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Eris doesn't need worshippers like that limp rag of a Christos. His  hand-wringing supplicants are a plague upon the World already. She asks for no bent knees, no pious penitents, she offers no absolution, nor bids her faithful to be washed in the sacrificial gore of some scapegoat's stolen life.

She don't roll like Jeehobah, she doesn't need constant validation from a flock of frightened, sinful sheep, mumbling empty prayers under the judging eyes and false shepherding of a Priesthood full of bastards, mountebanks and charlatans. If she bestows upon you, your hearts desire, it is not as some reward for unswerving faith, or dutiful worship.

Nay, it is with the casual indifference of a good natured feaster tossing the remains of the meal to her Hounds. Her gifts are not something that one should strive towards, for she is nothing if not fickle and capricious towards mortals. Would Paris have been so blind in his pursuit of Helen, had he known the terrible price that would be demanded of him?

To incur the displeasure of Hera, and the abandonment of Athena, just so he could play "Hide the sausage" with a Spartan Queen, stolen from under the nose of her Atreides Husband?, Had he known every King of Greece was to wage war upon his beautiful Troy? It wasn't even the first time sluttish Helen had been "stolen away" for her beauty, oh no. But the first time, by a Hero so pure he would not bespoil her virgin loins with his mighty seed?

No, it was a good, stiff cock that girl yearned for, not the weak, dribbled seed of old man Meneleaus. Her womb demanded she till it's fecundity with the hard stiff, fucking of a young, strong Prince like pretty Paris. And Lady Eris? They fucking SNUBBED Her! Fuck those preening Olympians and their pet Kings and Heroes!

Peleus and Thetis should have as their wedding gift, to see their Olympian Gods and Goddesses for the self obsessed, spoiled bitches and thundering spineless bastards they really were. The vanity of woman, exemplified beyond mortal comprehension by the greedy squabbling of deific entitlement.

"For The most Beautiful one"  She tossed her Hesperidic Apple into the sight of the three most vain, self obsessed, spoiled bratty bitches ever cut from the flesh of a demented child devouring Titan. So greedy, they couldn't even let Thetis, though sired by Zeus himself (but don't tell Hera) and their own half Sister, be "the most beautiful" one, even at her own fucking wedding feast!

Even in her glorious wrath, Eris (who loved a good game above all else) left an option for redemption. All they had to do was let Thetis claim the Apple as her wedding gift. Behave in a way fitting, not for Olympian Gods, but as Guests in the House of their hosts on the day of their Wedding.

Daddy Zeus, cock of the fucking block, patron of Hospitality and the bestower of a guest's right to be treated with respect, he could have put his mighty foot down, and slapped his squabbling family of bitches into line with a single word. But no, so spineless was he, so reluctant to have to go back to the Mountain with Hera's haughty disdain and icy cold psyhcopathic plotting of revenge, he abetted their appalling behavior.

He said he would mediate the issue, then delegated responsibility to Hermes. Who bottled it too, and picked poor Paris, watching his goats on a hillside. Then each would be pretty Goddess, in order to be bitchiest bitch in the bitch pile, and Apple owning Queen of the spoiled sulk, tried bribing the fucking judge. Unbelievable. Monstrous arrogance. Self obsession taken to it's ugly and catastrophic extreme, with not a thought of consequence, or twinge of conscience. Just as Eris had foreseen.

"Consequence, my pretty ,posing, shamefully behaved progeny? Oh, Grandmother Eris is going to teach you ALL about fucking consequences, you primped up over-privileged priapic bunch of superpowered toddlers! Game on, motherfuckers! (Technically, sibling fuckers, but hey, who's going to point THAT out to Zeus and Hera?)
Eris in one fell move, became Dungeon Master of the Olympian D&D Cabal. The mortal play people that Olympus had for so long been at a loss what to do with, they were going to make some fucking demands of their Gods now. They were going to have to work for their Ambrosia habits. Learn some diplomacy. How to make concessions,  how to back the fuck up a bit, and let these Mortals have their head. Learn some fucking boundaries. Rules. Gamesmanship.

Either that, or it was War in Heaven. With canny Hades, down below, with the souls of all the dead at his command. and jealous plotting, bitter, tricked brother, Poisiedon under the waves, played for the chump again. Waiting for his chance to topple Zeus, and take his rightful turn as crowing cock, King of that dunghill Olympus. No thought for the fact the Earth would be once again under his Ocean, nope, not with him up the Mountain, guzzling barrels of Ambrosia all day long. Thus went the dreams of Posiedon.

And poor Paris, his hard on for Helen was pre-destined to humble the mighty Greeks, to grant them victory over Troy, but to pauper them in the process. Agamemnon, proudest  and most ambitious King of Mycenae, and Meneleaus, his Brother King of Sparta, but only by dint of his marriage to (soon to be stolen away) Helen of Sparta.  Most puissant Queen that mortal man had ever spawned. Original Trophy Bride, the face that launched a thousand (yet to be built) Ships. Wife of an Atreides, the King of the Spartans, mightiest Warriors ever to pick up a Spear. And not really a man who would take being cuckolded by a mere Boy Prince of some far off City with good grace.

This Queen, Helen, was the glue holding the loose confederation of Greek City States together with her dowry, her beauty, and her placement at the tip of the triumverate of powers, Sparta, Athens, and Mycenae.
Casually promised to pretty boy Paris, as his reward for Judging in favour of Aphrodite. Her of the bottomless cunt. So the greedy eyed, cock hungry Daddy's girl, gets what she wants. A fucking Apple. With Kallisti wrote upon it's golden skin.

"Cock-a-doodle me, prettiest of the three you two ugly bitches, bow down to me"
Wisdom was not this jiggly titted honey dripping slut's forte. Olympus's in house rutting whore, Hungry cunted Goddess of sluts, skanks, and cum guzzling slags everywhere with a libido that surpassed even Zeus himself. Her proudest party trick was a cock in each hole, one between her pouty lips, and one in each hand, then bringing them all to bone juddering climax simultaneously, to the enthusiastic applause of those living up the Topside. Proto-Bimbo-Barby slut guts. (Still would though, know what I mean?)
"Attagirl" Zeus would say, under his breath
because Zeus openly admiring any female that wasn't her just sent Hera off into one of her squawking rages.

Slowly, the events set into motion by these blustering bragging irresponsible Olympians were coming together, mortal man's day was here, these unconsidered playthings, whose whole existence was so carefully guarded by Foresight and his brother, Hindsight , (Prometheus and Epimethius) and bought at such price and risk from Zeus;s wrath, now had the teeth that Zeus always feared they'd have.

Now do you start to see the depth of Eris's gamesmanship? See how her carefully planned vengeance would teach them ALL to behave a little bit better? Now Zeus would really have to put the family to work!  Each Olympian designated a sphere of mortal influence, having now to barter their good graces to this scurrying thing, Man, for goats and prayers and promises of fealty, and should they waver in their diligence,  the balance between the triumverate Sons of Cronos, Posieden, Zeus and Hades would crumble, the Kraken would awake, and the World would be lost.

The Demigods Zeus had so carelessly spawned with any woman shaped thing his dick fancied poking, had founded the dynasties of Man's Kings, and they all looked to Olympus. They could withhold their worship, or turn away, towards other new Gods. (They even had to flee, hide in Egypt and disguise themselves with Animal heads while Heracles sorted the Titan "threat" out for them. (He freed Prometheus too) And in this way, with acts of service, Man's Heroes,  Heracles, Theseus, Perseus, Bellerophon, Achilles, Atreus, Orpheus, all had Zeus's blood in them, and all founded Dynastic Houses, dedicated to their patron Gods. . . Deific inter-personal politics had to be learned by Olympus. The ages of Man grew, from Archaic, Classical, Hellenistic, slowly Greece became more and more apart from it's Gods. The mystery cults of the Orphic Mysteries, the Oracular Pythonesses, and their attendant Priesthoods now held sway, and spoke for the Gods.

Eris sits back in her rocking chair, playing Donkey Kong on her old Nintendo Gameboy, while Zeus bemoans the eventual fall of Greece to Rome, and the quick "shufty" to Romanised forms in order to survive. Eris, although Grandmother of Zeus, and older than the first thought, still as quietly powerful as ever (since her Game had never depended upon people's belief) rocks slowly, her hand rolled fag hanging from her smiling lips  says

"Sack up, Boy, you had your day in the fucking sun didn't you? You did deeds, great and small, noble, and base, your name is still written in the dusty books of Epimetheus's little side project, Man,right?"
Zeus nods glumly.
"They still sacrifice to you, The Thunderer, don't they? Your bolts of lightening still get to feed you, Zeus, now and again?"

"They strap the sacrifices into a chair of wood, Grandmother. HUMAN sacrifices. They begin to show the disease of Cronos, in the way they
feed upon each other, their young, their Wars, all so senseless"

"And where did they get that trait from then? You! You sticking your priapic pecker into their women, you passed Cronos down to them,.. . They are just doing with the gene what they have to, NEED to!"

"And Zeus" said Eris, Zeus looks up. "Since when did you, an Olympian and God, the Mighty Thunderer, Zeus, first of the mighty age of Gods, since when did YOU even give a fuck?" Her eyes twinkle . . .

"Since you fucking MADE us all give a fuck, Grandmother. . . you scheming old Bitch . . .I CARE now, I feel things like . . like I suppose mortals do" Eris nodded, sagely. Waiting for her once slow witted thuggish Grandson to follow his thoughts . . .

"Are we to die like mortals too? Is that what we have come to? An Ignomious death, falling in the dirt and leaving our bones to bleach under the Sun of the next fucking SunHero the monkeys nail up?"

"What am I, some kind of Agony Aunt for your morose moody grumblings? Get up, you moody emo twat, I didn't raise me no whiny lil bastards! Well . . . I did, but you're all grown up now . . . Grown. You're big grown badass son of fucking Chaos, get up and act like it. . .

You don't like your sacrifices all Human and fried? Tell them! Make them fucking listen. You're a GOD, for God's sake. You still have a Crew of other Gods, shake them up some, get a rocket under their arses too, go and do some fucking Godding! I mean it, now get up, and fuck off! I'm sick of the sight of your droopy mawkish face!"

Zeus, stung by the rebukes, and as always, more than a little afraid of this flapping old crone (funny, she was beautiful, young, and vibrant not five minutes ago) gets up, and slouches towards the door. "Forgetting something?" She says. "I don't think so" says Zeus.

"COME HERE AND GIVE YOUR GRANNY A FUCKING KISS YOU LITTLE BASTARD" She screeches at him, all crackly fire and sour piss now, incandescent. Afraid, but more afraid of not doing her will, he kisses her . . . "And"?  . . ."I love you Nan" he says, as hopeless as any other seven year old boy and his cranky old Grandmother.

"I'm proud of you Zeus, you know that? Out of all my ill-considered brats, and their own whelps, you are the one I was always so hard on (I said hard on, she giggled) You know why?" "No" he said . . .

"Because YOU were always the slowest witted, the stupidest, the dummy, the one everyone else took the piss out of. event hough you were the one that could take any three of the others on and whup their sucky arses, Zeus the Goose, what's the use? they'd sing.

You think you outwitted Posiedon? I had to get in there first and dose him up with Cough syrup and Ativan so that you'd not be the one swimming around with the fucking fishes! Pffft, Now get the fuck out, and don't come back until you've done whatever the fuck it is you're going to do . . . And when you do come back" she paused . . . "Bring us back a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream Love, can you?" "Yes Nan" . . . .

The Death of Vampires (as a pre-cursor to the Age of the NWO Zombie Apocalypse, and the eventual refinement of the Human genome)

The cultural transition from Vampires to Zombies is an interesting paradigm shift. Considering the Vampire trope has been pretty much present ever since Bram Stoker wrote Dracula is testament to it's durability as a myth, and it's ability to successfully transform itself according to popular culture's fickle tastes, has given the Vampire a rich and varied canon for writers to draw upon.

From "Nosferatu", to "Buffy",  from "Interview with a Vampire" to "Blade" Vampires have shared an ancient, pre Stoker commonality of rules, but not one so rigid that they couldn't adapt to a more modern World.
In Buffy, Angelus set a groundbreaking precedent, when his Soul was restored to him. Suddenly we had a "good" Vampire, one who was capable of giving and receiving human love, of (more or less) successfully adopting a kind of Methadone recovery program, where The Thirst is managed with regular doses of Pig's blood.  His atonement pretty much follows the AA 12 Step Program, with "The Powers that Be" being his "Higher Power",  The Thirst, being perfectly analogous with Alcoholism.

Buffy is his sponsor, her crew, are his meetings or support group, and his capacity to seek redemption for his past savagery, was returned by default with his soul. Angel is a true Apostate, he turns against his own kind and allies himself with the Slayer, the traditional Nemesis of his kind.

While this added an interesting dynamic to the theme, it also marked the beginning of the Vampire's descent from it's Zenith of undead cultural supremacy. All it took was for one major player (Angel) to turn traitor to his Vampire bredrin to effect this shift.

As a direct result of the Buffy / Angel dynamic, we became introduced to the Dynastic elitism that represented the Old School "Blade" type of Vampires . Despite the Quasi- Imperialistic conservatism  of their Ancient Clans and Houses, the rot set in. Complacent in their supercilious elitism, they're already doomed.

Angel's Vampirism, and his alliance with the Slayer's cause, was a symptom of his Soul's restoration. He was most certainly still a Vampire, (albeit one with a Soul) with all the same Vampire powers, strengths and heightened senses that he'd always had, and his inner conflict of Good Angel / Evil Angelus was explored thoroughly with the spin-off series. And Charisma Carpenter as Angel's Jiminy Cricket style conscience added a fap-worthy sexual frission, that Buffy's shallow, blonde, "psycho killer with a heart" could never quite manage.  This point is iterated over and over by just about every other female in the whole Buffy franchise being way hotter than Michelle Geller. Willow, Hope, Cordelia, Faith, Drusilla, Tara, Kendra . . . .sorry Buffers, but you're the ugly duckling. 

