on the instrument. And your familiarity with it, and how rigorously you've prepared your mind and how determined you're prepared to be, when it comes to a good thorough job. This is more than just the old saw: "the right tool for the right job." An old saw like that shouldn't even be in your tool box.

Is that what they're calling it these days? Anyway, a more troubling question is whether we might need to get philosophical here, to determine the stance in terms of absolute truths. Is it is what it is? Or is it is what it seems?

Food for thought like that could be the reason they invented antacids whose guaranteed-potency standardized active ingredient(s) is or are capable of passing the blood/brain barrier. Because face it: that's one barrier you'd normally want a pretty hard core bouncer on the door for, as medicines go, trying to get in to that party. It's practically the only party in town for thinking persons, or those who think they'd like to be seen that way, or those who just love to be seen or love to people-watch metaphorical anthropomorphized drugs pretend to be sharp-dressed young, attractive, graceful but with a hint of being potentially athletic dancers. The party is in there.

You know where. Just beyond that festive rope-with-a-hook-on-it sits the seat of the human booty's (or body's) version of a super-exclusive, only-controlled-substances-on-the-strict-legit-list-permitted VIP dance party hangout: the brain.

The human brain.

But when it comes to the fucking mental indigestion involved in trying to bubble and soak anything nutritive out of THAT convoluted mash and penumbra of noxious emanations, hallucinogenic-class sophistries and clumps of puerile, poorly-chewed "look-at-me" swallowed-too-soon / shoulda-been-spit cud, bring on the sickly sweet and girlchild pinkly appealing chalky soothness of Brain Pepto, man, or their nearest literal, Western Medicine four-out-of-five dentists approved knockoff. I mean, am I right here? Did I read it wrong? You tell me, man.

For all you know...all of reality is a simulation of your ego problem. So go ahead. Make my day meaningfully. You tell me.

You know what? Drop it. There's no going back now, I can't remember the original correctly important version of today's disclaimer, the whole thing's gone past the point of a waste. Frankly, I'm getting a stomachache. Right in the worst possible least probable place: the brain.

Which if you tell me it's needless to say, I will say it bears repeating:

The human brain.

Here's a disclaimer, if you like. Far better to be specific, then to end up with poisoned livestock or better yet, pets, because some idiot's trying to cure gastrocerebral ailments of sheep, cows and god forbid pigs, cats and dogs by forcing a human-approved only medicament through the skull! In the mistaken (and incorrect) assumption, no doubt, that that is the barrier we need to savvy our way through.

Safe first. Then sorry.

That's a disclaimer, if you like. But only if you like.

Verbatim Reply to a Friend Who Unwittingly Used the Word "Emporer" Correctly in a Sentence

Um - WHAT!? BAH!


First off, the office of Emperor itself hey wait - just a sec, cute girl alert.



Think about it seriously, Mister. You know it makes sense. A share of Empire? A revel in a mutually-held responsibility to put down rebellion and take up civilization? That's a call we can all take seriously. Or even if we missed it - in our modern age, we have a safety net. It's called "voice mail," and I am an answering machine in the eyes of some. It's because I'm so answerable. Got slack?

I always pick up.

But! It's not just me who says that!

There's considerable precedent for it, in terms of proven, workable governance models! All we need to be is willing to take a step back from Caesar and be Consuls. In lieu of some potential tyrant, in lieu of a Chief Executive lording it over, demanding in the name of Christ that everybody render all this shit unto him on account of no greater justification than "I'm on the money!" - we check that, balance it, cancel it, strike it so hard it slips right back into reverse and then call off the picket, in favor of a true coalition solution: two chiefs, equal in cahoots by the authority vested in them on our about the waist and torso. A three-piece suit, basically, consisting of waistcoat, vest, and TO-GA! TO-GA! TO-GA! Take these two cochiefs, a randy and rambunctious non-ornamental Senate and a fucking vast and enthusiastic native noncitizen slightly-privilege-challenged worker class of proud-eyed, red-blooded, sweat-browed, peace-loving controllers of the means of production (if you get the dialectic?)! Take them, please. It will be very hard for anybody to fuck that up. The setup alone is far too self-evidently "tight."

