Tag Archives: SoDiesWesternCivilization

No title, no point, no purpose

The only subversive mind is the one which questions the obligation to exist; all the others, the anarchist at the head of the list, compromise with the established order.
EM Cioran, The New Gods, Strangled Thoughts

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Ooh, those zany French. Always good for a chuckle.

But what you talkin’ ’bout, EM?

Here’s my take: If you had six months left to live, information utterly irrefutable and delivered from an unimpeachable source, would you:

  • Floss your teeth?
  • Balance your checkbook?
  • Do the Mencken? As in, “Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”

Answers: No – No – And, hell yes.

I’m attemptin’ to write a serious essay™ and so far except for that Cioran quote it could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.  I knew I was a bad writer. I just never grasped how truly awful and banal I am, to the n-th degree.

So I’ve gone back to drinking. But only for a few days. Fortunately being an amateur, I know that “If something is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.” [Who the Eff said that? No idea.] So at some point the booze gets put down and another badly written load of twaddle will without doubt be excreted into an utterly uncaring world.

And, check this out…How big a collection of douchebags are the people who run Annheuser-Busch? Rhetorical question, since the answer is, of course, a gi-normous matched set, suitable for framing. What is messing with my head, though, is why they had to buy out Rolling Rock. Rolling Rock beer, manf’d. by the “Latrobe Brewing Co., St. Louis, MO.” WTF?  You don’t pull things like that on someone who knows Latrobe, PA for (a)Arnold Palmer (b) Rolling Rock beer and knows than (c) an “Arnold Palmer” is a drink of half iced tea, half lemonade.

Jesus wept. And Rolling Rock died. But I still love you all, anyways. Even if you are an Annheuser-Busch running douchebag.

Edit to add:In case it was not sufficiently obvious from the post, I’m drunk. I had an ancestor who’s death certificate listed the cause of death as a “diseased liver.” Why mention that? Dunno. I guess there’s worse ways to go?

 

 

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WordPress Annoyance, Pt. 87

I know I’ve whined about this crappy screen that seems to make an appearance on an irregular basis someplace or other, but some topics just never grow old.

Photobucket

Or at any rate it used to be on an irregular basis. Now it seems to pop up every time you log in. Why and what for, in the name of heaven? I’d rate it as useless to downright confusing if asked, but, alas, I’m hardly amongst the Powers that Be at WordPress.com.

Which brings me to my second irritant: This.

I made the mistake of following the link from that screen. And, ummm, WTF? What exactly are they looking for here? Someone to admit that they chopped up their grandmother in the backyard and baked her remains into a yummy casserole of Grandma Pot Pie? And to note that, nope, nobody’s caught me yet, but I’ve still got some leftovers in the fridge. Do ya think I should leave ’em be or eat ’em up yum as late lunch? (Note to the anal out there: Both of my grandmothers are long deceased, one in 1971, the other in 1985. This is an example, not an autobiographical sketch.)

All about the “art and craft” of blogging, too. Should I expect some Elmer’s Glue and little shiny bits so I can make a coaster, like I did back in the day at the YMCA day camp? One of my resolutions for the New Year was to try to be a bit less cynical and skeptical towards my fellow humans. But, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, how can I be expected to hold myself to such a task in the face of twaddle like this? Is it even possible?

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Pass the Ketchup, Time to eat some crow

This is too freaking funny. The first entries I made in this dung heap of a blog concerned Quebec and “Therapeutic Homicide.”

‘Therapeutic Homicide’ Yeeahhh, baby!

Theme Song for ‘Therapeutic Homicide’?

(Never knew Pee-Wee Herman was a punk rocker, did ya?)

Well, look who’s gonna beat Quebec to the punch (probably):

QUESTION 2: Law Proposed by Initiative Petition
Prescribing Medication to End Life

Me own glorious state! I think I got the biggest kick out of the whole business of having “two physicians” sign off on this. Like one doctor would ever criticize another. They’ve got a code of silence that must make the Mafia weep. And I can absiltively, posolutely  affirm that  if Netherlands can’t make the “safeguards” on their euthanasia laws work — and they can’t, in fact I’m not sure if they even bother with them any more (de facto overriding de jure) —  no way in hell would Massachusetts. The Dutch are relatively honest. And the people who would supposedly be monitoring this in the Great and Glorious Commonwealth would be people who know people., i.e. crooked as a dog’s hind leg and incompetent to boot.