Getting back on topic, we saw Angel's spiritual healing, via his service to "The Powers That Be" and his Soul's growth away from the self centred psychopathy of his Vampire past and his subsequent rediscovery of altruism and conscience. But the nut cruncher was that he was still a Vampire. His polarity shift was a spiritual one, and driven by his Soul's restoration.  Angel betrayed every Vampire precedent for an inexplicable, touching, and occasionally hilarious Buffy-love.

Next nail in the trope's coffin was Blade. With him, we got a very different kind of Beast. Blade gave us a new Vampire type, the Daywalker. A mutated  Vampire "AntiChrist" who fulfilled some old Vampire eschaton prophecy, and who had evolved away from the Ancient Vampire traditional Nightbreed, and mutated into a hybridised Human / Vampire genotype, andf he could pass this genetic shift along to other Vampires, via a serum that allowed The Thirst to be managable.  More importantly, he had immunity to something that had been anathema to every Vampire in history, also something that every other Vampire secretly coveted. He could go out in Sunlight without getting burnt to a painful and permanent Death.

He also wasn't affected by crucifixes, Holy Water or any of the old bugbears that previously afflicted Vampires. Stronger than either Humans or Vampires, feared and rejected by both, his anti-Vampiric activity wasn't spiritually driven ilke Angel's was. Blade was fuelled by his own self-loathing, which manifested as a hatred of Vampires. He still had the pathological Vampire mindset. He still revelled in killing and death, but he had the biological needs of a new, mutated mix. Vampire and Human. A new species, with a clear, unambiguous inner conflict playing it's diametrically oppositional genetic imperatives off against each other

Angel didn't kill other Vampires because he hated them, he did it because of his growing morality, and idealism. He still empathised with his Vampire victims, but he traded off the bloodlust for the Panacea of being able to play "Hide the sausage" with Buffy. Then the idiot fell in love with the meat.  Things got . . . messy. A moonstruck, loved up Vampire, infected with ethical conflict is no good for anyone. His heart, broken by Buffy's fickle need for badboy sex with Spike, (Angel's 13th step Vampire project)  he took his hurty tender Vampire feelz, and left the Hellmouth of Sunnydale, and took his Bwaaah to (where else?) LA.

The "Wolfram and Hart" Law Firm explored in the spin-off series, "Angel" wasn't really much of a deviation from previous canon, but the Clans and Houses of Blade were.

They were modeled on Corporate Structure, and this factor, along with the War of attrition waged by Blade, brought more of the old ways crashing down. The Blade Vampires had unwittingly become infected by the human socio/ psychopathic mindset of Corporate entity.
Corporate Vampires are driven by an exponentially increasing need for money. So economics becomes their primary dynamic, The Thirst expands to include the need for an economic Power structure. This suggests the rot had already set in before Blade began decimating their Clans with his pseudo-shaolin kung-fu training, his Bladed weapon fetish, and his James Bond / Luthercorp spiritual and tech guru support team. 

The fact that Blade was also Black supports another aspect of humanity has crept in and infected the Clans. Racism. After all, you can say what you like about the traditional Vampire roles as shapeshifting Batwinged creatures of the night, Satanic blood drinkers. At best, amoral. At worst, Castle Wolfenstein style Nazi Stormtroopers of Death. Pathologically self centered, yes. Thirst driven evil frenzied gore addicts, totally.
But until Blade, there was no precedent for distinguishing between human ethnicities. But when the Blade Vampire Clan Chiefs say "Daywalker", they might as well be saying "Nigger", because Blade as "Daywalker" represents a new, divergent ethnicity of Vampire, and their hatred of Blade and his Cabal, is fueled by their fear of  "his kind" coming over and taking all their jobs, and walking around in daylight without burning up, mixing the pure ancient Vampire elitism with the unter-menschen  livestock.

Then it all descends into the corrupted, sanitised and impotent "Sparkle in the Sunlight" titwank of Twilight. And I'm not even going to examine that any further, save to say that it's proof that the much loved Vampire trope is dead. All that's left is the twitching undead corpse of Edward Cullen, trying to pass his cold, lifeless seed into Bella's (Humanity's) genetically unviable uterus, and everyone is focused on the CGI False Flag enemy of the Lycans. Pffft!

Too late, Vampire Bitches! You took your eye off the ball, and now you have to pay the inevitable price of failure. Prepare yourselves for the New World Order. The Plague of the Zomby Apocalypse will ensure that none but the strongest and most adaptable of the Homo genome survives.

Homo Sanguinus and Homo Lupus will become obsolete, and die out like Neanderthal Man. Blade in this aspect,  becomes the Luciferic Messiah, the Herald of the New Dawn taking the Light to the Dark places of the Old Ones. Blade ensures the Homo Sapien type aligns itself with the hybrid vigour of his own "Sapio-Sanguinus" genome.

Only an alliance of this type can prevail against the genetically engineered "Crossed"  super-infection of sadistically priapic rape-zombies. Devoid of morality, conscience, and impulse control, these Plus-faced fucks will rape, ravage and decimate humanity's weakest, until their built in lack of self preservation, and propensity towards bi-polar boredom sees them die of exposure, starvation,   
or disease. And out of this ruined World's rubble and bones, from their refuges, bunkers, and fortified hiding places, steps the New Flesh.

                                   When you hear them calling out in the Streets,
"Hide yo Dolphins, hide yo chillun, hide yo clean-faced humans, dey's comin' an they's a rapin'!"
                                          You'd better start running for the hills.

Where to start? Well, I got this thing going. With this crazy chick. I've known her for some time now, and some of you know her too.  And as far as I can tell, none of you like her. She's posted here before, and although she's not said so directly, I think she feels pretty fucking tainted by the whole experience.  But that's OK, I suppose, After all, PD doesn't suit everyone.

I've been here, what?  about 2 years now?
I've really enjoyed most of it. Some of you, I hold in very high esteem. No shit. For real. Most of you, I like  immensly. Some of you, I like less. But there you go. Can't be all things to everyone. I can pretty much roll with most people, without falling out with them. In fact, I think I'm pretty laid back for the most part. And this place has really made me feel better about the whole World from time to time, and that's no mean feat. I like it here.

But anyway. back to my crazy chick. She has never asked me to defend her, She doesn't need me to defend her. And I wouldn't presume to speak for her.
I have, with her, got something rare. She's not like most other people I've ever met. We get on. We have an affininty. We talk about important stuff, we talk about meaningless shit, we talk about random stuff. Or we can share a comfortable silence. She talks lots about her children. She doesn't have a man looking out for her, but I do what I can to help. I don't do too badly from the relationship either. We're tight. And like I said, I've known her a few years. She's very special to me.  And to be honest I'd be kinda lost without her. And she trusts me. Trusts me well enough to tell me all her crazy shit. Trusts me not to tell her wrong. It's all good.

She's intelligent, educated, travelled. She is at times infuriating,  opinionated, and stubborn. Occasionally, she  gets magnificent in wrath. Like only Women truly ever do. And she fights like a fucking Tiger, and doesn't take any shit from anyone. I think that's pretty fucking cool beans. 

I got some shit to do now, but if anyone would like to comment, on anything I've said, feel free. Obviously I'd rather this didn't descend into fucking chaos, but y'know, whatever. I'll put it out here anyway.

This was an answer to &*@"%'s  libertarian apologist comment that The Gods are even more bound by their Deific lack of social skills than we are.
Well, I think it's  about time someone taught them some fucking manners. So I propose turning Mt Olympus into a Re-deification Centre. (I nearly suggested a "Re-hab", but those fuckers were never habilitated in the first place)

Which makes me think that the Titans should get the job of socialising them properly. Prometheus can teach them planning, and goal realisation. Epimetheus can teach them about consequences. And Atlas can teach them about the weight of responsibilty.

Athena can get her gender reassigned.

Apollo can get some therapy for his egocentricism.

Zeus and Hera can get a divorce.

Aphrodite can get an account at Freecams, maximise her demographic and fulfilling her psycho-social compulsion to be 'The prety one'.

Hermes can have a facebook account, as long as he stops being such a shit stirring gossipy little bitch.

Hestia can be given every weekend off, so she's not stuck up there 24/7 doing all the Housework for those other lazy bitches.

Hephaestus can get some Family therapy, with Zeus and Hera to resolve the issues he must have after getting thrown off the Mountain that time. (And get his Cousin Asclepius to do something with his gammy lag)

Ares can get some help with his people skills. War is not always the answer.

Eros can get a dose of good penicillin, stop hanging around with dolphins.and being such a fuck monkey.

And before any of these fuckwads are allowed back off the Hill, they have to pass a Parole board hearing. And satisfy the board that they hold no risk of buggering about again, and messing shit up.

They may be reassigned Deific duties again, but only on a Meritocratic basis. And at my discretion.

Helpful suggestions anyone?

And there should be more co-operation between the Board of Directors. Zeus, Hades, and Posiedon should have an Exchange program, where each one has to be able to do the other two's jobs, with efficiency, and understanding. Then they could put that sibling rivalry thing behind them, and put those trust issues to bed.

Might be a stupid question, but if a magnetised needle pointed South instead of North, would our map of the World look like this?

85% of  US Children show at least half a dozen behavioural markers for psychopathy, Nobel winning Psychologist Dr Lulzy McCuntbubble revealed this morning.  He said, of the secret tests whose results came out last week,  "Half of the children diagnosed will be medicated with Adderal, according to accepted ADHD protocols. The other half are to be enrolled in behavioural realignment centres, to undergo new 'Positive re-imprinting sessions' (Beta) to minimise the impact of their 'Dystopic parental engrams'.

The Investors will sanction the whole program as "Conducive to maximising potential erg quotient per unit processed". Then the whole team  get jobs in Pharmaceutical research. Military Applications of boundary re-alignment therapy., or some other fucked up way to abuse every neuro reprogramming bio-aug compound they find.

Not as a ladder to help us climb out of the psycho septic environment we seem to have been slopping around in forever, but to tunnel deeper into the stinking  turdstack of tradition, patriotism, and daily def-con updates after every weather report. The bastards. 

In Financial News tonight, Share prices in FucktechCorps have increased by a record 3300% in the last hour, despite their hostile takeover bid for SmithKlineBeecham collapsing earlier this morning. A spokesman for the Federal Wall St Reserve Stock Executive,  said the Markets this morning were "Ready for another good skullfuck".

In other News tonight, blah blah blah blah Eurofap blah bukkake wibble Angela Merkle egg on face.
£ Sterling blah blah burble gurp full of win.

Austroslavinian Insurgents invade France over imagined Nazi taunts .
France welcomes new administration with Gallic shrugs. Then blames Britain's "Soap Embargo" for the systematic breakdown of personal hygiene standards from Paris to Provence last year.

Britain's Foreign Secretary Howard Marks described the accusations yesterday as a "Load of old whiny bollocks".

Another 3000 Americans were Jailed yesterday for refusing to pay President Phelps' controversial Rapture Tax, bringing the total to 3,750,912 this year alone. Phelps has an unprecedented 100% backing from Congress, for a progressive new series of Interment programs to pick up the slack in the Prison system. Vice President Arpaio vowed yesterday to "Get the rest o' them Tax evading bastards safely locked away before next year's Tuscon Olympics".

Luckily, Mexico's successful bid for the menial labouring jobs means the newly formed Arizona Beachfront Olympic Complex can be built without cutting into the State Internment Budget.

Israel said yesterday that there would be no Enquiry into the Extra Judiciary Killing of Tony Blair by Mossad Agents last March. The evidence he was due to give in his Trial for alleged involvement in an Eastern European Paedophile / Downs syndrome sex trafficking ring will now not be heard, and the collapse of the other 92 cases that hinged upon Blair's vital testimony is expected to be announced later today.

In the Former Chinese territories yesterday, it was reported that . . . . . . . . . .  well, who the fuck cares?  Now, a word from The Lifestyle and Nutrition Agency about new Federal food sanctions.  Don't touch that dial . . .. .     

I decided to take my work underground to stop it falling into the wrong hands. I can't tell a wrong hand from a hole in the ground though. So I buried everything in a hole. In the ground. I'll need a hand to dig it up again though. A left hand. (Just so there's no ambiguity about right hands / wrong hands) Left hands are the best anyway. I'm left handed solely on the strength of left hands being superior to the right. It doesn't mean anything sinister.
Yes, I know it really does mean sinister, but only if you are being Mr Pedantic pants. And I'm not.

By the leeeeft, (Always by the left) quick, March! Takes me back. The King's shilling. Square bashing, Yomping 45 miles to Goose green, Polishing the Brigadier's swagger stick every morning, shiny, shiny brass buttons, Nothing to eat except Bully beef and ship's biscuits, teach Jerry to mix it with an Englishman when his dander's up and the red mist rises over Primrose Hill. It'll all be over by Christmas boys, then it's Bluebirds over my white Vauxhall Nova, 5 Months Tax and MOT. *sighs* I guess we all died a little in that damned War!

How many lawyers does it take to change a light bulb?

Whereas the party of the first part, also known as "Lawyer," and the party of the second part, also known as "Light Bulb," do hereby and forthwith agree to a transaction wherein the party of the second part (Light Bulb) shall be removed from the current position as a result of failure to perform previously agreed upon duties, i.e. the lighting, elucidation, and otherwise illumination of the area ranging from the front (north) door, through the entryway, terminating at an area just inside the primary living area, demarcated by the beginning of the carpet, any spillover illumination being at the option of the party of the second part (Light Bulb) and not required by the aforementioned agreement between the parties.

