Archive for the 'Eternal Recurrence' Category

Friday News Dump

Published May 24, 2013 Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra Leave a Comment

—Yesterday on the Sean Klannity radio show I heard the second generation of the insane Paul clan indicate that not only is he running for president in 2016, but he would like his three nutso teabagger nutbag 2.0mates—fellow Cro-Magnon senators Mike Lee, Ted Cruz, and Marco Rubio, all of whom are also planning to run for president—to get out of the race immediately and endorse him. They are all loons, and seem fated to crash and burn together. People in other countries, and on other planets, are averting their eyes. It is just Too Much.

—Some Chinese mathematician has had a new and intriguing brainshower about prime numbers. People are grumpy about this, not least because he is over 50, and is therefore supposedly “too old” to discover anything important.

—The I-5 bridge that collapsed in Washington when the semi barrelled into it had been classified “fracture critical,” which means the entire structure could be brought down if even one major part failed. There are a lot of bridges like that—like, 18,000—around the country. It would be nice if the Americans would invest money in fixing such things. Would mean a lot of jobs: give the serial killers something constructive to do. But, I suppose not.

—In Los Altos, California, a woman was crabby that her estranged husband had a new girlfriend. So, she “went to the couple’s Redwood City construction business, dressed in a mechanics jumpsuit with bubble wrap underneath. She approached her husband while he sat at a computer, discharged a stun gun into his side, and stabbed him several times in the neck and chest.” He lived; she is on trial. I guess these things happen.

—News is belatedly filtering out of the Mayberrys about the 5.7 earthquake that rocked and rolled mountainous northeastern California last night:

Susan Shephard and her husband Alan Shephard, who run the Quail Lodge at Lake Almanor near Greenville very close to the epicenter, said they were watching The Hunger Games on TV when the whole building started shaking.

“All of a sudden things started falling off the shelves, mirrors fell off the wall, vases fell down to the floor, everything started crashing,” Shephard told the Redding Record-Searchlight. “It felt like the end of our world.”

Apparently crashing dishes and the like was the extent of the mayhem. No reports of deaths or injuries.

It shook the Manor pretty good, that quake. The cats held me responsible. So. Not only are they convinced that I control the weather, but now the earth rumbling and buckling is somehow within my purview.

The last time I felt a quake this seriously was in Stinson Beach, in what turned out to be a pre-shock to that 1989 shake-up that collapsed San Francisco. May this, not be that. Hard to know, though. Because there has not been much study of the faults that run through the mountains up here. That is because there are no rich people around. And, as is well-known, if it won’t affect rich people, it Doesn’t Matter.

—In that strange speech yesterday, President Obama told Congress to repeal the AUMF. Duh. The original sin from bad luckwhich all the War on Terra hath flowed. I used to grouse about that over on StormKos, but nobody wanted to hear about it. Someday the Americans will erect a statue to Barbara Lee, the only person to vote against it. Someday.

—Poor Richard III. Born into a non-ordinary body, his reign brief and tumultuous, whacked to shit in a field by an upstart Tudor. Then, 100 years later, with Tudors still running the Brit-throne show, Shakespeare dutifully transformed Richard into one of the most despicable villains in all Christendom. Nobody knew where the guy’s body lay more than 400 years, until it was unearthed a while back in some parking lot. They dug it up and ran it through a bunch of Science Man tests, and now various moneygrubbers are arguing over where best to reinter it. You see, it is expected that wherever it goes, people will come see it, and, therefore, whoever controls it, will Get Money. The family has now come roaring out to complain that the moneygrubbers should bugger right off, as their behavior is violating the European Convention on Human Rights. Because the guy has the right to have his remains lie in peace. Even if he’s been dead 400 years, and was, or so sayeth Shakespeare, a Meanie.

Fore

Published May 19, 2013 Africa , Animal Matters , Capital Crime , Caribbean , Destry , Eros , Eternal Recurrence 2 Comments

Golf is so Wrong, it’s hard for me to be coherent about it.

Once upon a time, I did pen a lengthy and somewhat lucid three-part jihad on the Outrage Of Golf. For one of the many newspapers that lived and died around here. Probably the papered remains, they are down in the Manor basement. Somewhere. Maybe, someday, I’ll run across them. And, maybe, thenbaby, I’ll re-screed the jihad, here.

For the nonce, though: golf, briefly, was devised by bored Scottish sheepherders, casting around for something to do while waiting for their erections to return. At which time they could again commence buggering the sheep.

As Mark Twain observed in this space, a wee while back, penile erectile recovery, it can take some time. And so there were many idle hours, for these sad-sack shriveled-scrotum Scottish men. Out there on the moors. Glumly waiting for peter, to arise again. Buffeted by the wind, encloaked in the mist. Desultorily banging with sticks a small ball. Through the sheepshorn grass. Around sand-sweeps and puddled-places. Into various and sundry gophered holes. Waiting. Waiting. For the rise.

It is a Known Science Fact that Scottish sheepherders inserting their man-sticks into the nether holes of sheep is how incubated syphilis. Pace those the-horror/the-horror people of West Virginia, syphilis marks the nadir of the Scottish contribution to Mankind.

Well. Except for golf.

After all: today there is a cure for syphilis. But there does not seem to be any cure at all for golf.

I once knew a man who worked many years as a groundskeeper on a golf course situated in California’s Central Valley.

This man: he was a good man, a wise man, a feeling man.

And so, the obscenity of his occupation, it hurt—hard—his brain.