Well, anything to further reduce the respect for life and (potentially) making it easier for me to go the Roman route, is a-ok in my book.

And I gotta give Quebec credit: MA is basically going to do the same thing Quebec wants to, but gussies the whole business up in hypocritical double-talk and jibber-jabber.

All hail to Massachusetts, the land of the free and the brave!
For Bunker Hill and Charlestown, and flag we love to wave;
For Lexington and Concord, and the shot heard ’round the world;
All hail to Massachusetts, we’ll keep her flag unfurled.
She stands upright for freedom’s light that shines from sea to sea;
All hail to Massachusetts! Our country ’tis of thee!

All hail to grand old Bay State, the home of the bean and the cod,
Where pilgrims found a landing and gave their thanks to God.
A land of opportunity in the good old U.S.A.
Where men live long and prosper, and people come to stay.
Don’t sell her short but learn to court her industry and stride;
All hail to grand old Bay State! The land of pilgrim’s pride!

All hail to Massachusetts, renowned in the Hall of Fame!
How proudly wave her banners emblazoned with her name!
In unity and brotherhood, sons and daughters go hand in hand;
All hail to Massachusetts, there is no finer land!
It’s M-A-S-S-A-C-H-U-S-E-T-T-S.
All hail to Massachusetts! All hail! All hail! All hail!

What is weird is that these aren’t the lyrics they had us sing at morning assembly in fourth and fifth grade. Don’t remember them exactly, but they were only tangentially related to the above.

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Ten Years After [What?]

Everywhere is freaks and hairies
Dykes and fairies, tell me where is sanity[?]

Ten Years After, I’d Love to Change the World, 1971

Could a song with opening lines like that ever reach the “Top 40” of popular music, USA style in this, the Age of the Panopticon? Since the question is of course, rhetorical, shut up. I ask, but don’t give a hoot what the hell you think. One must do one’s best to stay within the boundaries of discourse, American style. Thus my small contribution to the cause.

And since the question was rhetorical, it can only have one possible correct answer: of course not. Especially as one of the titans of the “entertainment industry,” David Geffen, is a rather outspoken “fairy” himself, and could very likely squash like a bug any musical group daring to stray into such territory. Such is the world we live in, with the masses fed pablum poured down the food trough by someone who seventy-five years ago would have been seen as a deviant (by “liberals”) or as a degenerate (by “conservatives.”)

So it goes.

In any event, I suppose what fascinated me enough to hold my attention for the maximum anything is capable of these days (about six and a half minutes) were the following:

  • This seems to be an interesting example of that  quote I will now proceed to mangle about the heart understanding things the head knows not. Obviously the song’s author had been completely and fully indoctrinated in the peace, love and “grooviness” of a 1960s mentality, and equally obviously some inchoate, unspoken bit of his subconscious mind was gagging about the whole thing.
    • The result being the confusion palpable in the lyrics, which of course makes the song interesting, far more interesting than the tedious dogmatic nonsense of other songs of that era
    • And might serve as some kind of strange footnote to the idea that a small group of the ideologically pure and sure can often rout a far larger though far less committed group
  • That at some point the “dykes and fairies” realized that the road to power requires they cease being “freaks and hairies.” And to their credit they have grabbed and achieved power on a massive scale via that route. Certainly to a point few in 1971 would have credited.
  • And perhaps most amusingly of all, the Wikipedia entry about the song hyperlinked in the block quote. The first two lines are mentioned nowhere, by whomever it was wrote the entry. No, the furthest the anonymous soul dared go is to declare “irony” in the chorus. To which I say nonsense. I think the song’s confusion is both genuine and rather depressing.

Still, one of those songs I’ll stumble across on the ol’ external HD every six months or so and givve a listen to.

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Glory, glory, hallelujah!

I am on the receiving end of spam porn texts. WTF did I ever do to deserve this garbage? Before I go through and delete the ones I’ve missed for whatever reason I figured I’d post them in all their glory here. I limited myself to five, and then two shots of the text listing pages, so the full telephone number shows in all its glory.

The thumbnails are links to photobucket. Click the thumbnail and you’ll get taken to a version of the image that is about 50% of full size. Cursor over the image and you get a magnifying glass. Click again. Then you can read them in their full glory.