The aforementioned removal transaction shall include, but not be limited to, the following steps:

The party of the first part (Lawyer) shall, with or without elevation at his option, by means of a chair, stepstool, ladder or any other means of elevation, grasp the party of the second part (Light Bulb) and rotate the party of the second part (Light Bulb) in a counter-clockwise direction, this point being non-negotiable.
Upon reaching a point where the party of the second part (Light Bulb) becomes separated from the party of the third part ("Receptacle"), the party of the first part (Lawyer) shall have the option of disposing of the party of the second part (Light Bulb) in a manner consistent with all applicable state, local and federal statutes.
Once separation and disposal have been achieved, the party of the first part (Lawyer) shall have the option of beginning installation of the party of the fourth part ("New Light Bulb"). This installation shall occur in a manner consistent with the reverse of the procedures described in step one of this self-same document, being careful to note that the rotation should occur in a clockwise direction, this point also being non-negotiable.
Note: The above described steps may be performed, at the option of the party of the first part (Lawyer), by any or all persons authorized by him, the objective being to produce the most possible revenue for the party of the fifth part, also known as "Partnership."


eta; Come on, everybody knows one. . . . . . . One Imperial Fuckton of comedy kudos for the crappest joke.

To the driver of that green mk1 Ford Fiesta. (They know who they are)

Look, what you did, all that time ago has been burning inside me like a fire, ever since you did it, to the extent that I've lost weeks of my life, just planning revenge, and destruction to be visited upon you, by me, at the first opportunity, you fucking nasty evil motherfucker
I have walked through a red mist, of your spilled lifeblood for so long, it became a constant scream that never stopped, not for a minute, and even now, is baying for me to take your life.  I hope against hope, the consequences of what you did, have not been gentle with you. I like to think you have suffered greatly because of your actions, as did your victim. However, I'm telling you this because I've decided that I'm no longer seeking your death, or going to kill you. You know what you've done, and you know I have every reason to strike you down in vengeance and retribution. But. . . . . . I forgive you.

But I can no longer be bothered with it, and I'm writing this, to you, just in case you were unaware of how much your actions have affected my life. 
I trust next time you want to want to drive too fast around a corner, you'll think of my poor dead, squashed Tigger Puss, and slow down, you Cat murdering bastard!

OK, I'm done, the cat is long dead, I'm not consumed with revenge anymore, but you are still a cat killing motherfucker!
Love, BadBeast.

"Dear Aunrty BadBeast,
My Boyfriend dumped me when I admitted to him that I was cross gendered. Can I sue him for breach of something or other?
Love, Puberta."

Well, Pubert(a) ?,
There's a little bit more to it than that, isn't there Sweety?
It was the way that you told him that drove him away.
Coming home all drunk, and saying you had "something important" to ask him?  (OK, up until now)

Making him wear a blindfold?  That was a really vulnerable moment for him.
And  then, according to his friend, (Who was ONLY IN THE KITCHEN, FFS!!)
You said  "I have a lovely surprise for you, Big Boy, open your mouth!"
He thought it was going to be a Hearts and flowers moment, and that you were going to ask him to marry you!
But  then you said, (And I quote) "Open wider Baby, I've got a throb on, and it's going right in your pie-hole",  then tactlessly  forced him to fellate your new p3nis, in an act of brutal mouth raep!
Well, it came as a bit of a shock to the poor fella, know what I mean?

He said the real clincher,  and what really drove the big spiky stick of skullfuck so  irretrievably deep into his poor abused and battered heart, was the fact that your new c0ck is nearly TWICE THE SIZE OF HIS!

And asking him to refer to it as your "Flame Grilled Whopper" as you almost drowned him with your "Special sauce"??  That was *ahem* the Icing on the Cake!
That must be the crassest thing I ever heard, and beleive me, I've heard some real doodies!

So, In summary, NO, OF COURSE YOU CAN'T SUE HIM, YOU STUPID BITCH!
(And forgive me if I quote your own, long suffering and thankfully, dead Mother's last words here)

"Pubert, Sweety, I love you like a Son,  but you have all the tact and charm, of a pair of badly wrapped, shit sharted underpants, in a 'special' child's Christmas stocking.  If there's any Justice at all in this World, you will die alone, in pain, with sharp things in your face."
(That woman had a rare gift for understatement if you ask me)
I know it sounds a bit brutal, but that's only because I am enjoying this so much  I care about you. ( lol)
Now fuck off.
Hope this helps Dear,   Aunty BadBeast, x.

Interesting retrospective documentary on the History of Anarcho-Punk.  Much rare footage of bands like
Crass / Conflict / Subhumans / Liberty / Toxic Waste / Chumbawamba / Sacrilege / Inner Terrestrials.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOsQZkWW_eo&feature=related

I was looking for the "Emo breakup poetry" thread, but I couldn't find it. So here's an extended mawkish rewrite of the ghastly drivel I (think I) posted in there ages ago.
*Giggle, cut, sob, ouch oops!*   

I've called it "Bwaaaaah".

Oh God, oh God, whyyy did you leave me?
Every waking breath I feel your loss like a broken bottle in my throat!
I get out of bed (Our bed!) sobbing.

At night, I weep into my pillow. (Your pillow)
I gave you my everything! (Bitch) It was always you.
You were always the one. The one for me. And you LEFT! (hateyouhateyousob)

I gave you my  beating heart, but you sucked it dry!  (Slagbitchslag)
Tossed a blackened, broken, septic thing back to me.
As you walked out the door.

I tried to win you back.
(IN VAIN)
Waited outside your work.
(You had me arrested)
Bought you gifts.
(You sent them them back)
Bought you more gifts.
(Your Brothers kicked my arse)
I sat outside your house. All weekend.
(Arrested again)
Why do you HATE me? Why?

I've already forgiven YOU!

(Or I would if you came back)
I can change! Be different!
Be what you want me to be!
(hateyouhateyoukillyoubitchslag)
Just tell me! What do I have to doooooooo,. . . . . . . .?

I fucking love you!  Does that mean nothing at all?
You!
Who nodded sagely, whenever anyone said "Love is all you need"
(Like some demented Yoko)

I fucking Love you!
You!
You fed all my cravings with your casual, well rehearsed cut scenes!
(I can see that now)

You created me out of lust, need, and insecurity.
And then you left me to bleed out my lifeblood,
drip by drip, in this solitary translucent travesty of living.

You were happy to play the Sun, to my orbital worshipping planet. 
Now you choose to obscure your face, in a perpetual semi eclipse.

"Is my agony of shattered need too painful to see"? I asked. Hopefully.
(I could have worn that)

"No" You replied.
"It's just boring, dull and pointless".
(saltintheoppenwound)

But I fucking Love you!
(Love fucking you)
Is that worth so very fucking little?  Isn't my suffering enough for you?
And it IS you I suffer for,. You must know that.

I can suffer more.
Oh yes, I can twist the rest of my sorry, pointless life into one huge monument of suffering if I have to! (But only for you)

How much more do you want? Do you need? 
(I'll show you suffering)
Lifesucker! IhateyouBITCHSLAGWHOREhateyou)

Oblivious to my pain.
I see you "Enjoying your own space" as you so crassly put it.
Only I know you.
I can see the real you.
You think your pain is too good for the World.
(Why aren't you hurting too?)
Give me a glimpse of your fucking pain!
(Bitch!)
Show me YOUR hurt!
(Then I can draw a line under this whole thing!)

Just a small thing.
(You owe me that, at least)

My life?
Now burned to a crisp in the flame of your indifference.

My Will?
Ground out under the heel of your absence like a cigarette butt.
(Smoked to the very last drag)

With nonchalent levity, I see you walk down the street, like I wasn't even there!
(OK, so I wasn't really there, but I know)

I fucking hateyouhateyouyHATEyou!
I slashed myself, sobbing in the twilight stinkhole of my dank, darkened lair .
And I forgave you!

All this pain that you're causing me.
(over and over)
I forgave you before you even ASKED me to!

Forgiveyou, loveyou, worshipyou, needyou, missyou hateyou fuckyou!
FUCKYOUyou COLDheartlessBitch! 
HateyouforthisthingthatIam!

(You made me!)
Broken, empty, used up.

(You did this!)
Useless. A thing of pain, need, and sorrow.
(I drowned, long ago in my own tears!)

To suffer is my only function now. And even this I can bear. 
(If  you would only just acknowledge me) 

But you only know how to ignore me now.
I'll make you notice me, again. 
(One last time)
I will.
(I did)
What you see hanging before you, in your bright, cheery stairwell is just my empty husk!
Swinging gently with the last momentum of the drop.

"It's too late now!" I say.
(Or I would say)

Can you see my life drain away? 
*Futility*
As you try to cut me down?
(You should have thought of that)

You tore out my heart! My soul.
(My fucking LIFE!)

So how does that feel? 
(Bitch!)

Do you miss the taste of my suffering, now that it's over?
No more suffering.
(For me)

Your's is just beginning!
(Oh yes)

Is this what you wanted?
(Ha! 'Cos it's too late now!)

Has the sweet taste of victory turned to ashes in your mouth yet?
Has it?
(???)

Is this what you what you wanted?
(Help, help me, I'm fucking DEAD!) 

Are you happy now?
*Slipping away to nothing*

...........?*
Fuck it, I really am dead! 
(Dead . . . . . . . !???)
Oops!  Well if that don't beat it all, . . . . . .

"Punk as Fuck" means having, and nurturing the kind of the attitude and neckiness that will you lie, wheedle and indulge your capacity for bullshitting, by applying as earnestly as you can, to join the Special Constabulary. Then running with it to see how far through the process you can get before you
A/ Can no longer keep a straight face, or
B/ Get ejected from their premises for being a "clever cunt" or
C/ Fail to resist the instinctual impulse to spike their coffee machine with LSD, mixed with super-strength Laxatives.

If, by some implausible combination of apparent credibility, feigned enthusiasm, and/or an unbelievably slack selection process, they say "Welcome to the Team, Special Constable BadBeast, you start on Monday" You need to give the fuckers both barrels, right away, with something like "Fuck that, you gullible cunt, do you seriously think I could ever go through this application process for any reason other than the satisfaction of telling you, at this point, that I'd rather eat my own shit than put that Uniform on"?
Scornful mocking laughter goes down well at moments like this too, (as does taking a dump in the kettle before you walk out)
The ensuing levels of butthurt might even get you charged under section 3 of the "Making Plod look stupider" Act, but in the immortal words of some Wise old 'orrible Punker from back in the day, "So what? So what? So what, so what, you boring little cunts!"

Green Day are not Punk. The Sex Pistols never were. (They were just a boy band)  The Dead Kennedys are Punk, as were the Ramones.
Crass were Punk,  Billy Idol is not. The Clash were Punk, Toyah Wilcox wasn't. The Anti-Nowhere League were Punk, Megadeth are not.   
Jerry Sadovicz is Punk, Jerry Springer whilst funny, is not. Rock and Roll is Punk with Edwardian Frock coats and DA hair. Punk is never having to say you're sorry.
New Wave was just sorry.

So what is Punk as fuck, to you?   

Some funny shit.

http://s748.photobucket.com/albums/xx128/ChuckFukmuk/videos/?action=view&current=UndertheSpelloftheFascespt2LabiaryinthofSSLoudTronixme.mp4

For the past couple of weeks, my PC has been randomly bluescreening. I've changed the graphics cards, drivers, Ram sticks, re-installed XP (SP2),  System restores, all the usual stuff, and it still dies on me, say, every half an hour ish. the message i get is

IRQL_NOT_LESS_OR_EQUAL

***Stop:OXO000000EA  (OXD78FFEBO,OXOOOOOOO2, OXOOOOOOO,OX804FF1C3)

Any ideas will be greatly appreciated, thanks chaps.

Under a blood red sickle moon, we rise.
From the bones and ashes of the past, is struck a spark,
from which is born this new flame of soulfire, that will burn anew,
against the darkness.

Like yeast, we rise
to smash asunder all those things
that seek to bind us, and enslave our hearts.

Remembering that our Fathers were once Men,
we get up, from our knees,
cast off the chains of the Adversary, stand tall,
and proud, among the ruins of our sleeping brothers,
declare ourselves as Men, reborn.

Seared across our newly beating hearts,
the Holy words that woke us from our slumber.
"I will not serve".

And with this joyful cry upon our lips,
we smash the enemy down, like weeds.
We are the Men of righteous wrath,
who know what our lives are truly worth.

We take back the Flaming Sword
from the hands of him, who bars the gates of Eden,
and once again are free to walk in fair Arcadia.

Not this time,
as favoured children of some jealous God,
but as Self Born Men,
The equal of all we meet.

Only now we can stand before our creator,
and not grovel on our knees,
ashamed and afraid, the sweet taste of
stolen knowledge fresh upon our lips.

Long ago, we shat the pips of that fair fruit,
and left it's seeds to grow where they fell,
to show the World where we have been.

And from these seeds,  both good and ill,
sprang mighty trees, that sing our deeds,
for all to hear, and hold us to.

The song of all our evil done,
sings out as loud as any act of good.
There is no deed that needs to be denied.

Our state of Grace permits no secret shame,
As it strikes the scales from our eyes.
It washes the shit from our ears, so we can hear
the echoes of the Great Song,
to the beat of which, we discover
we have been dancing all along.

ETA, Wrote this a long time ago, and just found it again. Had meant to post it in TCC, under an alt.
But bad as it is, they don't deserve it. So I'm inflicting it on you lot instead.

Just felt that as a master of musical rants, Ed Hammel deserves a mention here and there.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqU1LKtcQUA&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pr90sc_WDY

There's  game afoot, and it seems to be a game of Rectal Magnitude, so I shall call it "Arseholes".
I've been watching all these fuckers for years, and after 8 Cans of Spesh, some peoples arseholes seem to become detached completely and stagger around on their own, dribbling shit, starting fights with each other, and getting arrested.
(Some people just never get the hang of sphincter control)

Some of those arseholes wandering about out there aren't even drunk, they're just strays that have learned to put on suits, (or more specifically, Uniforms) and detract attention from themselves, by rounding up as many other, more obvious arseholes as they can, to make examples of. They call all the other arseholes a special name, "Suspects", and these poor unfortunates are then hauled in front of a bunch of even bigger arseholes, for more shit dribbling, where they are given other names, like "The Defendant", or "The Perpetrator", and they like to see how many times each particular arsehole, has been caught, being an arsehole, by the other arseholes.