To assuage the pain, he first, and for well over a decade, consumed, pretty much every hour, on the hour, mass quantities of the strongest mind-ripping marijuana. The paralyzing effects of this uber-gage transported him to places where few humans go. For instance, once, when, for reasons I can no longer remember, we were all sitting around watching Dumbo, he blurted out: “I am not a human being! I am an elephant!” The man also became obsessed with thewow, man notion that things here on Terra are so of the bungled and the botched because this world was designed and implemented by a “rookie god.” The creature had had no practice—this was the being’s first try—and so s/he bumbled out a planet utterly festooned with mammoth and grievous boners.

Eventually the marijuana could no longer do the job. And so he nestled next into methamphetamine. Which inevitably resulted in the day when he entered that congenital meth Reality in which it is absolutely Necessary to hurl the couch through the vast expanse of the full-length plate-glass window in the living room.

His wife, who did not join him in this Reality, in turn hurled him out of the house. He packed everything he owned into a small station wagon, and went into exile in Los Molinos. This is a small northstate community best known, to Those Who Know, for the Ewell-like family who dwelled for many years out by the town dump. The mother had died eons back, but there remained a father, and also many daughters. And so, each year, at least one of the daughters would come shuffling, somewhat shamefaced, out of the woods, charged with some errand like the family shopping, and bearing a newborn.

Yeehaw.

The reason why his occupation as golf-course greenskeeper so grievously affected this feeling man, so much so that he was eventually compelled to hurl his couch through his living-room window, is because, as he knew, siting a golf course, pretty much anywhere outside of Scotland, is an act of Insanity.

Golf sprang, naturally, from the place of its birth. Flat and/or gently undulating earth, covered with thick grass, watered by the clouds, close-cropped by sheep. Here and there, scattered about, smallish pools of water; bowls of sand. Maybe a spindly stand or two of trees. Some holes.

Golf, therefore, is fine—in its place. A place where sheep steadily crop the grass—as they do to this day on many golf courses in Scotland—and where the elements quite naturally dump down the youve_been_trumped_stillliteral rivers of water required to keep living and thriving the course and the greens.

It’s a normal thing, golf, for that sort of misty moist place.

But, as the photo there to the left demonstrates, golf, even in its native place, has, today, been brutally buggered into a place beyond absurdity, or even the Sane. Unto a shrieking maddened Court of Chaos, requiring that we must needs close our eyes, and then inject, into every available artery and vein, only the most potent of narcotics, so as to rid ourselves of the Pain.

furthur=>

The Unified Field Theory Of The Black Man’s Badness

Published May 15, 2013 Destry , Eternal Recurrence 5 Comments

The black man ate popcorn and laughed and laughed whilst he watched on the Situation Room teevee four Americans die in Benghazi, because he believed those Americans were teabaggers who had applied to the Internal Revenue Service for tax-exempt status, their teabaggerness identified through rhett blackmanAssociated Press phone records obtained by the Justice Department, writes Joseph Fawcett Farah in World Nut Daily.

“Everything with this Kenyan is connected,” chundered Fawcett Farah. “And what it is connected to is his Marxist monkey hatred of all that is Good and Decent and White in America.”

Tony Crankalucci, chief propellor-beanie of minddestroyer, has meanwhile confirmed that the black man’s badness is driven by “Zionist neurons,” which transmit Orders to an army of nano-engineered “Wall Street and London” operatives who circulate in his bloodstream.

Turtle Scrotum, titular head of the Confederate States of America, ejaculated in his pants on live television Wednesday morning, as he triumphantly exclaimed: “We finally got the darkie sum’bitch!

“His wanton disregard of these slain tax-exempt phone-record-identified teabaggers,” continued Scrotum, “there in some desert where brown people run around with the sort of guns the darkie would deny good white-blooded god-fearin’ Americans—this is more than the kountry can stomach. We will impeach his Kenyanness, and then we will steam-clean the White House, to make it fit again for decent white folk.”

CSA Congressmember Louis Gohmert Pyle was shown Wednesday on CNN utilizing, there in his office, very large crayons, in order to draft articles of impeachment. The first of which reads:

Articel Won:

He iz a Neegro.

Another World

Published May 10, 2013 Animal Matters , Cineman , Eros , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , La Musica , Sunday Services , Variations In B-Flat , What's Good 16 Comments

 

Reality Theatre

Published May 9, 2013 Africa , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Israel/Palestine , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 5 Comments

This week we were asked to endure the dog and pony show in a clown car known as “Benghazi.”

“Benghazi” is single-word shorthand for the most recent of innumerable attempts by members of the Confederate States of America to once and for rightall Get the black man, the black man who has committed the unpardonable sin of occupying the White House.

Though this week’s was hardly the first “Benghazi” “hearing.”

Oh no. These things recur cyclically. Like locusts. Or lice. Or scabies.

My favorite so far was the “Benghazi hearing” where Congressional members of the Confederate States of America, so avid to Get the black man, unthinkingly babbled and blurted, publicly, the classified information that the so-called Benghazi “US consulate” was in fact a CIA spy-nest.

During a recess, some Sane person advised them of their boneheadedness. They then came back to announce the hearing was adjourned, and that everyone should just forget all about it.

“Benghazi” refers to a September 11, 2012 assault on a CIA spy-nest in the Libyan city of Benghazi, wherein Bad Brown People succeeded in killing the US Ambassador to Libya, Christopher Stevens, an information officer, and two mercenaries contracted to the CIA.

From the get-go, members of the Confederate States of America wedded themselves, till death do they part, to a Reality in which the black man bubbled up some popcorn, and then sat there in the White House Situation Room, and laughed and laughed, as he watched, in real-time, four Americans die in Libya.

More recently, members of the Confederate States of America have hitched themselves to a second Reality. In this one, the lazy, shiftless, shuffling, bumbling black man went off to bed without knowing or caring one whit what was going on in Benghazi—downing a couple 40-ouncers, and then hitting the sack, so he could get up early to go waste the (white) taxpayers’ money by playing golf or basketball.