Boy, when a phrase enters my pea-brain it sets up housekeeping, doesn’t it? The sad/depressing part being, of course, that Your Humble Narrator hasn’t the foggiest idea that this landlord/tenant relationship has been established until long after the fact, possibly to the point where said tenant could assert some sort of “squatter’s rights” and claim legal title to what remains of my brain.

I “glory” this and “glory” that three times in a mere 113 words, and had not a clue I was doing so as I was doing it. Even better, since each “glory” is part of a three (or possibly four) word phrase, call the total “glory” a glorious  eight percent of the text of the two paragraphs.

The only possible defense I might offer is that I was distracted by my flat-bed scanner. But I’d rather not go there, since it actually works fine. The temper-tantrum, flavored of course with a dollop of righteous indignation, that was building inside me when I couldn’t get it to do what I wanted it to resulted from my own stupidity. And nothing else. Meaning trying to blame that tedious prose on it is rather akin to saying, “No, your honor, I really didn’t mean to run those people over. But you see I was drunk at the time, so I was having difficulty with that staying between the lines thing.”

I’ve often wondered why I find it so difficult to keep a blog on any level at all. Finally marked it down to laziness, pure and unadulterated. But now I’m thinking there’s at least a tiny li’l element that with each entry I confirm my prose as being every bit as hackneyed as I’ve long suspected.

Why am I put in my mind of this particular Ani DiFranco song? Without plumbing — or more appropriately, roto-rootering — my subconscious, I’m saying jealousy. Jealousy at people who can actually do writin’, story-tellin’ and so on, and make it interesting, coherent, or hell, something other than embarassing.

Amusingly, if DiFranco and I ever crossed paths I’m guessing it would be about 14 seconds before we were screaming in each other’s faces. I would imagine that good-looking males of the species* can sometimes finagle such things into a horizontal bop session. I mean, you raise the passions, you raise the passions. But unless DiFranco has some deeply buried fetish for Jabba the Hutt look-a-likes, that ain’t anything I’d need to worry to much about§.

* – Particularly those with the ethics of a shark and the morals of a tomcat.

§ – Not that I give a shit at this point, come to think of it. Thanks to the cornucopia of pills I’m on whatever libido I once had is now long-gone. Or maybe uncured depression is at fault. Or maybe that low testosterone issue is worse that they previously thought? Or perhaps it is all of the above.¶ Rather depressing that I have already bred. Not that I don’t love the kid — in fact, if there’s a check on suicide, he’s it — but I’ve certainly done the child no favors genetically.

¶ – If I “don’t give a shit,” why am I mentioning it? I suppose I could burble some silliness about the hypersexualized society we’re living in, these last days before the Spenglerian/Toynbeean inevitable collapse that’s coming, but I’ll come clean. Must be from checking it at this blog from time to time. Fascinating stuff, in fifteen minute intervals. It is like a peek inside the head of someone whose existence is at such a vast remove from my own it is almost as though he and I are two different species.The difference is at some fundamental level that transcends politics, economics, or whatever other transient label that could be applied. Hard-wiring, “nature” not “nurture” here. Eh, I suppose I should do an entry purely on nothing but that blog at some point. I have no issue with the site that’s of any consequence, it is just so utterly alien to me I won’t even pretend to try to get my arms around it.

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Verizon the Vile

I am on the receiving end of spam porn texts. WTF did I ever do to deserve this garbage? Before I go through and delete the ones I’ve missed for whatever reason I figured I’d post them in all their glory here. I limited myself to five, and then two shots of the text listing pages, so the full telephone number shows in all its glory.

The thumbnails are links to photobucket. Click the thumbnail and you’ll get taken to a version of the image that is about 50% of full size. Cursor over the image and you get a magnifying glass. Click again. Then you can read them in their full glory.
Photobucket Photobucket Photobucket Photobucket Photobucket Photobucket Photobucket

And do you know what sort of “defense” Verizon offers against this slime? You can block up to a whopping five numbers for a whole 90 days. Which is just perfect here, since they never come from the same number, so it might as well be five minutes.

Verizon, your local porn enabler. Since their response is such a complete joke, I gotta think they’re making money off this somehow. So, in summary:

Dear Verizon,

You suck.

Very truly yours,

Lumpenprole Downwardspiral

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