Now, with all these arseholes sat around calling each other arseholes, things can get very confused. So ones who can fart the loudest, dribble or even spray the most shit, and get it to stick to the other arseholes, often wear silly Wigs, and black robes, and when they fart, all the other arseholes have to shut up, and listen, and stand there, nodding in agreement, whilst getting sprayed down with whatever shit is coming at them. No-one can beat these fat rectal behemoths for sheer volume of effluent, and therefore, no-one is allowed mention the fact that they too, are just a bigger type of arsehole.
(They prefer the term "Beak" for some reason)

Then there are  whole other packs of little arseholes who run around, licking each other, pretending to be on  "The Defendant" arseholes team, and another lot, who are supposed to be on the Uniformed arseholes team, and they dribble and spray shit at each other, then lick the shit from their respective team players, and kiss whoever is cleanest, for a certain specified time, and then, whoever has the most shit stuck to them when the Beak arsehole says to stop, is deemed to have lost the game.

Then, the original, drunken arseholes, or "Defendants" are either given another special title, and called "Convicts", and they have to suck up some shit from the Beak, and from the Uniformed arseholes, (the amount of which varies, depending on how big an arsehole the opposing team have managed to make him out to be) They then have to suck shit up, by going to live with a whole load of other "Convicts" for a while, and get called "Prisoners", or they have money taken off them by the Uniformed arseholes. (This is only if their team loses)

If the original arsehole's team wins, then they get to go home, clean up, and everyone forgets that they were arseholes, Until the next time they decide to play.
I's a very complex game, but the complexity is actually just a disguise, to hide the fact that so many arseholes are out there, teaming up, kissing each other, and spraying huge volumes of shit all over the rest of us, who then have to look for the nearest convenient arsehole to blame.

It's fascinating, predictable, and all non-participants are  covertly taking a very close interest in what's happening, because they could get dragged into the game themselves at any point. The best way to avoid it, is to just keep your head down, and pretend you can't even smell the shit you have to wade through every day.

If you can't ignore it, act like the shit is really lovely chocolate cake, and
pretend it's the bestest smell in the world. Then, as you try to sleep at night, try to figure out who the biggest arsehole really is.
It can be quite a surprise.   

http://www.noonehastodietomorrow.com/tech/weaponry/2725-2725

Beats me that this has only been criticized for being "Too Bulky, and expensive".

Here's one that started in TCC, as a kind of "Of course Psychology is a proper Science, you silly Wiccan!" post, then developed into the kind of  blaaaah blahdy blah meandering  blurty rant  that needs to be released into an environment where such things can realistically be left to prosper, or to rot, stink, and die according to their merits.
So here goes.

Psychology IS a proper Science, you mumbling superstitious thwickyn,  The fact that it is (mostly) abused by people in order to influence others doesn't detract from it's validity as a Science. Until the late 19th Century, and Freud's research into psycho analysis, 'psychology' was wholly in the hands of Wiccans,  tricksters, charlatans,
and mountebanks. And what is their legacy? Superstition, Religion, and fear of the *insert Goblin/Communist/Bogeyman of choice* under your beds!
Now (for better or worse) our understanding of how the mind works, and the dynamics of Human behaviour are pretty accessible to anyone who wants to know, in meticulously researched and documented format. We have working, formulaic techniques for achieving specific results, the same as we have in Physics, or Chemistry.
The science of Psychology, is applied as the Science of manipulation. We are fed impulse triggers, reinforced by repetition, all day long on TV by advertisers. That's just applied Psychology. Cause and effect. A pretty shitty application of Psychology IMO, but it works every time. But just because that is one of the most exploitative and base examples of it's abuse, doesn't mean the same techniques couldn't be used, just as effectively in beneficial ways.
   
The staggering extent to which we have been manipulated psychologically, throughout History, is not a comfortable revelation, and it (quite rightly) scares the living shit out of people. But at least Psychology, as a Science, can show us which particular historical tricksters, figured out how to work their Mojos on people, how they applied it, and why it worked.
   For instance,  Look at the way Hitler manipulated the German people in his climb to power. Without using Psychology as a referential tool of explaination, the only way to describe what happened there, would be in terms of him casting  "MaHJicK spellZ" over the whole population, or using "DemoniAcal influenceS" to command the Soul of the Nation.                                         And while that might be kind of valid as an explanation, for simple, superstitious Medieval Peasants, the exact mechanics of  what he did can be precisely mapped with all the relevant dynamics named and explained scientifically, unambiguously, and empirically using Psychology.
It  won't stop people from falling for the same tricks, from all bloody manner of  psychopathic madmen, but at least we can (If we care to) tell when they're doing it now. Which brings us to another uncomfortable moot point.
Now we have means of spotting the tricks, we also get to choose whether to follow, or resist. Unfortunately that means taking responsibility for ourselves. And it seems on the whole, people aren't quite ready for that one yet. 
So now we knowingly allow them to do it to us, by making justifications where we really shouldn't. And that is not looking good.     

Let's face it, we all know our leaders are ruthless, conniving, self serving liars, cheats and thieves. But we justify allowing them access to power, using old, tired devices like absolving our responsibilities to somebody else "political process"
and falling for that colossal old lie, "Might is right" "Democracy"  or whatever flavor of turd our systems of government dress it up as.                       Now we all have access to the same 'Technology', on a personal level, as anyone else. And make no mistake, Psychology is a technology. ( An "exact knowledge") Which brings us nicely around to "Territory", because territory, whether personal or collective, is claimed, and maintained through the use of Psychological dynamics.                             

At it's most basic, it's simply the ability to say, with conviction "This is MY territory, and in it,  I am sovereign". That disempowers the ones who say "You will comply with my wishes". If enough people say it, then it changes everything, dramatically. Like in Libya, today, or the **insert name of favourite rebellion** when the oppressed masses rose up as one, and the whole fucking show

If we suffer no trespasses upon our personal Territory, and tacitly agree to uphold each other's sovereignty over theirs , there would be no need for anyone else to spoon feed govern us, according to their particular paradigm, no matter how benign or despotic they are.

Territory is a necessary dynamic for Humans to prosper, and be healthy. But we need to define it for ourselves before we can draw it's borders and expect others to respect them. In this way, the whole World and it's resources can become the territory of everyone who lives in it. For instance, if you need to access a water source, then you can, nobody can effectively claim all the water as 'their rightful territory', because territory is not just a geographical thing, but a psychological one. So if you are thirsty, then that water is your territory, and you can rightfully drink as much as you need. But if you want to own it all, that is overstepping your boundaries, and anyway, you won't be able to maintain any effective border control over it.
A person with no proportional concept of where their own territory begins and ends, is invariably either incorporated as a part of someone else's territory, (consensual, practical, and acceptable) or they invade everyone else's territory, until somebody (Us, not just anyone else)  stops them. That's our job, as a ruling sovereigns.

But allowing someone else to be the ruling sovereign over millions of other people's lives isn't just unfair, it's stupid, insane, and  always, always ends up in a huge ugly mess.
So define what you are sovereign over, maintain your borders, seek not to encroach on what is not yours, and then we'll see how it goes, shall we?  Are we all agreed?   

"Yeah, but, . . . . . . . . . . NO!" 
No yeah, buts!  No capitulation, or false justification, or spurious claims will be upheld. No more bullshit, because that doesn't actually work out so well for us. No need for coercion, if we all agree on those things that there is no reasonable argument against.
The USA  had such a thing in their grasp once, in it's Bill of Rights. It's Constitution, before you started bolting "Yeah, buts" "Amendments" onto it. It was fine as it was! You didn't realise it at the time, but it was almost perfect.  Hindsight, (Epimetheus) is just a tool, that enables us to develop Foresight. (Prometheus) And the development of foresight is absolutely essential for turning cabbage headed monkeys, into proper Hu-mans.

They'll still have lapses where they start chucking shit at each other, but they'll be capable of realising that all that shit just stinks the place up, fot them as much as for their targets, and hopefully stop before they get left behind as recidivist stupid superstitious hippy dippy "Cuntjurors,  practitioners of "Divers Arts, & Warlockery" or we burn them at the stake. leave them to fester in their shit covered rat holes. Either way, they're not coming with us, if they insist on stinking of shit all the time.
It's no good to just say "My Grandpappy stank of shit all his life, and it didn't do him any harm"! Or to pretend there's no stink there at all. Shit smells like that for a reason. The reason is to remind us to get as far away from it as possible, not to chuck it around like confetti, and pretend it's clever. It's not. It never was.
If that's how you roll, then feel free to FUCK OFF AND DEVOLVE into Homo Foetidus Cacoturdus, just do it a long way away, or we will burn you all until the stink has gone.

Now, where was I?    

     

[an increasingly sophisicated Russian campaign.]

From San Francisco Chronicle, January 30, 1983.

Washington. A fake tape of a purported conversation between President Reagan and British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was circulated in Europe this spring, possibly by the KGB, the State Department said yesterday.

"This type of activity fits the pattern of fabrications circulated by the Soviet KGB, although usually they involve fake documents rather than tapes," the department said in a written response to reporter's questions.

The department said that although the recording is of "poor quality," a technical analysis revealed that the voices were those of Reagan and Thatcher.

But the department indicated the voices were spliced together and said they were not part of an actual conversation.

"We checked with the White House, which advised thay no such conversation took place," the department said.

The President's part in the recording apparently was lifted from his Nov. 22, 1982 speech on nuclear disarmament," it said. "We are not sure where Mrs. Thatcher's remarks came from.

The department said a copy of the tape was received by the U.S. embassy in the Netherlands a week before the British elections.

The tape dealt with the Falklands crisis and U.S. missiles in Britain, the department said.

It said, "From the drift of the tape, the evident purpose was to cause problems for Mrs. Thatcher by blaming her for the sinking of the British destroyer Sheffield and also for us by stirring trouble on the INF (Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces) issue."

The Sheffield was sunk by Argentine forces last year during the war with Britain over the Falkland Islands.

Britain and the United Staes took part in a NATO decision to install intermediate-range nuclear missiles in Europe late this year as a counter to similar Soviet forces if an agreement on restriction such weapons is not reached.

The State Department said the tape-recording was sent with a covering letter from an anonymous person to Dutch journalists.

It is said an analysis by the language experts "suggests that the author was not a native speaker."

The Reagan administration has contended for some time that the KGB has contended for some thime that the KGB has a forgery factory producing false documents to mislead target audiences.

The Sunday Times, 8 January 1984
How the KGB fools the West's press.

THE TAPE is heavy with static and puntuated with strange noises, but through it all can be heard the authentic voices of Ronald Reagan on the telephone: "If there is a conflict we shall fire missiles at our allies to see to it that the Soviet Union stays within its borders."

At the other end of the telephone is Mrs. Thatcher. "You mean Germany?" she asks increduously.

"Mrs. Thatcher, if any country endagers our position we can decide to bomb the problem area and so remove the instability."

If this is not hair-raising enough, we hear Mrs. Thatcher virtually admitting that she had the Belgrano sunk to end any chance of an agreement with Argentina. "Oh God!" says Reagan.

The whole conversation is fake. Both voices are real but the words spoken have been doctored, cut, rearranged and then expanded on the transcript of the tape. Every word from Reagan is extracted from his lengthy presidential address on nuclear strategy. When, for instance, he seems to swear at Mrs. Thatcher, he is in fact coming to the end of his speech and quoting a hymn: "Oh God of love, O king of peace."

The tape surfaced in Holland just before last year's British general election, but it never quite overcame the suspicions of Dutch journalists. They declined to publish the juicy exclusive, sent to them anonymously. But other journalists across the world have fallen for an increasing flow of such stories based on "authoritative" cables, memo and tapes. The State Department in Washington says they are all products of an increasingly sophisicated Russian campaign.

"They have accelerated their efforts and they have fine-tuned them," claims Larry Semakis, deputy director of a State Department team that monitors what the Russians call "active measures." He admits that "no one can specifically prove in a court of law that Soviet hand was on this or that item." But he says there is a pattern in the use of forgeries which points unmistakably to the Russians.

The State Department believes that "active measures" are the responsibility of the KGB's first directorate; that some forgeries go as high as the ruling Politburo for approval...




Then, it all went quiet for a long time, as we settled back under  the heel of Thatcher's Jackboots. And then, a year later,  in The Observer, Sunday, January 22, 1984, this article, . . . .


Soviet' faked tape is rock group hoax

A TAPE recording, purporting to carry details of a secret telephone conversation between Mrs Thatcher and President Reagan, has been revealed as a hoax manufactured deliberately by an anarchist rock group.

The recording was taken to newspapers throughout Europe --including The Observer-- but, apart from one Italian newspaper, nobody had been taken in by the hoax tape until it appeared in the Sunday Times earlier this month.

That newspaper described it as part of a KGB propaganda war. Unfortunately the tape was recorded not in Moscow but in an Essex farmhouse.

The New York correspondent of the paper reported that the State Department believed the tape was evidence of 'an increasingly sophisticated Russian disinformation cam- paign.'

The real authors of the hoax tape, the anarchist punk rock group Crass, said that they had been 'amused and amazed' that the tape had been attributed to the KGB.

The recording first appeared in the offices of a number of Continental newspapers shortly before the British general election last year.

A covering note said it was a recording of a crossed line on which was heard part of the two leaders' telephone conversation, and that the person who sent it wished to remain anonymous for fear of retribution.

Key lines in the tape include Mr. Reagan apparently asking why the Belgrano was sunk during the Fallrlands war, when Secretary of State Haig was nearing a peace agreement. Mrs Thatcher appears to reply: 'Argentina was the invader. Force had to be used now, punishing them as quickly as possible.'

Mr. Reagan then says: 'Oh God, it is not right. You caused the Sheffield to have been hit. Those missiles we followed on the screen. You must have, too, and not let them know.'

Later, in a discussion on nuclear strategy, Mr. Reagan is made to say: 'If there is a conflict we shall fire missiles at our allies to see to it that the Soviet Union stays within its borders.'

The tape was first brought to The Observer by a Belgian journalist last June. We concluded, like most of the other newspapers, that it was a fake.