On Wednesday of this week I heard the towering ignoramus Sean Klannity advance both these Realities as if they were both equally and at the same time true.

For, in their hatred of the black man, members of the Confederate States of America have gone quantum.

You see, in quantum physics, it is possible, say, for something to be both a wave and a particle, simultaneously; for an object to remain whole, but also, simultaneously, split to pass through two separate doors; for a cat in a box to be both, and at the same time, dead and alive.

So too, in the quantum Realities occupied by the people of the Confederate States of America, it is possible for the black man to both eat popcorn and laugh as he watches Americans die, and also, simultaneously, sleep through the whole thing.

Clearly, people who think in this way, are not really using their brains. Their brains are instead locked leftaway in some deep shelter. To which they have no access.

It would be nice to conclude that it is only rightwhacks who suffer in this way.

But no.

For shortly before I tuned into Klannity, to monitor his latest arrow-through-the-head take on this and that, I had spent some time with a brain-in-deep-shelter nimrod who spins a propellor upon his beanie over there on the left.

Yes. I had paid one of my periodic visits to the twilight zone of Tony Cartalucci.

Cartalucci is an alleged “lefty” freelance froot loop who places pieces in the various turds that Alex Jones floats in the punch bowl of the intertubes, on the flaccid Iranian government organ Press TV, and with something called Liberty Roundtable, which foams at every orifice that “Masonic Jewish financiers” are “advancing a totalitarian ‘New World Order’,” with Jews as “foot soldiers and cannon fodder in a diabolical multi-generational plot to destroy Christian Civilization.”

Yeehaw.

When not sticking a hatpin through his frontal lobe at these other sites, Cartalucci also dribbles and drabbles in his own digs, a place known to me as minddestroyer.

During the 20 minutes or so I most recently spent surfing the Cartalucci minddestroying sewage, I learned that:

—The Russian puck band Pussy Riot—with several members currently in jail for offending Vladimir Putin and the Russian Orthodox Church—consists of nothing but “bigots and hooligans,” in willing service to “Wall Street and London.”

—Aung San Suu Kyi is a slavering murderer, jefe of a crazed cabal of “genocidal bigots” in monks’ clothing, a willing cat’s-paw of “Wall Street & London,” and guilty of “sedition.”

—Global climate change is a total hoax, perpetrated by “banksters and oilmen.”

—The Boston Marathon bombing was a “US/Saudi/Israeli” false-flag operation. At the same time, the two Tsarnev brothers—including 19-year-old Zhokhar Tsarnev—are “longtime CIA double agents,” who somehow suddenly and unaccountably ran amok. (Note that it is possible for the minddestroyers to believe that the bombing was both a US/Saudi/Israeli false-flag operation, and the work of deep-cover Western spooks who went rogue . . . in the same way that the rightwhacks believe the black man both ate popcorn and laughed while Americans died in Benghazi, and also was asleep and knew nothing about it. Quantum.)

—The Muslim Brotherhood is owned and controlled by Israel.

—The Chechen national resistance movement, which has been around for 600 years or so, was created by the CIA.

In this last nuttery, there is at least some Hope. For if the CIA did indeed found a movement that came into being some 550 years before the CIA itself was created, this means the agency must have secured the secret of time travel.

And since the CIA can never really keep anything secret for long, this means the rest of us will soon be able to be out and about time-traveling too.

And so we can then go into the future. To a time when people, left and right, do not keep their brains locked away in deep shelters. But instead actually use them.

Soon be the day.

And We Walked All The Way

Published April 28, 2013 Eros , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , La Musica , Outer Limits , Sunday Services , What's Good Leave a Comment

Food Flight

Published April 28, 2013 Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra 2 Comments

The chickenshitness of Adolf Hitler is well-established. The very last act of his life—blowing his brains out—defined the essential chickenshitness of his existence: he was too much of a two-year-old to stomach the prospect of a world where he eat it first, girliewas not, as my brother would have put it, “King Shit.”

Still, I felt a new level of disgust for the pure chickenshitness of the fellow upon learning last night that he directed that 15 young women be required to first consume his food, in case somebody had dumped some nasty poisons into the stuff.

I don’t care who you are, if you believe that someone might be lacing your meals with toxins, you’re doing something pretty damn wrong. And you need to stop it. Probably you should retire to a monastery. And if They manage to poison you in there: well, then you gotta figure God wanted it.

But to sentence young women to the convulsions and death meant for you—what a complete and utter chickenshit.

Why not some of those fine strapping young wunderkind Aryan men? Should not oodles of these oddbodies been fervently willing to give of their palates to Mr. Moustache?

But no. It had to be young women.

What an utter fucking shmaltsik shmutsik shmo. A shandeh un a charpeh. A feier zol im trefen.

Serial Killers Continue To Cry

Published April 27, 2013 Afghanistan/Pakistan , Africa , Asia , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 2 Comments

The nation’s serial killers continue to weep openly because they are no longer permitted access to the entirety of the federal treasury.

The latest disgusting display occurred Tuesday, when John McHugh, Secretary of the Army division of the American death industry, kicked his high chair and threw his rattle during testimony before the Senate serial killer at workArmed Services Committee, outraged that some 100,000 serial killers may have to be discharged from the army over the next decade.

Good.

Although 100,000 is but a start, it is at least that.

The goal, of course, is to reduce the number of the nation’s serial killers to zero.

McHugh blubbered that the Army already planned to reduce its ranks from a current 570,000 serial killers to 490,000 serial killers, due to legislation approved by Congress in 2011.

Now, he wept, the sequester will require kicking loose an additional 100,000 serial killers.

