Parting Such Sweet Sorrow

Apparently some people are having a Disapproval about the above Saturday Night Live parody ad.

They believe it cruelly and wrongly mocks the below ad from Toyota.

The Toyota ad is pure filth. It encourages fathers to raise daughters to become serial killers. It endorses the global death cult of the United States military. It is vile and disgusting—a wank for Thanatos—and it should be mocked.

The outrage should be directed at Toyota, not at SNL. Whether you raise your daughter to kill for ISIL, or to kill for the US, you have failed. You have produced a killer. Served as an agent of Death.

Daylight In His Eyes

dead man lyin
by the side of the road
with the daylight in his eyes

Boris Nemtsov, just before midnight, on February 27, 2015, went a-walkin’. Across the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge. There in Moscow. Hand in hand with his lover. And then he was shot four dea dman lying by the sid of the roadtimes in the back. And then he was dead.

And then at which time, everyone on the planet, who was not there, and who never before had ever had an opinion, even an inkling, much less any real knowledge, of this man, immediately leapt, vomiting, projectiling onto all and every tube, To Tell Us All What Really Happened.

The “news” from out of America, from the “right,” from the stream of The Main Thing, in articles filled with Lies, sed Nemtsov was a mighty all-good-things democratic warrior, ready willing and able to bring down, and mebbe even tomorrow, That Putin, and so he was for sure, bulleted on that bridge, by Bad Mad Crazed Vlad, and/or Vlad’s merry men.

Whereas the “news” from out of America, from the “left,” from the stream of We Really Know, in articles filled with Lies, sed Nemtsov was a fuck, a bought-off, a neo-con, a tool, a no-one, a patsy, a wanker, a Jew, done killed by his own, to try to bring down Vlad, who is Pure, and Good, and Righteous, and Without Blame, or Blemish.

Nearly none of these people, today ululating without surcease across the tubes, knew or know anything about Nemtsov. They are but robots. They have willingly killed their own minds. They have carved for themselves a reality tunnel, and severed all neurons that would lead to any Thought other than that which they, in that narrow tunnel—that straw—have already Decided upon.

To wit: US is Good, therefore Nemtsov was killed by Putin.

To wit: US is Bad, therefore Nemtsov was killed by the US.

They have, both and equally, willingly de-evolved themselves . . . long, way, far before, past, the monolith. And are therefore less conscious, even, than slime-mould.

They are of duck-speak.

From the table at Winston’s left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck . . . . He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented duckto Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase—”the complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism”—jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front—it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It was not the man’s brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck.

Duck-speak is uber-obnoxious—in truth anathema—whether from the “right,” or the “left.”

As Robert Anton Wilson came to understand, when, back in 1967, New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison went a-huntin’ for the killers of JFK. And, Garrison, he, Decided, he had ‘em.

That was when I really began to understand how arbitrary are the reality-constructs of the average human nervous system. The Establishment press was 100% anti-Garrison and let's have a wardenied all of his charges. The underground was 100% pro-Garrison and supported all of his charges. All the signals that could be organized into a “good” Garrison Gestalt were transmitted freely and omnidirectional in the underground press game, while all signals suggestive of a “bad” Garrison, or insonsistent with a “good” Garrison, were smoothly, efficiently reserved for the Establishment press game.

“My God,” I said to myself one day in early 1968, when this had become clear, “the left wing is as robotic as the right wing.” (I apologize for my naivety in taking until 1968 to figure that out.)

That’s okay, Bob. I mean, took, even Pete, a couple more years, to figure, even than you.

I myself know about Nemstov because I’ve been following him since 1991.

But none of that matters. All that matters is this:

Have you ever looked at a man?
There is something helpless and majestic about a man.
If you believed in anything, you could not kill a man.

A man has two legs. He’ll build a house—from cellar to rooftop, with his own hands. He’ll put seeds in the ground. He’ll watch the sun and the rain at work. He’ll take a woman to bed. He’ll find enough tenderness and love to get him through the day. You’d think that man deserved a little something. You’d think that man was worthy of a jot or two of sympathy and consideration. You’d think that maybe someone would say, Let’s just let him alone for a while, and see what he can do.

They try to fix it so nobody’ll care what happens to a man anymore.
I don’t mean millions—I mean any one man anywhere.
If anything is worth anything it’s because one man is worth something.
If any one man isn’t worth something, then nothing whatever is worth anything.
It’s all got to come back to any one man anywhere or it isn’t going anywhere.
Don’t tell me how interested in Confucius or Jesus Christ you are.
Tell me how interested in any one man anywhere you are.
You don’t get it.
You’d cry.
You’d cry if you could feel that.
It’s all got to come back to one man or it isn’t going anywhere at all.

it looks more and more to me like the only really important idea
is to say yes to anything that brings life
and no to anything that brings death

go into the darkness as clean as you can

Boris Nemtsov: dead man lying by the side of the road. With the daylight in his eyes.

Assuming, awaiting, the continuance of his yeslife.

His ending the ultimate anathema.

Boris Nemtsov. A man. Something helpless and majestic about him. If you believe in anything: you could not believe in his killing. Could in no way justify it. Could have no reaction but to cry. To cry because you could feel that.

No excuse. No explanation. No place. No reason. No right.