The quest for the real hand behind the tape led to an isolated farmhouse in north Essex, where the eight members of the band live with their children.

Reluctantly the members of the band, who sport names like Joy Be Vivre, G Sus and Sybil Right, admitted faking the tape. They showed how they had put it together over two and a half months, using parts of TV and radio broadcasts made by the two leaders, then overdubbing with telephone noises.

'We wanted to precipitate a debate on those subjects to damage Mrs. Thatcher's position in the election. We also did it because of the appaling way Tam Dalyell was treated over the Belgrano debate,' they said.

'We believe that although the tape is a hoax, what is said in it io in effect true.'




Also, From The Standard, Sunday, January 25, 1984
Crass tale that fooled the U.S.

WASHINGTON, Wednesday a fake tape-recorded conversation between President Reagan and Mrs. Thatcher has got the U.S. State Department puzzled.

Officials don't know whether if was concocted by the Soviets for propaganda or by a British rock group. Two members of the "anairchist" band Crass said they made the fake tape early last year and claimed it was good enough to fool the State Department into thinking it was Soviet "black propaganda."

But department officials have said they never specifically attributed the tape to the Soviet Union when they played it for reporters last July and included it as anexample in a September report entitled "Soviet active measures."

The department said the tape was included in the publication and bronght to the attention of reporters earlier because "it fits a pattern of Soviet active measures."

In the tape conversation,which purportedly took place during the Falklands War, President Reagan tries to restrain Mrs. Thatcher, who is bent on punishing Argentina, and to blame her for the loss of HMS Sheffield, (AP.)



Crass 'KGB tape' hoax

From Sounds, January 28, 1984. Page 2

CRASS have been uncovered as the perpetrators of a bogus tape of a telephone 'conversation' between Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher.

The tape was originally circulated last sammer before the General Election and was claimed to be a recording of a crossed line between the two leaders. Needless to say it is not complimentary to either statesperson.

During the coarse of the 'conversation' Thatcher replies to Reagan's question about the Belgrano by saying: "Argentina was the invader. Force had to be used now, punishing them as quickly as possible."

And later in a discussion aboat nuclear strategy Reagan says: "If there is any conflict we a shall fire missiles at our allies to see to it that the Soviet Union stays with stays within its borders."

Most newspapers recognised the tape as a fake but the Sunday Times attributed it to KGB propaganda a couple of weeks ago and last Sunday's Observer took considerable delight in tracking the tape back to Crass's HQ in Essex.

Invoking the spirit of one of Reagan's predecessors, George Washington, they explained that the tape had been put together from TV and radio broadcasts overdubbed by telephone noises.

They justified their actions by saying: "We wanted to precipitate a debate on the Falklands and nuclear weapons to damage: Thatcher's position in the election. We also did it because of the appalling way Tom Dalyell (almost the only MP to raise any awkward questions over the Falklands affair) was treated over the Belgrano debate in the House of Commons. 



PS, And just about to start "The last supper" American Tour, any day now,  The Band are being held up by the American State Dept, who haven't issued their Visas yet. 
No Shit? 28 years isn't a long enough time in Politics?

CONTROL

Just how "In Control" do we have be, for fuck's sake? Seeing this weeks new Game seems to be "Dictator Dominoes" just proves that we can find other games to play. Or at least, that we can actually stop playing games that are really shit. And dangerous.
It's not even really about Control. It's maintaining the Illusion of Control that seems to be the imperative at 'play' here. Although I've never really been fond of games that no-one can win. And what a Game it is..

Is the best it can offer us,  just 'Keep playing the fucker' because the only other option, is to lose??   

   So wake the fuck up, you numb Bollocks! You lose as soon as you decide to play it! Losing here and there's OK anyway, because you're not supposed to try and keep it all! .
But by the time you actually decide that you are playing, it's too late anyway! You're already half way throgh the first half!
What kind of fucking Game is it that has to trick people into playing it?
That's right, a SHIT, UGLY NASTY Game, that, given an informed choice, no rational human would ever choose to play, not for longer than it takes to smell a turd anyway.


So Yes, alriight, for fuck's sake! The Emperor looks fine and dandy in his 'New Suit'! I've always said so. Ask anyone. We all nod and pay lip service to that one, every fucking day!
Anything for a quiet life. It doesn't mean it's REAL though, And the ones who really buy into it have obviously forgotten this!
     And you just can't get through to them, that it's only in their own Headspace, that they are supposed to have any Sovereignty. And it's certainly not in mine!  Or, I suspect, yours.

No really, thank you all the same, but Fuck off! Go and play somewhere else.
For one thing, It's a shit game, No-one likes it, and nobody wants to play it anymore. 
And for another thing, , . . Well, just Fuck off!  Innit?




We're only playing at all, because we seem to have forgotten how to 'Not  Play' it!
Are we really going to feed this illusion of 'Control' until that's ALL THERE IS?
What a shitty illusion to hammer into reality. You just know that we can do better than this!  If we truly can't find a better game than this, then what really is the fucking point?

Control is an illusion!  Something to pick up now and again, and have a little go on, when we want to feel a bit more gravitas. That's fine. That's proper usage. But to try and pick it all up, and carry around like it was some sort of Dick waving contest, to see who can delude themselves the hardest? That's just asking for trouble.

Neuroses' become Trophies. 'Being in Control' becomes a toilet, in which the players void all the toxic shit they have to carry with them at all times, to keep their mind on the Game !
Turning whole lives into pointless, futile offerings, for the Altar of some eternally seven year old  'Aspy Kid' God, that has long needed his fucking legs slapped, hard, for trying to keep all the Shiny to himself.

So next time you wonder why everything is a dull, dry brown colour, or why no-one's having any more fun, ever, or why some people never ever get a break, and other's seem to slide through life, like eels in snot, It's not because we are bad, or lazy,  (Although we are bad and lazy) We're allowed to be those things.
     It's not because we 'don't 'Deserve better'  or that we 'didn't get what we deserved' We dont get what we desrve in this fucking life anyway, we just get what we get! To be resentful of that, is just like pulling your own eyes out, just in case you might see something nasty. It's the Illusion of Control again.

   It's only because we've been tricked into playing a really, really shit game. For fucking generations! All we have to do, is to stop playing it.
Easy, you might think. But to stop playing it, we first have to admit we've been tricked! And admitting that we've been suckered in the first place, is anathema to the whole game ethic. Think about it! You're not going to win this Game! Nobody ever has!  It never was supposed to be played like it was the most  important thing there ever was!
(No Game is that fucking good) 
That's the really 'cute' bit of the game. It won't even let you admit to yourself that it is a Game.
It's not really Real! It's all Illusion! Seductive, sweet smiling Maya, she'll promise you the Earth, and everything on it. (And she'll deliver too)

So you give her your card to stamp. She smiles as she hands it back. You smile back, even though you know it's just a glamour. That really, she's empty of all substance of her own. Even the smile you just gave her, she'll spin it back out into the fabric of the World you just had to buy into. She's not malicious, or evil, or any of those things, just really fucking good at giving you the ILLUSION of what you think you want. You're the one who 
decides on how real it gets.

So think before you pick something up and run with it. It might not be worth even a brisk walk. (And remember you can put shit back down too)

  If you get really stuck, you could try calling Eris. If She can be bothered to turn up, She won't so much rescue you, more like just strip all the illusion away, like it was all Band Aids that you carefully stuck that 'splendid' reality together with. She'll revel in your bewilderment too. You know the Movie, "Saw"? Yeah, she totally 'got' that. So don't go thinking she's some Crazy Chick Knight in Shining shiny, coming to the aid of the poor lost Spag! Her icy fingers will slowly pull your brain  back out of your arse, wring the shit out of it, like a spongy Pond Filter, and stuff it back in, through whichever orifice is screaming the loudest. 

Anyway, it's your go in a minute, and I wouldn't like to think I was distracting you from your careful gameplan. 

And I have got to go and try to scrub off all the shit I got plastered in, from my last go.   

"Got to be in it to win it". Wankers! 
         

I'm starting to think that although there are many roads, there is only one Road. Kerouac knew this, and how once you get on it, there is no getting off. You might think you're off it, but then something happens and you realise you've been on it all along. It's straight, and wide, and it disappears on over the horizon. Somehow you know that there are no junctions. No Crossroads.
No Turnpikes. There are stop-overs, where you can pull over, have lunch, forget about the journey for a while. Forget completely, while you get sidetracked by something, or someone you meet. But always that nagging feeling at the back of your head that you are forgetting something important.
       
You try to think what it is, and then you're back behind the wheel again. Different car, different scenery, but still the same road. Only now there's a sense of urgency about the whole thing. The engine has a whine to it that won't let you relax. There is more traffic too. The other cars all look a little worse for wear, the drivers, hunched at the wheel like they all had somewhere to be, half an hour ago. You can't see what kind of car you're driving, but you're sure it looks as dusty and worn as the others do. There is no scenery now to speak of, only the vast, greyish red desert as far as the eye can see. You don't remember when the desert started, it feels like it was there forever, but you're sure you can remember trees, and mountains, not so long ago. It feels like you took a wrong turn, but there are no turns on this road. All there is is dust, and asphalt, and the smell of hot oil.
         
There is no horizon anymore, the view disappears into a haze of dust and smog. The desert is punctuated with what first appear to be boulders, but on closer inspection, they prove to be old twisted car wrecks. But all old cars, like 1930's old. The whine from the engine seems to be getting louder. You decide to pull over at the next opportunity, get some rest. You can't remember how long it was since you slept, but you don't feel tired. Just old, and kind of stretched out.

Then it dawns on you that you're dreaming. Asleep and dreaming. But there's no relief in this realisation. That it's just a dream.
The only time that there is any relief in realising "It's just a dream" is when you wake up. And waking is something the dreamer has no control over.

The dust is so thick now you cant see the other cars, just a muffled "whoosh" when something passes you. You turn the headlamps on, but they don't really help much. The whine from the engine is almost unbearable now. You'd pull over, but somehow you know that if you pull over here, you will be lost forever. So you drive on, into the darkness, into the dream. Although you are aware of other traffic on the road, you know you are totally alone here. The car, the darkness, and the road are all there is. and the road never ends.

You start to feel thinner, more insubstantial, like smoke. the sound of the engine fades, leaving only the whine, and after a while, this too gets quieter. No, not quieter, farther away. You are rising up, up in the air, no car now, just the road, looking like an endless ribbon below you. And you wake, breathless and sweaty, For an endless second or two, the dream is as real as the day, and this is not a comfortable knowledge. Then, the relief of waking drives the dream back into the mists. Not gone, but waiting. The dream never dies, the road never ends. Some waking part of you knows that you are still "On the Road", and that soon enough, you will find yourself behind that wheel again. But for now, you are content to forget.         

And also, I remember reading somewhere that lightspeed isn't even a constant, as it travels at different speeds, through
different mediums. So what we are using for light years, may actually only be light moments. And  because of the the infinitely ineffable dimensions of the Uni/Multi verse, any system we attempt to quantify Time or Distance with on such a scale is meaningless. And distracting. And far too confusing to try and apply to our little pinpoint of existence. But the Wormhole/Stargate analogy works for Star Trek, Farscape Babylon 5 etc, and I think it's the way to go.
As long as Wesley Crusher isn't involved at all, it should all work out in the end.   

I started posting this in TCC, in some thread about some other shit, and it developed into something more than the thread was up to. Turned in to a bit of a rant, so rather than be misunderstood on a Pagan forum, I thought I'd much rather be misunderstood by people who take the art of misunderstanding seriously, even to the extent of trying to get their heads round it before crying "Shaddup you fuckin' hippy", and suchlike. So I'm leaving it here.

Oh, somebody was banging on about the Pilgrim Fathers or something anyway, founding the Nation that has become the USA. So I started saying something like

It wasn't just "Pilgrims", (Whatever they are) Basically a right motley crew of frothy madmen bursting with all kinds of Heresies, that would  just get the Fundies of the next Cult going off on some Jihad. But all "Pilgrims" of one kind or another. Add that to the mix of Zealous Puritans, "Fleeing the persecution". Persecution my arse! If they were persecuted, it was more for their rabble rousing, and their seditious zeal. And their little Sectarian groups of "Chosen" people, with their wild eyed  Prophets, delusional syphilus ridden maniacs, many of them. Factionalising the already pretty volatile Catholic / Protestant powershare, and poking at the wounds of pogroms from their Grandfather's day, and further back. That wasn't persecution!
In the socio-political climate of Europe at the time, it was self preservation! Not persecution.
Revolutions, Secret Societies springing up left right and centre, Cults, Papist Conspiricies, Mystics, Delusional doom prophets of endtimes Ascension Cults, Nope , there was only ever one way that was going to go, and that was West. If the New World hadn't been discovered, they'd have had to burn all the troublemakers instead. Instead of just the poor souls who fell into the hands of the Inquisition. (Who were only disbanded at the end of Franco's Reigime  I think) That would have been a long hard, burning time I think.

They took their Gods with them too. Squabbly, bickering, Gods, With the Egocentric tunnel vision of six year olds. All with their Prophets, all bibbling and ranting their torturous paths
towards some Heaven which they could spend the afterlife sneering as the unholy swarms
of the Godless suffer in eternal torment.
And your Political system is still infected with these festering blowhards of a Loveless,and punishing God, while Mammon spreads the Cancer that modern Economics has become across the globe, and Moloch strides across the Battlefields, consigning generations of Children to his flaming sacrificial pyres, devouring them as the plagues of 'Empire' take their cultural apocalypse to the ends of the Earth.

*"Calm down BadBeast"*, I hear someone say! (Me)  

I'm not saying that they were all like that. Or that you are like that, or in any way bad people. But Culturally, I think a lot of the rot we could all be doing without is down to the
people America has empowered. Statecraft is a thing that nations need to mature into, and a couple of hundred years is fairly young, on the scale of some of the European Powers. Your Constitution has all the best intentions in the World, and the potential to truly govern itself along those lines. But a Ruler must learn to persuade, and not to compel.