The sequester is an automatic spending-reduction program that the Republicans in Congress refuse to reconsider because the president is black.

As has been observed here before, true anti-war people would embrace the death-industry portion of the sequester as a wondrous and unexpected gift. And, from there, work so that the sequestered funds will never, ever, under any circumstances, be returned to the serial killers. Work until the Already Happened has been achieved: the nation’s serial-killer budget reduced to $0.

However, as has also been observed here before, there do not seem to be any real true anti-war people in the United States.

Certainly I have heard no hosannas sent forth in appreciation of the truly wonderful news that emerged on Friday: that in the first quarter of 2013, “[d]efense spending fell rapidly again, contracting by 11.5 percent as compared with the previous quarter’s 22.1 percent contraction.”

This is nothing but Good. Death-industry spending must decline until it contributes not a cent to the nation’s GDP. For no decent, civilized people would what it iswish to make a single penny off of serial killers and all their worldkilling works.

The McHugh serial killer, though, that ain’t the way he sees it. He wept before Congress that “the budget cuts could threaten readiness levels on the Korean peninsula, where military forces remain on high alert after North Korea threatened to attack the United States and South Korea. Sequestration has forced the cancellation of a series of training exercises intended to help prepare soldiers for possible combat there, he said.”

Good. No sane human being wants American serial killers to be “prepare[d] for possible combat there.” Prepared for possible combat anywhere, but especially not in Korea. For United States serial killers have no business in that nation. They all need to come back to the US. To be discharged. So that they may pursue some truly useful employment. Like, say, manufacturing tinkertoys.

As has been observed here, many times, before, the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years. And since the US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated. As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well. The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go. Since the US already possesses a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), Americans can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

No more serial killers. No more death industry.

Unless, devotee of Thanatos, this—hoorah, anchors aweigh, wild blue yonder, semper fi—is what you do like:

Bushed

Published April 26, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 3 Comments

They have built a library for George II.

Apparently the thought is that if they build a library for the guy, and name it after him, maybe he’ll go inside, pick up let's reada book, and actually read it.

The last known book read by George II was The Pet Goat. A child helped him with it. This occurred as hijacked jetliners were ploughing into the World Trade Center.

The human brain is a strange and even terrifying thing. Almost any thought can get lodged in there.

Consider the brain of John Hinderaker. This is a person whose brain compelled him to write the following lines:

It must be very strange to be President Bush. A man of extraordinary vision and brilliance approaching to genius, he can’t get anyone to notice. He is like a great painter or musician who is ahead of his time, and who unveils one masterpiece after another to a reception that, when not bored, is hostile.

Yes. Surely. When the histories come to be written, George II will be regarded as something like the Gesualdo of geopolitics—”nobleman, lutenist, composer, and murderer.”

Errand Boy, Sent By Grocery Clerks, To Collect A Bill

Published April 25, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra Leave a Comment

Here on this blog, we have previously considered the question of Texas.

And determined that that state’s sole reason to be is to provide a place to contain the full allotment of sand allocated—back in the planet-creating days of Slartibartfast—to the North American continent.

Pace the sand, there is simply no samreason for Texas to be.

And so, because there is No Reason, for Texas, other than sand, it is natural, these days, that when one considers an event out of Texas, the immediate reaction of any sentient homo sapien may quite probably be to reach out to grasp, as quickly as possible, the greatest possible gobs of opiates.

So as to Endure.

Because, without a mind soaked in opiates, there is simply no way to Understand, much less Accept, why Texas continues to Be.

Let us, for instance, regard the incredibly inbred yeehawed—and therefore quintessentially Texan—saga of the Marlow Brothers, back there in the Texas of 1888.

The full story is one that could only be properly presented by Sam Peckinpah . . . who is, alas, long dead.

And so here we must cut to the immediate for-these-purposes chase. Where Boone Marlow was poisoned by his sweetheart’s brother; his sweetie, unknown to her or to him, bringing to Boone the food that would kill him.

After Boone had expired, two bounty hunters—not among them his poisoner—pumped multiple gunshot rounds into his body.

So that they could collect the $1700 reward for his corpus.

Which they subsequently did.

However, when once federal authorities began belatedly beguining this typical Texas mischief, and tried to pin—quite rightly—the murderin’ deed on the original poisoner . . . well, said dude, who’d deliberately poisoned and killed Boone Marlow, claimed it weren’t him at all, that done killed dave and daddyBoone: the true dastardly murderin’ desperadoes were those who’d pumped the bullets into the corpse. And collected the re-ward.

Uh-huh.

I tell you this story, now, because the little slimy snotnose David Stockman, indisputably the chief rash run-amok economic asshole of the Reagan administration, is now, here, some 30-more years down the road, trying to claim, just like that Marlow-poisoner of 1888, that, he fer sure din’t do it, in this case din’t kilt the American economy—which he did—but it were instead them, who came after (Greenspan, Volker, Bush, Obama, etc.), who pumped the bullets into the already quiescent corpse, that really done kilt the guy.

Uh-huh.

furthur=>

Drone Who Thou Wilt Is The Whole Of The Law

Published April 24, 2013 Afghanistan/Pakistan , Africa , Asia , Capital Crime , Destry , Eternal Recurrence , Johnny Law , Liberte Egalite Fraternite , War On Terra 9 Comments

And so now the United States has determined that it is Vital and Necessary to establish and enforce tight and binding international Rules for the use of drones.

President Barack Obama, who vastly expanded U.S. drone strikes against terrorism suspects overseas under the cloak of secrecy, is now openly seeking to influence global guidelines for their use as China and other countries pursue their own o noez! chinese drones!drone programs.

The United States was the first to use unmanned air-craft fitted with missiles to kill militant suspects in the years after the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York and Washington.