Think it through, man, though because in any Empire where they start overthinking of an Emperor, they ought to think again. They have it coming, otherwise - and the history books will show they asked for it. They were BEGGING for it: who wears two vests and three togas, calls it a three-piece suit and parades around in state like that unless they're begging for it? It's basically, their fault: and we should persistently and continuously victimize them on account of that, because they basically brought it on themselves and let's face facts at this point. They deserved every word of the aforementioned sentence. So take heed from that one, pal. Hearken back a bit, take a deep breath, because - "it's been done." Your so called "bold" suggestion, called for in bold tones intoning milk-mild words for the sake of an absolute authority that was corrupt the first time we opened the milk carton and saw, to our horror, the picture on the back was ours? You think something's sweetened that big sour swig in the interim? Or are you just a real big fan of impromptu, untested unQC'd and experimentally laissez fairly made cheese? Because if that's what's coming for dinner, count me in for the beer. But an amusing caveat to that might be: I made it myself, my friend. Now pick me up an ear or two on the way home and spend one, lend one, shuck it to a boil and cut all kernels off lengthwise - or better yet, why not let it hear for itself, and judge for all of us? There's a name for a jackpot like that and it's called, "SUCCOTASH." You got some in your mustache, man - let me get that for you. The beauty of a setup like that is that when it judges for all of us, this jumbled up hot steamy side dish ALWAYS judges in strict accordance with the greatest good it has ever even imagined: its own beauty of the truth of the greater good. Which, as the beholden, it is pretty much bound by sworn and implied duty to keep an eye on, from time to time.

Check it.

Here's how it happened, and I suspect that the second it sinks in you'll be all, "Here here!, or hear hear? Which did we decide again, and why?" How did it happen? For details, sea hear:

The Emperor came saw and conquered and what did it get him? What was his inheritance, for that?

You can pretty much guess.

I bet you can.

But on the other hand, how about my proposal? We've already heard far too much of yours, and IT! STINKS!

My modest proposal, which was in fact the working model for the Empire for quite a considerable storied traditional age-old live-long and glory-filled day, is as proven as it is flexible. It's a much more Republican-style solution to the pervasive, irritating problem of Empire - which is sure to appeal to Cynics and Epicureans alike, so natural and tasteless is its non-selective target demographic. What on earth could be more Democratic than a well-targeted demographic? You see what I'm aiming at, here. TAKE THE SHOT!

And as you do, take heed: and a big pinch of fair warning, while your at it. While you sit, overthinking in your Rodan-inspired thinker's pose, taking a king-of-the-monster's-best-buddy-sized shit as it comes (or goes, as the case may hopefully be): TAKE HEED AND GO EASY. Because history has this to say about it, loser. Your tired ass shit has been tried, convicted, confined, released and all debts settled, in one sharp shiv with a point to it that we, even today, would almost have to be fools to ignore.

It was tried before. The traditionalists, averse to change as usual, settled that dude's hash for him and some say, rightly so. You really wanna go there? I heartily suggest that you have been behooved by better things.

Think on it.

He came, he saw, he crossed the Rubicon, solved the Cube cut the knot that held the oh-so-fabled Damoclean katana from puncturing his ever-so-surpassingly swollen HEAD, and what did it get him?