Some old dead dude once said,

"The Learning of the Wise, The Justice of the Great, and the Valour of the Brave all fall to nothing without a Ruler who knows the Art of Ruling".

And we could all benefit from a few more of those.
We all like to espouse the Western Democratic ideal of "Ruling by Concensus" but really, it's all Bollocks. You don't rule by Concensus. That just means a load of Sheep, all arguing to get their own points of interest represented to the detriment of all else. Ruling is always Meritocratic. Those who can, always Rule. Those who are Ruled, get to be ruled. But People will always follow a good Leader. But  Leaders lead.  The people at the top of most of todays Power structures aren't leaders, they are drivers.  

Our Rulers no longer lead, they drive. They drive Wars, they drive Economic trends,  they drive Famines, they drive
Markets, Oil, Food, Medicine, Educational programs, they drive for Sanctions against those who dissent, withholding Food, Withholding Energy, or Economics, withhold Technology, Medicine, whatever it takes to drive people on, before their parasitic greed consumes everything.

They no longer need to persuade us, or inspire us, like true Leaders do,
they drive us. Their Flock. To be fleeced, or slaughtered at their whim.

If Mandela had been released even 10 years Earlier, he could have been a truly great Leader, instead of the tired old man they released. We could even have been living with a United States of Africa, instead of a Continent festering with Wars Famines, and Plagues.

That Pedro the Third of Brasil that cropped up the other week, he was a great Leader too. I'd never heard of him before. How many more Great Leaders are we not seeing, because the parameters of Rule no longer allow for a following of any kind? Only room for the driven, the deceived, and the deluded.

People aren't really able to choose who gets to drive them, only allowed to pay a lip service to the Candidates they are offered as a placatory, hollow illusion of participation.
It's not that Leaders are not allowed to Rule. Of course they are. But it's a meritocracy. But for a leader to be able to Rule, he has to learn how to persuade people that he might be going somewhere worth going. And you do this by example.

Then he has to start by taking the first steps himself, without compelling anyone to accompany him. Without making bribes and promises he can only break. But to just set off, to wherever he's going.

Then he might just look over his shoulder one day, and behind him, are millions of people following him, of their own volition, not being led along, or driven,  but following because, well,  because they are Leaders. Someone like that would make a good Ruler.  

I have many of those qualities myself you know, The lofty ideals, the charisma, the selfless sense of altruism,  
Right that's enough of that.
I think I just cleared my rant gland.

To anyone who's just read all that,  I'm not  even pretending that I have any answers, or even that I'm right.
I'm sure you'll me tell where I'm right. Or where I'm wrong. Tell me whatever. But if I can go to the trouble of writing it, and you've been to the trouble of reading it, then you must have an opinion by now, and we're all opinionated people here, so lets have it!  
Thanks. BB.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_djmkbczJYQ

I can feel the suspicion before I go to the bedroom, and carry my beloved Dolly to the Table. Candles? Wine? She's going to know there's something going on before I settle her into her chair! Why do women have to be so much hard work!
My resolve set, I call in. "Darling?  Are you decent?



Xaivia was in an off sort of mood that whole week. It was as though she could sense the one thing I had been reluctant to share with her in all of our 6 years.
It wasn't anything as obvious as a "look", you know the kind. She just seemed so...stoic.
"Uh, honey, I was thinking...what if we did something different tonight?"
She said nothing.
"Maybe we could sort of...double with another couple. Just some people I met. I think you'd like them. They've invited us over for dinner tonight."


Cut the air with a fucking knife or what! She glares at me. If only she weren't so bloody suspicious all the time. "What are you up to"  she says, her tone accusatory but hesitant. "Why do you always assume I'm up to something my sweet? It's only dinner"!  I reply. Sounds utterly unconvincing, even to me. "Because you're always keeping things from me, you bastard" she says.
I feel my hackles start to rise..... "Why you feel the need to live such a double life, I'll never know" she says. I almost answer back, "Because you are such a fucking numb cunted dummy" but I hold my tongue. I don't want to make her angry. She has such a temper these days, and I don't like fighting with her.
(Although the make up sex is always great)  "What do you mean, something different"? "What other couple"?  Scorn dripping from her tone like acid
"You only know one person, and you're always very careful to keep me out of the way when he's around"
She sounds pre-menstrual, but that's absurd, I think.

She seemed to warm up a little while I dressed her, but she was laying on her heating blanket, so that followed.
But then the drive over to their house she just stared out the window.
"He's a really nice guy, met him on a forum."
I gave her knee a soft squeeze. She always liked that.
"He works in IT. She," I chuckled, "well, she stays at home like you."
I used to be able to make her laugh so easily. Was there something slipping between us? Maybe tonight would bring us closer together.

I hated the long, icy silences that seemed to be so frequent between us lately. Sometimes, it seemed like she just had nothing to say. And she never seemed to initiate our lovemaking anymore.  Some nights, she just lay there, almost as if she was daring me to touch her!  And if for some reason, I didn't make the effort, she would wake me, in the night, with a sharp knee, or an elbow in the ribs, then pretend she was still asleep. Sometimes I really didn't know what was going on in that pretty little head of hers. Oh, she was always quick with the sexy smiles,  all innocence and wide eyed interest, but I was beginning to wonder if she loved me at all anymore. I would watch her sometimes, when she couldn't see me, and it seemed like she was in a trance, lost in some faraway dream, that didn't involve me at all. Was I kidding myself, about her having any feelings for me? She always told me just what I wanted to hear though, and that was good enough, for now.   

Despite my nervousness I tried to move with confidence as I carried Xaivia up the four flights of stairs to apartment 106 where our hosts were waiting for us.
What compelled him to live so high up I could not understand. Maybe he didn't often take his wife (were they married? I couldn't remember) out on dates. I remember being that way in the beginning. But after a few years of being cooped up my love had made it quite clear that she needed a good airing now and again.
That's why I lived on the ground floor and kept a handcart by the front door.

In retrospect, the mini skirt seemed more risque than I anticipated. I received a few very concerned looks from passersby in the apartment building.

"I assure you she's quite the lady, so take your judgement elsewhere." I told them and strode along without any further thought on the matter.

Some people can be so shallow.

Reaching the door, I stopped for a few moments to catch my breath, and straighten Xav's hair for her. "Don't want you to look like you just crawled out of your bed, do we?" I said, "Please make a special effort tonight Darling, Tarquin is quite a big noise in Golem Girl circles, and if this goes well, and he likes you, us I mean, it could be the high life from here on in". I ring the doorbell. After a few seconds, It opens, and there was our host, Tarquin Ruberman. All smiles and nods. "Great to meet you at last, Bernard" he says shaking my hand rather effeminately. "Come in, come in, and this must be the lovely Xavia, I've heard so much about you" he takes her hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it, delicately. I could almost feel Xav's pulse quicken, at this rather forward and continental greeting. She always was easily beguiled by a real Ladies man. And Tarquin was quite  the charmer, it has to be said. "Always a pleasure to meet a real Gentleman" said Xav, batting her pretty eyelids, coquettishly. "Charmed, I'm sure" he said, as he led us through the hallway into his stylishly lavish Lounge. All rich Shag pile rugs, Leather Sofas, Teak bookcases, and a rather ostentatious chandelier hung from the ceiling. And in the corner, languishing on a chaise longue, dressed beautifully in the style of a 1920's Flapper, was the most exquisite, and alluring creature I had ever seen in my life! Her  deep green eyes
met mine, and I felt my heart leap!  She smiled lazily at me, and seemed to shift her position in a serpentlike, sensual way that reminded me of , . . .well, a snake I suppose. My jaw almost hit the floor, I had to have her! I would die if she was never to be mine. I loved her, loved her, loved her!  "This, rather lazy and lovely thing, is my good friend Ruby" said Tarquin.
"A dazzling jewel, indeed" I heard myself say, as I almost dropped Xav on the nearest sofa. "She is rather a bore though" said Tarq, "Cute as a squirrels nut, but thick as pigshit, aren't you Sweety?" he said  jovially.
I felt awkward, as if I were supposed to defend her somehow. "Goes like a greased whippet though, if you know what I mean" said Tarq, winking at me, as he fixed us all large tumblers of  Bombay Sapphire and Tonic.

We sat the girls together so they could get to know each other a little bit and he led me into his study.
"I've got some fine smokes I've been saving. No time like the present, eh?"
I could hardly contain myself.
"Where did you find her? You're one lucky man."
He giggled a bit and furnished two cigars. We lit them and sat back in large, well-oiled leather chairs.
"Oh," he said, "I just picked her up during my travels. Quite the bargain, she was."
I was beginning to find his flimsiness annoying. Here he had this, this treasure, a Goddess among men, and he was talking about as if she was some kind of...thing. He suddenly seemed the kind of man that would never know what he had. Until, perhaps, it was gone.
"Yours is very nice," he said. "A bit skimpy on the features. Did you go through one of this minimalist designers? I always try to order as much detail as possible on mine. Ruby's new, and she's denser than most. Something they do to the silicone. I can't be bothered to listen to techs when they blather."
I was doing my best to keep my rage in check. My fists were balled up tightly on my lap, crushing the end of my cigar. The NERVE this man had to speak of my precious love that way.
He didn't deserve her. I was already forming my plan when a thought struck me.
"Wait," I said, "You have...others?"
He laughed at me and rose from his chair.
"Ah, naturally! Don't you? I'd get bored with just one."
He walked to a door on the other side of his study, next to a large collection of leather-bound books and what appeared to be a bust of Pee-Wee Herman.
I followed him to the door, and as he opened it I could feel my heart sink. I knew what was in that closet.
He swung the door wide and inside, as I feared, we're DOZENS of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. He just kept them...stacked in there like...possessions to be used and filed away after he got his jollies. How could I think this man could know the feelings my Xav and I shared? How could I have been so blind?

He laughed as he shut the door and motioned that we should leave the study.
Before I stepped back out I had fixed my resolve. I would not be able to save all those poor ladies, but Ruby...Ruby...?

The plan was in my head as if I had meticulously spent weeks going over every detail. As soon as Tarquin, (Obsequious oily tick of a man) went into the kitchen, I took the bottle of GHB I always carried (just in case of emergencies, you understand) and tipped all of the tasteless, colourless liquid into his Gin and tonic. When he returned, two minutes later, with some smarmy pretentious bullshit about his perfect sauce simmering, blah blah blah, (I wasn't really listening)  I did my best to appear relaxed, and convivial. "I really must hand it to you Tarquin,old thing, you have the most impeccable taste in women, and this flat is such a bijou little lovenest"!  I took a good slug of my own drink,and was pleased to see he did the same."And Ruby is such a Darling creature, you really do know how to pick quality" I said.  Butter the bastard up with flattery.
"I'd like to toast the host, with the most" I said, feigning drunkeness. "To Tarquin, and his delectable gemstone of rarest beauty, Ruby" I drained my glass!
The shallow little fucker did the same. Inside, my heart leapt with glee. Soon, Ruby, very very soon. "So, tell me where you get your lovelies from, Tarquin, please" I said,
"Well" said Tarquin, (his eyes unfocused, and his speech starting to slur) "I went to Harrow with a Gentleman from Abu Dhabi, with the most perverse tastes" he said, sittiing back in his chair. "Pots of money of course, Oil, you know"  Soon Ruby, very soon, I thought. Tarquin seemed to rally, and sit forward, faint shock written on his face, then slumped back, open, his eyes rolled back in his head. "Oh really Tarquin" I said, loudly, and rudely. "You are so up your own arse, that you have no sense of self preservation" I said. "You just drank enough GHB to kill a horse"! I laughed. "In about two minutes, you'll be dead as a Dando" HAhahaha!
"And Ruby, will be mine"! "But in exchange, I will leave my Xav for company" Things really had been strained beteen us for the last ten days. She'd hardly spoken a word. I suppose it didn't help that I'd had to strangle the bitch, to stop the filthy things she was saying about me, over and over and over. Her own fault of course, she knew very well how "upset" I could get. Of course,  I'd tried to make it up to her afterwards. With embalming fluid, perfume, and make up. But although it made her more, erm, malleable and compliant, the spark really had gone out of our relationship. I could see this now. And she had started to smell a little, . . .  fusty, and her looks would be next to start to go, embalming fluid, or not. So I propped her up in the chair, next to her new lover, Tarquin, together in death, quite the odd couple, really.
I took beautiful Ruby, my lovely, rotproof silicone ever loving Ruby, and slipped out of the flat. (After removing any trace that I'd ever been there at all, of course) We stopped in a lay-by, on the A36, to consumnate out love on the way home. And Ruby really is the one for me. She told me so, as she thanked me, most graciously, for rescuing her from that monster, Tarquin. So ladylike, and pleasing, lovely lovely Ruby!   And anyway,  If I'd wanted to live with an uptight, bitchy control freak, I'd have got myself another real, live girlfriend! I lied to myself. They never lasted long enough anyway. No more embalming fluid, or new patios, or rolled up carpets for me!
I start to feel aroused again. "Just you wait til I get you home" I say. Ruby says nothing.