But other countries are catching up. China’s interest in unmanned aerial vehicles was displayed in November at an air show. According to state-run newspaper Global Times, China had considered conducting its first drone strike to kill a suspect in the 2011 murder of 13 Chinese sailors, but authorities decided they wanted the man alive so they could put him on trial.

“People say what’s going to happen when the Chinese and the Russians get this technology? The president is well aware of those concerns and wants to set the standard for the international community on these tools,” said Tommy Vietor, until earlier this month a White House spokesman.

As U.S. ground wars end—over in Iraq, drawing to a close in Afghanistan—surgical counterterrorism targeting has become “the new normal,” Vietor said.

Amid a debate within the U.S. government, it is not yet clear what new standards governing targeted killings and drone strikes the White House will develop for U.S. operations or propose for global rules of the road.

Obama’s new position is not without irony. The White House kept details of drone operations—which remain largely classified—out of public view for years when the U.S. monopoly was airtight.

This is typical. One need only consider very recent history. Such as when the United States enjoyed a monopoly, or near-monopoly, in nuclear weapons, at which time it felt no need to establish any nuke rules at all.

And, indeed, that nation’s premier serial killers—a.k.a. “generals”—wished, and fervently urged, at various times, that there be nuke-rain-down-on-thee in Japan, the Soviet Union, Korea, China, Vietnam . . . even the freaking Moon.

They got their way, did the serial killers, in Japan. But never after. Nor, in their thereafter everafter lust to later nuke-rain the Soviet let's bombUnion (multiple times), Cuba, Afghanistan, etc., and on to the present day: Iran. Always, one of more civilians, tethered to the ball of sanity, have blocked them in their way.

Useful news, for those who perceive Reality through that glass-darkly straw in which the boys in the serial-killer blues forever get their way.

Anyway. Once humans not interned in the dirt-patch known as “the United States” began possessing nuclear weapons, suddenly a Great Flap swept across the American land, and it became at once Right and Meet that many and myriad Rules be established, to prevent non-’Mericans from getting themselfs a nuke, or, worse, Wrongly using one.

This is why, these days, every time you look at the news, there is something about Iran or North Korea. Something where some American is leaping and shrieking and running around with his or her hair on fire. Because some humans in these countries—Iran or North Korea—may be thinking about getting theyselves a nuke. And the US, sitting on more nukes than Midas has gold, and still the only country ever to use one to wantonly and needlessly and insanely incinerate hundreds of thousands of people, says This Cannot Be.

Decree of the US being: “I got mine. None, is yours.”

Now, I guess, we must gird our loins to eternally recur through this same sort of nonsense with drones.

furthur=>

In Which We Regard Two Proofs That Thought Is Alien To The Male Brain

Published April 20, 2013 Animal Matters , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office 20 Comments

Previously here on red we referenced the work of my colleague—a Science Man who is a woman—that determined that there are striking differences in the brains of male homo sapiens, as compared to those of females.

Here is some of what we then reported:

Women, their brains contain many folds, storing a dazzling array of information: from how to clean lampshades, to the male brainways and means of compacting more matter than exists in the entire universe into one small purse.

Men, however, their brains contain but two folds: one for sports, and one for pornography.

Building on her ground-breaking work, I have now determined that it is probable that in neither of these folds is present what is commonly considered as “thought.” It seems likely that male human beings do not “think,” at all.

I have obtained two proofs: one from the sports fold, and one from the porn fold. These proofs are presented past the “furthur.”

furthur=>

US/North Korea Nonsense Explained

Published April 18, 2013 Asia , Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra 3 Comments

the current nonsense

American Warriors

Published April 18, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra Leave a Comment

In many regions of the earth there exists an iconic representation that is said to embody the essential nature and characteristics of a nation’s people.

In Britain, for example, thereamerican warrior is John Bull, a stout, middle-aged, stuffy, twit, with a Union Jack emblazoned across his ample and protruding midsection. In France, meanwhile, there is Marianne, a comely, topless, determined lass, most often depicted leading the people against some Outrage or another.

In the United States there has been Uncle Sam, a tall, lanky, bewhiskered gent, with a penchant for pointing his finger at people, commonly as part of a demand that they go enlist in some wing of the death industry so they can sail off to kill non-Americans somewhere.

But Uncle Sam is over. The new real and true iconic representation that nails precisely the essential nature and characteristics of the American people is American Warrior. That is the fellow shown in the photo above and to the left.

He is America.

This morning the 60 Cro-Magnons of the United States Senate introduced legislation that will emblazon American Warrior on both the nation’s money and its flag. The design for the new American flag may be seen below.

American Warrior patches will also, by law, be sewn on to salutethe uniforms of all the nation’s serial killers, and American Warrior decals will be placed upon all the vehicles employed in the American death industry.

Programs shall be introduced into the nation’s schools to encourage American children to model themselves, physically, mentally, and spiritually, after American Warrior.

Hundreds of thousands of Americans costumed like American Warrior shall be dispatched across the land—like a sort of escape of characters from Disneyland—and those who do not salute American Warrior, as he passes by, shall be guilty of a felony, and will serve five years in the state prison, after which they shall be deported.

It’s a new dawn.

Senate Cro-Magnon Count Completed

Published April 17, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Rutting For Office , War On Terra 8 Comments

Anthropologists have completed their count of the Cro-Magnons in the United States Senate.

There are 60.

“Last week the vote on whether to even proceed with S.649 revealed that there are a confirmed 31 Cro-Magnons in the United States Senate,” Dr. E. Pluribusvote for rock 1 or rock 2 Unum of the American Anthropological Association announced late Wednesday.