It didn't go over well! So much so in fact, that I believe at one point, the top wop (or is it dago?) who more-or-less presumed to sole chief executorship of the people's will (without, I might add, a shred of their testament! - and no, post-facto acclaim is no substitute for consent, my friend! NO BODY fucks that well! Nobody EVER fucked the people better than my man Jules, tryna be the shepherd as usual, getting the words confused and result: stabbing match honorable mention. Nobody EVER fucked the people as much or as hard or as deep as Caesar number one. And I tell you son, they loved him for it but it stank so high to heaven that even now, the biological residue from that way-too-much-more-and-yet-less-than-sexual congress STILL SMELLS) in defiance of tradition and all manner of etiquette and protocol (which tends to rub a proud people the wrong way, my man! CONSIDER YOUR AUDIENCE! Give the people what they want! Pepperidge Farm, Barnum and Baileys, if you get my increasingly belabored references!), tried it and got killed in a stabbing match over it, for his troubles. And ours, as it turned out. As anyone could have told him! As he surely saw for himself, because let me tell you: you don't declare absolute monarch with contagious-via-sexual-reproduction-vector assigned divine right to it! You just don't! On the face of it: bad idea! Assholes have kids too, you know, and I don't care if you think the sun shines out of yours, your kids will be assholes if you can convince them of a thing like that. "Hey junior, yeah, all this is yours. Because ummmmm...well, let me explain it to you in terms that will fuck you up for life plus the entire dominion under you, if you so much as fucking swallow 'em..."

You know? Think about it a second first, and before you know it it won't make sense to anyone anymore. You don't declare a comprehensively evidenceless thing like that. That kind of a king thing dealy? Wait a second, pause, consider. OK?


At least give it a second. It works conceptually and not at all. Have you thought about it yet? Give it at least a SECOND, dude? Even in later ages, duels always took at least a second and customarily, usually, cruelly, two or more. You don't pull the trigger on a thing like divine right sole rulership in less, unless you can back it up with one hell of a two-step. Step one, be a great ruler, the kind later generations will still measure themselves by, and a damn good judge of character besides. Step two: ensure that there are no later generations. There are two ways to do this conceptually, and both are easy. One way? Destroy the universe, or any less overcompensatory measure that deletes the living specimens of the species. The other way is probably far more ideal, yet in practice, it's the way they actually went:

Never die. Simple.

Nice odds on pulling it off.

And let me tell you something you don't want to know, but will find hard to argue seriously against. Stabbing matches? Don't be so quick to condemn. You might find yourself on the business end of the modern equivalent of one of those, which are albeit, far less lethal - but also no where near so authentic and hip-feeling. It's because of all the preservatives and process (which to be fair, is only their due) but I digress.

If you can imagine such a thing, I do. I do digress. We were talking about a stabbing match, and let me tell you those hot, cismediterranean blood types, you know. Always with the knives, them.

We must be tolerant, and presume not to a cultural chauvinism or anything tantamount to it. For heed me my ever accepting and conscious, enlightened, children: to those who don't know about it, who weren't there or haven't heard, let me lay the skinny on you speaking as one who is a member of the abovemaligned belowdefined race, and can therefore joke freely about such things, without let or hindrance throughout all the realm and territory of Christendom, or one better. These "stabbing matches" that you so assiduously reference, these "stabbing matches" that then as now, our friends, the post-, pseudo-, or practicing ethnically-Catholics, their forbears, their cousins of slightly goldier locks, and the combined inheritors of that thrice-accursed heritage and blessed liberally with a huge posterior, secured unto itself by the seat of its pants to a degree somewhat unto, like, I don't know, let me count. WHOA! The results are in! These accursed autumnal blessings of ours keep counting for the length of the game, plus overtime (if in the event, it happens). That amounts to a sizeable portion, assessed at up to a seven times seven generations' gap's worth, at least! And when you look into THAT gap, mind the crease. The abyss has eyes for you.

I believe you people know EXACTLY what I'm getting at, and are merely attempting heckle me with your silence. Well guess what, or better yet: GOOD NEWS! I got the headline for you and it says KNOCK KNOCK! This represents (for you) an almost insurmountable opportunity if you know what it says in the bible. WORDS, MAN, WORDS! And one of them born, if you can believe such a thing and/or are an old school rap fan. Can I get a witness, can a get an A, men? Is word born, or what?