 *Deep breath* Are you getting Judgemental on me? Just because I use a little recreational Dubstep?  I'm still just as full of rancid anarchic bile as I always was!
It's only Dubstep, it's not like I'm suddenly filled with a sense of "goodwill and fluffy fucking benevolence" for my fellow man!  OK, so it's not exactly Anti-Nowhere League, (who still put any of your Yank Punk in the shade btw!) but it relaxes me. And it's only a little bit,  I can handle it!  So don't you start getting all fucking judgmental on me sunshine! It's not like I've suddenly sealed up my hateshit hole, and gone all reasonable, or started going to Anarchists Anonymous meetings, or Anger Management Counselling or some other dribbling Hippy shit like that! I am every little bit the  seething, toxic stinkhole, that I always was, and I can still belch out a plume of red hot unmitigated rant stench when occasion demands!  You bloody youngsters!  You think you invented belligerence and pugnacity, but I was ranting half housebricks at the fucking man and his legions of greyfaced bone headed bitchboys while you were still taking laundry home to your mother every six weeks!  So if I want to listen to a bit of fucking Dubstep now and again, I fucking will!  And all your "Rantier than thou"  fucking  judgementalistic comments will not change that one little bit! Have you got that? Because I can even  listen to fucking Enya all day long if I want to, and still be able to rant my fucking bile duct up at the drop of a hat, with "Orinoco Flow" on my internal IPod,  and still not even pause for breath!  So with all due respect, you can stick that "sad banana" up your fucking pooh hole, Mr Good fucking Reverend "I am the Lord of the Rant said he" Roger!  And while I was dribbling this spew of a rant, answering your "Man I don't even know you anymore" tripe, some fucker's gone and hidden the thread! Grrrr!      Don't think you can evade my answer using tactics like that young man! This shit is flowing with a life of it's own now, so  it's getting it's own fucking  thread. So there! *exhales*

Right. All calm again. I hope this puts any doubt about my mettle or calibre safely back in the "Poke some life into BadBeast" box. Any points you may like to raise, please feel free to bring up in this thread, and I shall try to address them as frankly and honestly as I can. Thanks for thinking enough of me to place that well aimed boot up my jacksy,
It seems to have hit my rant bone square in the nuts.  Toodle pip, and lots of love, BB. 

This made  me laugh. There's a little "Justice League Seattle" thing going on up there. I like Seattle. 

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/5/20110106/tod-real-life-superhero-fights-crime-in-870a197.html

Xmas is like a Boil that slowly builds up starting about the end of October, getting imperceptibly more and more full of stinky pus every day, and then, sometime about. . . . well now, it bursts, and that toxic build-up of cultural abuse, Voodoo TV Advertising, the subconscious fear of some overly jolly, fat, vagrantly bearded bastard making you sit on his "knee", while he gropes around in his "sack", on the premise of having a "Gift" for you!

"Ho, Ho, Ho, you're a fine looking young fella-me-lad, jump up here on your Uncle Santa's knee for a minute, and I'll see if I can find something in my sack for you"  So, curiously, almost reluctantly, I step into his Grotto, where two surly looking midget "Elves", dressed in green tights, and Pixie boots and hats skulk in respective corners of the gloomy, faux-rock, fairy lit facade of the Grotto. I can smell cheap sherry on Santa's breath, as he takes my hand, and leads me towards a curtain in the back of his grotto.

"This is where I keep all the best presents, for the boys and girls who've been really really good all year" he says. The cunt.  I know he's full of shit now, because I had been particularly badly behaved all year. I catch a glint in his eye, and I can almost see his face, under the cheap, cotton wool beard grinning, like a fox eating shit out of a wire brush.

"Do you like X-Box games"? he asks, conversationally.
"Yes" I reply, "But I haven't got an X-Box".
"Haven't got an X-Box"?  He says, his "Jolly Santa" voice, full of mock surprise. Drunken Prick. How fucking easy does he think I am for fuck's sake?
"Well, Santa has a little game, specially for people with no X-Boxes, but I don't expect you've got ten minutes to waste, on silly old Santa, have you?"
Devious old cunt. 
I think I'm going to enjoy this more than he thinks he's going to enjoy it.
He goes to a bag, and pulls out a Boxed X-BOX 360. I make my eyes light up in faked surprise.
"Right" he says. "This will be yours soon, all you have to do, is play a guessing game with your Uncle Santa, OK"?
I nod.
He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a blindfold, the type you get on Air Flights.
"Right, put this on, and then all you have to guess what it is that Santa is going to put in your hand"
He passes me the blindfold.
I'm pretty sure I've guessed already what the mystery item is going to be, but I put the blindfold on anyway.
"Hold out your hand, and NO peeping" says Santa, barely able to keep the lust out of his voice. I oblige.
I feel something warm and meaty being put into my hand.  No surprise there then.

"Have a good feel" the voice says.
Filthy old Wrongcock. I don't need a good feel, but I take a firm grip on it anyway.
Then with my other hand, I reach up to my eyes, and remove the blindfold, leaning back a little as I do. Santa looks up, in brief surprise, then I crash my forehead as hard as I can right on the bridge of his nose. There is a satisfying crumple as his nose splats across his face, and as he sinks to his knees in shock and pain, I see gouts of dark blood coming from between his fingers, his hand pressed to his face.
He glances up at me in fear now, just in time for the sole of my boot to connect with his face, sending him sprawling across the floor. His cheap red cotton Santa pants are down around his knees still. (Although his greasy little cock doesn't seem quite so eager to make my accquaintence now)

YOU *kick*  FILTHY OLD *kick* CUNT! *kick*  Once, twice, three times I kick the fucker, right square in the bollocks. he makes small gasping, yelpy sounds like a little dog. One more kick, and he passes out from the pain. What a seedy motherfucker. He's had this all planned out, I realise, looking around the place. The bag in the corner he took the X-Box from, has another 8 Brand new ones, ready for his victims. Fucking Beetlefucker!  Hes' been busy, I think.

I mean, I expect most of his victims are only seven or eight, and quite trusting, easily lured into this cock-knockers game of "Wank the Nonce off".
What the fuck he ever thought he was doing, by trying it on with a grown up 44 year old Bloke, is beyond me. I shake my head in disgust, kick him once more, half heartedly this time, pick up my new X-Box 360, (Well? I did guess what it was!)
and walk out, humming "We Three Kings" to myself. Maybe this Xmas won't be so predictably Shite after all.

Xmas is like a Boil that slowly builds up starting about the end of October, getting imperceptibly more and more full of stinky pus every day, and then, sometime about. . . . well now, it bursts, and that toxic build-up of cultural abuse, Voodoo TV Advertising, the subconscious fear of some overly jolly, fat, vagrantly bearded bastard making you sit on his "knee", while he gropes around in his "sack", on the premise of having a "Gift" for you!

"Ho, Ho, Ho, you're a fine looking young fella-me-lad, jump up here on your Uncle Santa's knee for a minute, and I'll see if I can find something in my sack for you"  So, curiously, almost reluctantly, I step into his Grotto, where two surly looking midget "Elves", dressed in green tights, and Pixie boots and hats skulk in respective corners of the gloomy, faux-rock, fairy lit facade of the Grotto. I can smell cheap sherry on Santa's breath, as he takes my hand, and leads me towards a curtain in the back of his grotto.

"This is where I keep all the best presents, for the boys and girls who've been really really good all year" he says. The cunt.  I know he's full of shit now, because I had been particularly badly behaved all year. I catch a glint in his eye, and I can almost see his face, under the cheap, cotton wool beard grinning, like a fox eating shit out of a wire brush.

"Do you like X-Box games"? he asks, conversationally.
"Yes" I reply, "But I haven't got an X-Box".
"Haven't got an X-Box"?  He says, his "Jolly Santa" voice, full of mock surprise. Drunken Prick. How fucking easy does he think I am for fuck's sake?
"Well, Santa has a little game, specially for people with no X-Boxes, but I don't expect you've got ten minutes to waste, on silly old Santa, have you?"
Devious old cunt. 
I think I'm going to enjoy this more than he thinks he's going to enjoy it.
He goes to a bag, and pulls out a Boxed X-BOX 360. I make my eyes light up in faked surprise.
"Right" he says. "This will be yours soon, all you have to do, is play a guessing game with your Uncle Santa, OK"?
I nod.
He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a blindfold, the type you get on Air Flights.
"Right, put this on, and then all you have to guess what it is that Santa is going to put in your hand"
He passes me the blindfold.
I'm pretty sure I've guessed already what the mystery item is going to be, but I put the blindfold on anyway.
"Hold out your hand, and NO peeping" says Santa, barely able to keep the lust out of his voice. I oblige.
I feel something warm and meaty being put into my hand.  No surprise there then.

"Have a good feel" the voice says.
Filthy old Wrongcock. I don't need a good feel, but I take a firm grip on it anyway.
Then with my other hand, I reach up to my eyes, and remove the blindfold, leaning back a little as I do. Santa looks up, in brief surprise, then I crash my forehead as hard as I can right on the bridge of his nose. There is a satisfying crumple as his nose splats across his face, and as he sinks to his knees in shock and pain, I see gouts of dark blood coming from between his fingers, his hand pressed to his face.
He glances up at me in fear now, just in time for the sole of my boot to connect with his face, sending him sprawling across the floor. His cheap red cotton Santa pants are down around his knees still. (Although his greasy little cock doesn't seem quite so eager to make my accquaintence now)

YOU *kick*  FILTHY OLD *kick* CUNT! *kick*  Once, twice, three times I kick the fucker, right square in the bollocks. he makes small gasping, yelpy sounds like a little dog. One more kick, and he passes out from the pain. What a seedy motherfucker. He's had this all planned out, I realise, looking around the place. The bag in the corner he took the X-Box from, has another 8 Brand new ones, ready for his victims. Fucking Beetlefucker!  Hes' been busy, I think.

I mean, I expect most of his victims are only seven or eight, and quite trusting, easily lured into this cock-knockers game of "Wank the Nonce off".
What the fuck he ever thought he was doing, by trying it on with a grown up 44 year old Bloke, is beyond me. I shake my head in disgust, kick him once more, half heartedly this time, pick up my new X-Box 360, (Well? I did guess what it was!)
and walk out, humming "We Three Kings" to myself. Maybe this Xmas won't be so predictably Shite after all.

Walking home along the Canal yesterday, and I saw something strange, over the other side. Have a closer look, and see if it really is what I think it is.  (In the dip on the treeline)

As I type this, I am being scammed by a Nigerian, in IM.   Here's the conversation so far!

It was nice seeing your profile on Amateurmatch, my name is Emma ,from illinios in peoria ,i am 29 yrs old single with no kids,pls i am pleading in the name of God if you are here  for cyber sex or playing games don't bother to respond back because i am not here for head games nor kidding,I am new on here looking to meet the true love of my life and i will love to relocate with any man who will love me for who i am,i will like to know more about you and let's see where it goes from here.you there? emmasmith0@yahoo.com
BUZZ!!!
: Hi Emma,how did you get my emailaddress?
emmasmith0: Well i got  it  from AM   and  how long have  you been on the site?
l: I'dforgotten even making a profile, and I'm sure I didn't post my email address,
l: just checking it out now
emmasmith0: ok......My name is Emma ,i am 30 years  old,Am single with no kids, Height: 5'7",Weight: 110 lbs,Measurements:   32B-27-35,Hair Color: Blonde,Eye Color: green Bust Size 32 inches. Hips 35  inches. Waist 27 inches, I am a nice woman seeking for a caring and honest man  to spend the rest of my life with.I am looking for a man that is tender hearted,  kind, considerate of others needs,  I like to go out to dinner, go dancing, go to the  movies, workout, travel, see new things. I enjoy the simple things like the ocean,  cuddling at home watching a movie with someone special, I`m a extremely  romantic, passionate and affectionate woman.....and  you?
l: erm, 44, kind of in a relationship, 2 kids, (live with their mother) and a little bemused as to why AM gave out my email,
emmasmith0: well do you mind telling  me  what you do  for  a living  and where you live?
l: I live in the UK, and I'm unemployed,
emmasmith0: wow  what happened?
l: nothing really, I'm  just not working at the moment,
emmasmith0: whose fan are you in the English premier league?
: I don't follow football anymore, but I used to support Chelsea
emmasmith0: Wow that was my Team that i support too
l: Gota bit pricey to get up to see them, and I lost interset, so now I go fishing instead.
emmasmith0: lol
l: more relaxing, and safer.
emmasmith0: how long have  you  been on AM?
l: I think it was in the summer sometime. Hardly gave it a thought until your im popped up. I thought I'd been hacked,
emmasmith0: lol..
l: I'm trying to find my details on am now,
emmasmith0: well ........i was born and raised in peoria in IL and  am into buying and selling  of sculptures and mineral resources but i was adopted by my dad who was  berieved by kidney problem which led to death  but am presently lodging in a  motel in my ex guy country called Nigeria thinking of commiting suicide due to  what my ex did to me

l: that's a bit of a permanent solution, to a tempory problem isn't it?
emmasmith0: may be
l: can'tyougo back to the States?
l: are you stuck in Nigeria?
emmasmith0: well yeah  and that  was why i am tired of life  and looking  for  a serious  minded  man  who will love me           for who i am  and  who can help me  wih my consignment
l: consignment?
emmasmith0: yeah
l: what's that?
emmasmith0: While i was coming here, the african guy told me to come with enough money for investment and i even went to the extent to sell my inherited house just because i want to leave the states and make my self happy thinking i had finally found the man i have been waiting for all my life.I came in here with a total sum of $8.5 million USD which is all the money i realize from my Dad's business and contracts renumeration.
l: seems like a tidy sum,
emmasmith0: Because the African guy told me of an idea to investment in African Sculptures which i did never knew he was after my money.I was blindfolded with love thinking i have found someone i would spend the rest   of my life with.
l: but he took all your money, and dumped you?
emmasmith0: When i got here, he made all things possible means just to get the money from me and get away with my money.when i noticed this,i took the money and my traveling boxes and deposited it with a Security/Insurance Company here in nigeria in order to safe myself and my assets. Thereafter,i left the guy's apartment to an hotel where i am in right now and from which i am writing to you now.
l: Why don't you just take the money and go back to America then?
l: Let me guess,you need someone to help you get your assets out of Nigeria
emmasmith0: yeah  but i am ready to relocate  with who ever help me  with my boxes
l: If you put your boxes in the mail, I don't mind looking after them for you
emmasmith0: how  do you mean ?
l: In a parcel or something, I'm trustworthy, and I've only ever been to prison for driving offences 
emmasmith0: well it is in a security  company  and i don't  know  your  mind  whether you are interested  in me
l: I'm  willing to help, but I'm not interested in marrying you or anything,
l: and that is an awful lot of money,
l: (I am not interested in money though)
emmasmith0 is typing...

i understand   but if  you can help me  i promise you 15% of the money what about that ?
l: not sure how I could help,really.
emmasmith0: ok....I have  the name of the  company  and the deposit details  but  you will have  to contact  them and  tell them that you are  my fiancee and  you want the  boxes  shipped to you
l: they will want more than my word forthat though,
l: and how would they ship them to me?
l: (I don't have a bank account)
emmasmith0 is typing...
emmasmith0: Thanks for asking,this is all you needed done to get my boxes to  you,you will need to contact the insurance/security company to their e-mail and  tell them you are my fiancee and you want them to send you my boxes to your  home address.Their is a clearance fee thats needed to be paid which is $470 ,i will  want you to assist me to pay them the clearance fee for them to be able to ship  my boxes to youi got $8,500,000.00 inside the boxes.I will give you the unlocking  codes as soon as the boxes gets to you.      I am very glad to hear that you want to  help me out in getting my boxes to your home address.