“It was expected that votes this week on certain amendments to the bill would smoke out additional Cro-Magnons,” Unum explained. “And indeed, this has now occurred.”

The 60 Senate Cro-Magnons have been definitively identified as Lamar Alexander, Kelly Ayotte, John Barasso, Max Baucus, Mark Begich, Micahel Bennet, Roy Blunt, John Boozman, Richard Burr, Saxby Chambliss, Dan Coats, Tom Coburn, Thad Cochran, Susan Collins, Bob Corker, John Cornyn, Mike Crapo, Ted Cruz, Joe Donnelly, Mike Enzi, Debra Fischer, Jeff Flake, Lindsey Graham, Chuck Grassley, Kay Hagan, Orin Hatch, Martin Heinrich, Heidi Heitkamp, Dean Heller, John Hoeven, James Inhofe, Johnny Isakson, Mike Johanns, Tim Johnson, Roy Johnson, Angus King, Mary Landrieu, Mike Lee, Joe Manchin, John McCain, Mitch McConnell, Jerry Moran, Lisa Murkowski, Rand Paul, Rob Portman, Mark Pryor, James Risch, Pat Roberts, Marco Rubio, Tim Scott, Jeff Sessions, Richard Shelby, Jon Tester, John Thune, Pat Toomey, Mark Udall, Tom Udall, David Vitter, Mark Warner, and Roger Wicker.

These beings were positively confirmed as Cro-Magnons because they voted not to limit the magazine capacity in killing machines; not to outlaw certain military-style killing machines; to permit living-in-fear de-evolvies to conceal-carry their killing machines nationwide, according to the law of whatever Cro-Magnon state they commonly snuffle and knuckle-drag about in, even when they go hooting and stumbling into states where the people have evolved beyond such fear-encrusted nonsense; or not to expand background checks for purchasers of killing machines at (1) gun shows, where a certain form of being goes to buy death weapons, and meanwhile fondle collections of swastika belt-buckles, and (2) on the intertubes, where folks can, in the privacy of their own hovels, order themselves a passel of pistols while frantically masturbating like a monkey.

Most of the Cro-Magnons took the Cro-Magnon position on most or all of these measures.

According to Unum, these votes establish, “with 100 percent scientific certainty,” that “these senators are Cro-Magnons.”

“Only an ur-human could cast such votes,” he explained.

Unum pointed out that the United States Senate has traditionally been dominated by Cro-Magnons.

“These people of the senate, you’ll recall, are the nimrods who couldn’t even vote to abolish human slavery without a massive war,” he said. “Later, it took them decades to recognize the right of women to vote, to approve civil rights legislation, to end the Vietnam War. Etc. Etc.

“They never did get around to approving federal legislation prohibiting the mutilation and killing of black people,” Unum meet your u.s.senatorswent on. “In fact, the Cro-Magnon president Franklin Roosevelt deliberately refused to pressure the senate to do so, because he wanted approval of his New Deal For White Men.

“As he whined, in his patrician Cro-Magnon way: ’The southerners by reason of the seniority rule in Congress are chairmen or occupy strategic places on most of the senate and House committees. If I come out for the antilynching bill now, they will block every bill I ask Congress to pass.’

“The Cro-Magnon Roosevelt also heaved Japanese-Americans into concentration camps, and stuck his thumb up his buttcrack, massaging his prostate, while the Jews of Europe died one by one.

“Yet this Cro-Magnon receives fevered hosannas from white folk to this day. Because he threw some crumbs to some white men.

“So it goes.”

Unum noted that, in their time, Cro-Magnons have generally been regarded by the citizenry as just regular fellows.

“Traditionally,” he observed, “it has only been with the passage of time that it became clear that those who, say, could not oppose slavery or lynching, or support women’s right to vote or civil rights, were Cro-Magnons.

“But,” he added, “with advancements in science, we can now pinpoint Cro-Magnons contemporaneously. Thus, the positive identification of these 60 ur-humans currently bumbling about, in their dim-bulb way, in the halls of the senate.”

Slartibartfast, whose simple seven-word amendment—“all the guns are going to go”—failed to reach the Senate floor even as an amendment, remains undeterred.

“All the guns are gone,” he said. “Already happened. It’s simply a matter of waiting for time to catch up.”

Gray Day

Published April 7, 2013 Eros , Eternal Recurrence , La Musica 3 Comments

Scrambled

Published April 7, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , War On Terra , Wyrds Leave a Comment

“She was living with a pilot,” said Mrs. Pelling. “Tiny, she called him. If it hadn’t been for Tiny, she’d have starved. He was no more scramblinggorgeous but the war had turned him inside out. Well of course it would! Same with our boys, wasn’t it? Missions night after night, day after day.” Putting back her head, she screamed very loudly, “‘Scramble!’“

“She’s mad,” Mr. Pelling explained.

“Nervous wrecks at eighteen, half of them. But they stuck it. They loved Churchill, you see. They loved his guts.”

“Blind mad,” Mr. Pelling repeated. “Barking.”

—John Le Carre, The Honourable Schoolboy

Many Mansions

Published March 31, 2013 Capital Crime , Cineman , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , Outer Limits , Variations In B-Flat 4 Comments

(This a piece that, since its first appearance here several years ago, has never really been able to figure out whether it’s for Christmas, or Easter. So now I generally reprint it in both seasons.)

* * *

In my Father’s house are many mansions.

—John 14:2

A couple years ago, in contemplating Santa and Jesus, the two began to get confused in my mind. Santa Claus, for reasons that have never really been explained, devotes each year to overseeing minute laborers who fashion gifts which he annually delivers, in a single night, to all deserving children the world over. Jesus Christ, for reasons that have been variously explained, roamed for a short time across a relatively minute plot of land, uttering gnomic wisdoms, then was seized and subjected to excruciating suffering, so that all, deserving and undeserving alike, might be gifted with salvation.