"Word Is Born," my friend, and that's good news for anyone with a current events nostalgia-fetish, as well as for retro music enthusiasts everywhere, in every place and from age to age. Why is it such good news? It's because you will not fucking believe it. So therefore, judge not. That's pretty much the rational caboose to that train of thought, choo choo fans. And if you think I can get up over this NEXT hill - thanks for your faith! I think I can. I think, therefore, I do not judge. And these so-called "stabbing matches" of yours, which you so condescendingly stoop to disparage, did and do in fact constitute a bulwark, to these people. Did you stop to think how much that means? Or should mean - to us? Now?

For them it was a trademark, if you will. A beacon. A benchmark, a hallmark, a reference point - it augered well, for them, and who are we to declare it ominous? Futures is as futures does, I say - but when a fortune teller stands up behind the counter to cash you out, and you're all "THAT'S IT?? TEN CENTS?"

Some fortune!

We must rely on greater, shared, metaphorical riches, as these dudes did. If we're going to survive with a smile on our face and upon the faces of our babies (in-between bouts of squalling, of course - those lusty babes must squall!), we're going to need a little more than a piece of paper with a promise on it "pay ya later! We're good for it! You swear!"

We need a tradition.

An ordeal, if you will - but one that these so-called day-glo bearing trail-blazing pathfinders of ours, the cradle-robbers of civilization so to speak (LITERALLY!) - they, in their so called "savage," "maligned," "benighted" way - WHICH WE MUST PRETTY MUCH NOW CONCEDE TO BE A-OK BY VIRTUE OF THE POWER VESTED IN THEM BY THEIR OWN DANG D.N.A., or the cultural equivalent thereover (and thereunder: as above, just so you know) inheritance or the equivalent in postmortem reparations to the estate, considered these stabbing matches to be, in their eyes, to be truly beautiful. What you call brutal, they retort, "Eh? This is a much-bruited tribute to the honor of man, man! Let me see that ear of yours for a second," and such requests, while unreasonable and dangerous, are not objectively wrong.

You can't call a thing wrong just because they culturally love to do it, even to the point that people who wish to be in-the-know-and/or-appear-so begin to concoct widespread habits into the intrinsically objectionable form of exobiologically-false-sibling-dichotomy-derived contact-plus-safeword-triggered powers in the style of, "FORM OF: STEREOTYPE!" - well, that doesn't make it objectively wrong. Just a little sick, when you pause to think what those taupe-skinned freaky fetii were up to together in that alien womb of theirs - but again, that's a bit of an anthropomorpobe move in the first place. Don't do it. It is NOT objectively wrong, and what the hell is these days, anyway? Who can say? Not this guy!


Anyway, what I'm saying here, [ MY FRIEND ], is it really did work for them for a very long time, and it can work for us. It didn't fail out of failure! It failed out of their failure to appreciate the baroque beauty of the status quo, which let's face it: worked. It worked OK. Nothing succeeds like successes succeed! And these guys, instead of going all cult of personality hero worship on us just because somebody thought his laurels looked kind of too regal to rest on, well, let's just say a word to the wise is sufficient, but a word to wiser would be needless to say. They weren't wiser. Wise is as wise delves, and they'd have been far wiser to take a good fucking look at things, before they chucked that status quo vadis on the scrap-heap of history and started yelling about hideous corpses or some equally garbled, barbarous phrase.

I say we try it! I say we try my idea. It's the perfect compromise, if you think about it like I do. Share and share alike, my brother deep in all counsels and equally chief in executions! Because even if sadly, Caesar the First got martyred to the point that a later generation's Bard practically had to make play of words on it, or tried to, it did work before that deadly precedent got set in cement. As the story goes, the precedent was pretty much set the moment that dude's blood hit the flags 'n' cobbles, and the next guy up was president-elect, in effect - or very much so. Why? Just 'cause. He took office later that same fall, or shortly therefore: it was a cold day in Augusta, that's for sure.