So: all you, with your “I know who did it,” and your “I know who did it”: shut, please, your unholy robotic guessing yammering ignorant pre-monolith yaps.

And recite instead, please, with respect, the kaddish:

say yes to anything that brings life
and no to anything that brings death

la la la la la la la la
la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la
i say
i say jane
sweet sweet jane

On His White Horse Mescalito

on his white horse mescalito
he come breezin’ through town . . . .

The corporeal container monikered “Leonard Nimoy” has been vacated. But Mr. Spock, he thank youlives on. For, as Robert Anton Wilson observed back in 1977, Mr. Spock, he is of an archetype that has occupied the human nervous system since the long days pre-monolith. And he will continue to occupy said nervous systems. Unto when humans move out into space. Moving there, in the great wide open, as they only and should: without bodies.

Wilson relates that he first spied Spockone day after the end of a peyote trip, when I was weeding in the garden and a movement in the adjoining cornfield caught my eye. I looked over that way and saw a man with warty green skin and pointy ears, dancing.”

Unlike the rapid metaprogramming during a peyote trip, in which you are never sure what is “real” and what is just the metaprogrammer playing games, this experience had all the quality of waking reality, and differed only in intensity. The entity in the cornfield had been more beautiful, more charismatic, more divine that anything I could consciously imagine when using my literary talents to try to portray a deity.

As the mystics of all traditions say so aggravatingly, “Those who have seen, know.”

Wilson next relates that in reading the works of Carlos Castaneda he encountered again this green man. Wherein “Don Juan Matus, the shaman, said his name was Mescalito. He was the walk this wayspirit of the peyote plant.”


The greenish-skinned, pointy-eared man I saw in 1963 has appeared in the folklore of many cultures who do not even use peyote. He has been seen most frequently, in recent years, as a humanoid extraterrestrial in various flying saucer reports by alleged Contactees. And, in the late 1960s, he began to appear regularly on TV, known as “Mr. Spock” on the Star Trek show, and has remained on the tube ever since, despite frequent network attempts to cancel the show and get rid of him. The fans always insist on bringing him back, and now in 1977, as I write, “Mr. Spock” is scheduled to appear either in the first Star Trek movie or a revival of the series on TV. He is an image, or as Jung would say, an “archetype,” that cannot be erased from the human mind.

Whether Mr. Spock, or Mescalito, this archetype, this spirit, is about, among other things, “infinite diversity in infinite combinations.”

That is who we are, that is what we are about, and that is where we’re going. Into the great wide open. There. To live long. And prosper. In infinite diversity. In infinite combinations.

Drive, He Said


God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance

Purse-lipped stick-butt prudes from Hell busted up recently a Saudi Arabian wedding party because men therein were Guilty of “loud music and inappropriate dancing.”

An unnamed official told the website that when members of the morality police raided the private property, they found the young men in “a comprising situation in their dance and shameful movements.” The official said there was also a cake and candles to celebrate atick itone of the men’s birthdays.

No details were released about how many men were arrested or their ages. The official did, however, say that the young men’s hairstyles and dress were not traditional, and urged parents to monitor this kind of behavior “because it can lead to immorality and even homosexuality.”

These “morality police” people are retrovert drooling fuckwads of the first order, who should be immediately dispatched back to the 7th Century. And without a return ticket.

People, here, in these days, are going to dance, and rub-a-dub-dub, and fuck, and what-all, and nothing you-all can, or are able to, do, is going to stop us.

For we are so Over you.

Wahhabi clerics view Western music as sinful and birthday celebrations as un-Islamic. The morality police are empowered to enforce Islamic law as practiced in Saudi Arabia, including enforcing dress codes.

We don’t care what your laws are.

And our “dress code”: it is nakedness and lubriciousness. At all times.

And so shall we fornicate, without surcease. To, sometimes, music, that is so Islamic, it even at last has an organism.

To wit:

Party, people. Come.

Stalin Orders Everyone Out Of The Pool

The invisible doomed disqualified death’s head who has decreed she will serve as the second noggin upon the mutant 2016 presidential Bushton body Wednesday morning Decided that the results of a Poll released by NBC shall Command that all Democrats must immediately cease javolrunning against her, or else be Liquidated.

The Poll allegedly showed that 69% of Democrats in New Hampshire, seems they Want her; in Iowa, she is Wanted by about 68% of Democrats; and in South Carolina, she is some 48% Beyond the nearest Democratic challenger.

“All the other Democrats will Quit Now,” Stalin spokeswoman Alegre Riverdaughter told Bedlam News. “Or we will march on a road of their bones.”

Also on the List of the Dead is David Axelrod, who formerly worked for The Black Man, and who has written a book that contains some Mean things about The Stalin.

“Why would you be undercutting your party’s next candidate?” a Stalin apparatchik moaned about Axelrod’s wanton public Trotskyist heresy.

“It’s not helpful, and it’s definitely not appreciated,” said another henchman. “Frankly, he is Dead.”

Informed Sources indicate that the Stalin campaign is furiously manufacturing and distributing to The Faithful blazingly sharp ice-axes with which the Brains of Deviationists may be Penetrated.

“We came, we saw, they died,” Stalin cackled gleefully.

When I Worked

March 2015
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