When a sprout, I was taught that while Santa’s labors never end—a yearly, year-long grind—Jesus’ was a one-shot gig. Wander around Palestine, ascend the cross, into the tomb, three days later out again, brief appearances before various friends and lovers, then up to heaven for a well-deserved eternal rest.

I no longer believe that. I believe that, as is set forth here, “Jesus Christ suffers from now until the end. On the cross. He goes on suffering. Until the death of the last human being.” That is the mystic meaning of his tale: he suffers with all beings suffering in the exile of existence. And we are called upon to do the same—to grow to empathy, so that thy neighbor truly is thyself, and suffering everywhere, for everyone, may be eased. With this meaning there is no need for the resurrection. All of us are him, doing the same work; our work, his work, never ends.

For those who are wedded to the resurrection, the advances in science and philosophy in my lifetime, in the understanding of the multiple dimensions and multiple worlds about us, too mean that his work never ends. For the planets, it is now known, are innumerable, and so are the dimensional variations of this one. And if salvation is indeed his calling, he will forever be busy as twelve bastards, for there are those who need saving, inhabiting every one.

furthur=>

Vamanos

Published March 31, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence 3 Comments

The good folks at Lapham’s Quarterly notified me this morning, via e-tube, that today, March 31, as we slide from Passover into Easter, marks the anniversary of the 1492 Alhambra Decree, by which criminalsthose howling imbeciles King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella heaved all the Jews out of Spain.

Ferdinand and Isabella, they occupy a special place in the Human Hall Of Shame.

Not only did they throw all the best people out of their country—meanwhile stealing all their money—they also dispatched The Admiral to muck up the New World.

The full Alhambra may be found here. An excerpt:

We, with the counsel and advice of prelates, great noblemen of our kingdoms, and other persons of learning and wisdom of our council, having taken deliberation about this matter, resolve to order the Jews and Jewesses of our kingdoms to depart and never to return or come back to them. And concerning this we command this our charter to be given, by which we order all Jews and Jewesses of whatever they may be, who live, reside, and exist in our kingdoms and lordships, as much those who are natives as those who are not, who by whatever manner or whatever cause have come to live and reside therein, that by the end of the month of July next of the present year, they depart from all of these our realms and lordships, along with their sons and daughters, manservants and maidservants, Jewish familiars, those who are great as Alhambra_Decreewell as the lesser folk, of whatever age they may be. And they shall not dare to return to those places, nor to reside in them, nor to live in any part of them, neither temporarily on the way to somewhere else nor in any other manner, under pain that if they do not perform and comply with this command and should be found in our said kingdom and lordships and should in any manner live in them, they incur the penalty of death and the confiscation of all their possessions by our chamber of finance, incurring these penalties by the act itself, without further trial, sentence, or declaration.

The decree was not formally voided until December 16, 1968.

Songs Of Innocence And Experience

Published March 30, 2013 Eros , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , Sunday Services , Variations In B-Flat , What's Good , Wyrds Leave a Comment

“When I listen to him,” Zina said on the second side, “I hear getty image ; )a first boyfriend. Men are like malicious children, but he is like a first boyfriend, the sweet one. Maybe he is a merman, a child of the sea. In a rough sea, on a big boat, I hold on to the rail. Down below, on his small deck, he stands with perfect balance, riding the waves.

“I listen to his innocent voice over and over again. It would be a dream, he says.”

—Martin Cruz Smith, Polar Star

The Only Meaning In All Of Things

Published March 29, 2013 Eros , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light , Variations In B-Flat , Wyrds 6 Comments

“When I was preparing to be whatever it is I’ve become, I was sent to work in a hospital. Comfort the dying. I remember the mortuary there—it was very Victorian. Neo-Renaissance. In the foyer there was an inscription in Latin. ‘Let smiles cease,’ it said, ‘let laughter flee. This is the place where the dead help the living.’”

The older man in the group the bodiesgot to his feet muttering.

“Bummer!” he shouted at Egan. His heavy face grew red with anger; he raised cupped hands to amplify his voice, and screamed. “Bummer!”

“I’ll describe a picture to you,” Egan told his congregation. “I’m sure you’re familiar with it. A group of men are standing over a pile of corpses. They’re smiling and they have guns. Some of them have tied handkerchiefs across their faces but not to give themselves the raffish air of banditti—because of the smell.”

The priest wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took a cautious step forward. “That’s the big picture, children. That’s how it is now. That’s why you see that picture every week in all the magazines. You know—there are variations, the people, and the uniforms come in different colors, but it’s always the same picture.”

Around them the silences and the darkness deepened. Ramon nuts pattered to the ground through a web of leafy branches, making a sound like soft rain.

“Now why,” Egan asked, “are we made to see this picture week after week until it’s imprinted on the backs of our eyes and we have it before us dreaming and waking?”

No one answered him.

“Will these dead help the living?” he asked. “Are we to seek the living among the dead? What does it mean?”

“And yet,” he said, “and yet—where?” He opened his eyes and peered at them across the firelight. “Because you can stare into the faces of the dead—I’ve been doing it for years, I ought to know—and you won’t see anything. Anything more than plain death, I mean. You can look as sharp as you like, you can pray for a sign, for something, for the slightest hint of something . . . more. Not forthcoming.

“You can look into the dead face of the world, try to catch it unawares—no good. You keep looking, you tell yourself you’ve seen something, some little imitation, you know, of something . . . living. The Living. But it’s no good. You won’t. It won’t reveal itself that way.”

He had been standing, swaying, dangerously close to the fire. The heat warned him away.

“I mean—you look outward. To the stars, to the farthest nebulae. Not a sign. Or you look in. Close your eyes and look down from the outside in and what have you got? Blisters. Skin, eh? Flesh, parasites, sour guts and a little concupiscence. Then we’re down among our several intoxications and delusions and we find our minds, the little devils, the soulsthe devious protean things. Anything more? A glimmer?”

Some of them sat with their eyes closed looking in. Others stared at Egan or into the fire.

“Maybe yes,” Egan said. “Maybe, eh? Who knows down in that mess? But maybe there is something. A little shard of light. What is it?

“It’s the why and wherefore,” the priest said, “that little radiant thing. I’ve never seen it, you know, but it has to be there. It’s the life. The Life. There’s all this death and this dying and it’s the only difference. It’s the only difference things make,” he told them.

“There aren’t angels,” Egan said. “There’s none of that. Thrones. Dominions. All that business—it’s rubbish. But there’s life. There’s the Living among the dead. I mean, you can’t ever quite see it, can you? You’d hardly know it was there but it has to be, doesn’t it? It’s only mislaid.”

He was dizzy, his chest felt hollow. He steadied himself against the stone again.

“Because it’s there—everything’s all right.”

He tried to see each of them among the shadows and flickering light.

“You have to try and find it, see?” Egan said. “If you can’t find it you have to believe in it. If you can’t believe in it you have to hope you will. If you can’t hope then all you can do is love the idea of it. Love it at a distance if that’s the best you can do, children. Love it like a secret lover.”

He seemed perplexed by their silence. He walked around the fire into the semicircle they had formed.

“It’s the only meaning in all of things,” he said. “There aren’t any others.”

—Robert Stone, A Flag For Sunrise

And You Give Yourself Away

Published March 22, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Into The Light 37 Comments

Chris Colwell is an emergency room doctor in Denver, Colorado. This is the world that he sees:

“I see patients every day that are right on the edge of being unstable and are out there emiliein the environment, and they describe problems with access to medications, problems with access to psychiatric care or substance abuse care, problems with access to homes or to shelter,” says Colwell. “But they don’t describe problems with access to guns.”

This is how this man lives his life:

He sees gun violence victims on a weekly basis. When those cases are fatal, they are hard for him to forget.

“They’ll come in, and they’ll look at me, and they’ll talk to me, and then they’ll die.”

Hoorah. Second Amendment. Freedom. Semper fi.

The Way Of San Jose

Published March 20, 2013 Capital Crime , Eternal Recurrence , Johnny Law 17 Comments

San Jose is a renowned scum-pit. An endless expanse of smog, sand, strip malls. Of humans heaving with rage, impotently driving their fists into the steering wheel, progress stalled amid thousands of other idling internally-combusting humans, moving no more furthur than they.

Those who wonder why extraterrestrials do not simply straight-forward approach human beings, need only consider San Jose.

San Jose marks the southernmost stretch of Silicon Valley. That ant-like conclave established shockley the monkeywhen the pocket-protected variant of human concluded that lies and ignorance and madness should no longer be confined to podiums and pulpits, to printed treesheets and undulating airborne frequencies, to foam-flecked froot-loops shouting at buildings. But instead should at all times be instantly available to all, all over the planet, through one vast interweb, whereby anyone, anywhere, at any time, could consult a Reality where, say, it is Known that when Lindsay Lohan is sentenced to community service in a morgue, this is a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites, cruelly captive of a Freemasonic conspiracy involving those demonic US intelligence agents who also owned and controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” Sirhan Sirhan.

The Valley and all its interwebbing works the brainchild of one William Shockley. A deeply disturbed human who, once he had successfully dumped silicon into the human brainpan, flapped madly across the land howling that he had Looked at a Gene, and thereby concluded that black people are congenitally dumber than two fence-posts.

This sort of “thinking” for many decades informed the law-enforcement philosophy of badged and gunned humans in the San Jose region. A philosophy which involved beating with big sticks any black or otherwise melanin-infused human who Happened To Be There.

Today I see that this philosophy has migrated up the valley of silica to San Mateo County. Where it has been determined that land so poisoned with toxins it is forbidden to build residences there, shall house the new “San Mateo County Replacement Jail Project.” And thus, there, caged humans shall reside, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, week after week, month after month, year after year, stewing in their fellow humans’ left-behind poisoned juices.

Last week the aptly named Chemical Way was cleaned of decades of toxic chemical residue, according to the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department.

The site of the proposed new jail was so permeated by volatile organic compounds that the Department of Toxic Substances Control declared the land too hazardous for residential use. Unfortunately, it is still too hazardous to meet residential toxicity standards. The county cleaned it to commercial-level standards, which are lower, presuming that people don’t regularly sleep or eat or coming soonspend as much time in commercial settings. But the jail will have people eating and sleeping on site —24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

If the jail site isn’t safe for residential use, where most people aren’t home 24 hours a day, it certainly isn’t safe for the people who will be locked inside for months or years at a time.

Perhaps for that reason, the county failed to include a Human Health Risk Assessment, which is used to measure people’s likely exposure to toxic chemicals and whether that level of exposure is safe. Should we infer that the county doesn’t believe jails are residential, or just that the potential health risks to prisoners are not important enough to fully assess?

But you know: it’s all alright. Because these aren’t real humans. These are humans with melanin.

Black people make up 24 percent of San Mateo’s jail population even though they represent only 3 percent of the county’s population. Similarly, Latinos constitute 35 percent of the jail population but only 26 percent of the county’s.

It is time, I think, for some musical accompaniment. A number that not only explains why extraterrestrials do not straight-forward approach human beings. But also why there is some debate, out there in space, about maybe just erasing the place, to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.

When I Worked

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