Will post the rest in a short while

I must be the luckiest person in the fucking world! This must be the 100th
time this week I've gone to a website, only to be congratulated on being the 999,999th fucking visitor to this site! Not only that, but I have also been nominated! notimated, no less, to be the possible winner of a fucking IPod / IPad / IMac / /IPhone! Or my IP Address has been selected to be the lucky recipient of a brand new Mini, or some other bullshit "offer". Not only that, but my fucking Postman keeps shovelling reams of junkmail through my letterbox while I'm asleep, personally addressed to me, offering me Garden Furniture, (1st floor flat) or Gas Boiler insurance (no fucking gas) or pension schemes, or some other totally useless shit, like solar panels, double glazing, or timeshare narrowboat hollidays in East Fucking Anglia!
The marketing cunts behing it must have stolen my name from somewhere,  not even bothered to do any demographics before cutting down another forestload of timber to mail to me, personally, with their "Special Offers", because if they did, they certainly wouldn't be offering me Motability Scooters, Elegant "Persian Style" Carpets, or Luxury Leather Furniture, that wouldn't even FIT through my fucking door! I've got three Power supply Companies squabbling over who gets to rip me off for Electricity, even a Gas supplier wanting to sell me fucking electric! I've got a stack of TV Licence "reminders" demanding money with menaces, (Those cunts have never had a penny out of me, and never will!) and now the Local Authority Balliffs are quietly slipping letters through my door, saying "We called, but you were out" (fucking lying bastards! I stood and watched them tiptoeing up the hallway!) threatening to "Levy Distress" on me for not paying my fucking Poll Tax! I'll Levy fucking distress on his fucking sneaky parasitic arse next time I see him! Especially as the Letter informs me that every time he sneaks one  through the door, it costs me another £60! Fuck that. They can charge another £600 for all I care, I still won't pay the fucker. My Slumlord Housing association are sending "Customer Satisfaction Surveys" out like there's no tomorrow, seeking my opinion on the level of service they provide! ("Because what matters to you, matters to us") Pisstaking bastards! I might just tell them my opinion. Again.! GRRRRRR!RANT!   RAGE! BIBBLE   GIBBER! FROTH TWITCH!

Right, glad I got that out of my system! Sorry to have taken up your valuable time with my rabid tantrum. Have to go now, and staple another kitten to the Hallway ceiling, before next door's ugly numbnut kids come back from school. Give them something to screech about for a change! GRRR!  

For instance, a young black man is walking home one night, and gets beaten up by two white lads on their way home from the Pub, for no apparent reason
other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The two offenders are caught, taken to Court, and prosecuted.  Quite right too. There's no excuse for this type of behaviour. However, if during the assault, the black man was called a nigger, or some other term of racial abuse, or if there is any indication that the attack was racially motivated, then it becomes a "Hate crime", and is viewed in quite a different light. My point is, why should there have to be a distinction between the original assault, and
one that is racially motivated? Surely whatever the motivation is behind it, the Law should be sufficient to deal with the offenders? After all, the black man was just as assaulted, whatever the motivation was. The addition of "Hate Crime" categorisations implies that the Law is insufficient to deal with current offences, and needs changing.
And it doesn't. If anything, it needs to be implemented with more across the board consistency.
I'm not saying that attacking someone on the basis of their race isn't a heinous thing to do, it quite obviously is. But so is attacking someone on the basis of being too drunk to show any self control.
If, in Court, someone says, as a reason for their Crime, "I did it because they were black" or  "I did it because they were gay", and the Court accepts that this in some way mitigates the Crime, then it is clearly the Judiciary that is at fault, not the existing Laws that are in place to deal with such crimes. 
Also, more Police resources are allocated to anything that might be called a Hate Crime. So if two assaults of similar severity are committed at the same time, and one of them is deemed to fit the Hate Crime profile, guess which one gets investigated, and which one gets put on the back burner? 
  An assault is an assault. The motivation behind it does not make any one incident worse than another, or any better than another.
It doesn't make the assault any less serious. Especially to the victim. And the sudden appearence of so many "Hate Crimes" in the Media, just makes people more afraid.
So is HateCrime a new phenomena? Or just a Political move to justify giving the Police more powers?  Shouldn't the Police treat all crime with the same level of efficiency?
Or should they be allowed to pick and choose whichever ones make them look better in the eyes of the current Political climate?  What do you think?

Classic piece of vinyl you put on?

I've Got "American Beauty" playing right now.

(Truckin')

Just out of interest, how many of us are left handed?

I have come to realise that Anarchy, means many different things to different people. Lots of people see it as a political movement, and while this is a valid viewpoint, it does seem to dominate peoples perceptions. Politically, Anarchy tends to be about destruction of Governmental systems. The throwing down of an oppressive regieme. This is not really what the spirit of Anarchy is about. If you approach it from this viewpoint, the chances are you are missing the whole point.
Anarchy is not about misrule, or politcal revolution. Not about tearing down a hated government.
It's not about breaking the rules, or setting up a fairer or more tolerant society. It's not about socialism, or communism, capitalism, or fascism. It's not about anything with an "ism" on the end. It's not about casting down social evils, or despots, not about violence, or rioting, or not following leaders.
Etymologically, Anarchy means the rule of one. Contrary to popular belief, it is not anti-government. It is very much about government. Government at it's most basic, and relevant level.
Self government. Not self government as a country, or a bordered land. But self govenment as an independent, self regulating organism. YOU. It's about taking control of how you govern yourself. It's about thinking for yourself. It's about taking responsibility for your actions. About having a set of rules of your own, rules that allow you to co-exist in relative harmony with those around you. Rules that are not impossibly idealistic. That way only leads to disappointment, and bitterness. Rules that are not so rigid, and inflexible that they become a burden to you. Rules that are unwritten. Obvious.
And livable by. It's not about giving anyone else these rules, it's about accepting that these people are as capable as you are of having there own rules too. Now, all this might seem like common sense, and easy to do. And it is. The hard part, is accepting that whatever rules you adopt for yourself to live by, have consequences.

State Governmental systems assume to remove the responsibility for your actions, from your personal life, via judiciary or legislative models. In societies like we have today, this is not practical, workable, or efficient. People break Laws with impunity. The consequences of our actions are soaked up by the system, and rarely come home to roost. The idea of "Justice" has been hi-jacked, and turned on it's head by Judiciary systems. More Laws are made, more legislation is implemented, and the system, though unworkable, is all a Government can offer in the way of "protection"  for the populace.

Anarchy is about assuming whatever responsibility you can, back from wherever it is currently hiding, (and it's not as far away as you might think) about thinking hard about the Laws our Leaders give us to regulate us, and then dismissing those that directly stop you from having control of your own life, in the most workable way you can. Even in the most oppressive regieme, there is still room for the individual to say "NO". Fear keeps those voices down, but can never stop them. It doesn't have to be very loud. The only person who needs to hear it is YOU. It is this word that starts it all. Small acts of defiance. Acts that have consequences only for you. Not revolution against the forces of governments, revolution against what you allow yourself to be deluded by. Blakes "Mind forged manacles"

Crowley understood, and his oft quoted, but much misunderstood ''Do what thou wilt, shall be the whole of the Law'' pretty much nails it. It is about taking control of our own lives, on a fundamental level. Finding our ''True Will'', piece by piece, and holding to it. Understanding how it affects everything around us, everything we do.  When we start to do this, we see how tenuous a grip those who would oppress us with false Laws really have on us. The comfortable illusion of an ''Ordered Society'' is just that. An illusion. And if you are happy with that, then you are saying, in effect, ''I am happy to live on my knees, I accept that I need to be governed by others". But deep down, you know it is a lie. You just don't want to be the only one to rise up. This is the struggle. You HAVE to be the only one to rise up. You HAVE to do this for yourself, otherwise nothing will ever change.
The original Sin of proud Lucifer, was to say, ''No, I will not serve''. And for this, he was not ''cast out out of Heaven'', but given the Earth. That was the consequence of his disobedience. Not so bad when you look at it like that, is it?     

The Fear™ has a different face for everyone, but it is unmistakeable when it hits you. Something starts to creep in around the edges of your Trip, then takes it over, hits you like a steamroller, and leaves you in a place where everything is decaying, and the air has a different, greasy feel to it.

There is a lingering, all pervading smell, a little like an electrical fire, but as familiar as your own sweat. It instills a nagging feeling of extremely close danger, but never quite close enough to give you anything to work with. The quality of the light is all fucked up, the colours seem to be very flat, and thin, except for the blues, which seem to be alive and somehow have a livid violet blue/black harmonic that makes you think of the edges of a deep, badly infected wound.

You can't tell if the air is full of invisible, choking, smoke, and you feel the beginnings of a panic fluttering in your chest. You are suddenly struck by the idea that there is something very, very wrong. You stop what you are doing, and start a mental check to see if you are functioning properly. You are aware of every autonomous function, breathing, heartbeat, bloodflow, etc, and you feel as if you must somehow transfer the control to your foremind, because if you let them go back to automatic, you are likely to forget to keep them going, and die from a lazy heart, or forgetting you need to breath, and asphyxiating.

You take three or four really deep breathes in quick succesion anyway, just in case you had to, but this makes the blood rush in your ears, and your heart beat faster. Everything suddenly ramps up a notch or two. You feel, rather than hear a thundering noise in the distance, it beats like a huge, slow, deep drum, driving everything with a vast timeless beat.

The Panic in your chest gets bigger, and you feel it's fluttery fingers moving up to your throat now, the rushing in your ears is almost deafening and all your perception seems to be building, and building, trapped and looking for a way out, it feels like a tidal wave about to crash over through, and out of your head, all at the same time, (which, you notice as an afterthought, is no longer a constant, but rather ambiguous) Then the panic moves up, and across your face like a blush, and spreads around your head, you are aware of a tiny tiny little white spot, at the centre of everything.

Your bursting, panic stricken mind focuses on this aperture that suddenly unifies all creation, and the light gets bigger, and impossibly bright, just as the wave crashes over you, and it's suddenly like a thousand silent trumpets are blowing all at once, right next to your head, and the pain, and pressure is unbearable, and something has got to give in a moment, and you know that something's going to be you!

But you suddenly find some reserve of will, and start to fight it, with every drop of essence that is you. You seem to be getting away, for a second or two as well, and then whatever it was that you were, snaps away like an elastic band snaps, and you are aware of nothing but the light, no sound, or colour, or texture, just this Holocaust of light, so bright it shines right through you like a breeze cuts through the mist. Matter is suddenly gone. Does not matter, need not be.
You are a point of stillness, the fulcrum at which everything balances, and you feel an instant of relief, before The Fear™ Finally hits you. Rolls over you like a wave of foul, gloopy caramel coloured  fnord  and you start to be afraid.
You thought you knew what Fear was, knew how to ride it until it dropped away to nothing much at all.

You realise that you were very wrong indeed.   This thing, The Fear™ is going to ride you, consume you, digest you, and shit you out, like you were nothing! It will go on forever, and you have no hope at all of escaping it's icy clutch. You also know that deep down, you have always known this. And so it takes you.  scared

That's just the build up, but you start to get the idea. I wont elaborate any further, because of the spoilers,
but once it gets you, you will never ever be the same. Your life is bisected into two parts. Before, and After.

So now, just because you know The Fear™ is there, don't let it put you off what can be a delightfully fun time. It doesn't get you every time, and it probably won't the first time. Some people never seem to get it at all.
But it doesn't pay to get complacent. It's there, it's real, and it will eventually make itself known to you. To all of us. Eventually. So good luck, and be sure to enjoy your Trip. Everything will be fine.  wink    Probably.   

ITT, You can unburden yourself in complete confidence, of all your deepest, dirtiest secrets. Things you could never tell anyone IRL, for fear of Peasants with pitchforks & flaming brands. So come on, tell your Uncle Beasty all about it. If your transgression is worthy, you may be given some token penance to perform, before being absolved, so lets have it, don't hold back, nothing is too shameful for this thread. 

So who are these mysterious Lurkers? Looking through the members list, the number of Lurkers, or those with a single figure post count, far outweigh those who are active on the boards. How many of these are enemies,  spying on our activities?
Who are they monitoring our levels of sedition, Chaos, and Discord for?

How many are working for shady Governmental 'Intelligence' Agencies, looking for plots, or sleeper Agent Provocoteurs, ready to spring into action, and entrap hapless Discordians, into being set up as Patsys for their nefarious schemes?

Are we harbouring a dormant population of Fifth Columnists,waiting for the balloon to go up,so they might use the banner of PD.Com, to enable their ancient conspiracy of World domination to take over?

Or am I making a mountain out of a molehill? Are they just spags, who have forgotten their passwords, or too afraid of being savaged by our (apparently) brutal hazing process to post? Are they lost, or trapped here by our policy of not deleting old or dormant accounts?
Some of them mean us no good, of that I am certain. As to exactly who, or what their plans are, I am at a loss.

So come on, has anyone got any ideas of what we could be up against, and what we can do to counter their heinous plot to destroy us all? 

Goths are lulzy. Perfectly harmless, a bit moody perhaps, and "differently motivated", but hey, they'll grow out of it. Or not. No matter. My 19 year old son is a bit of a Goth 'scene' and he's doing just fine. But apparently, GOD HATES GOTHS. It's true.

Take a look at this. Reverend Green states,
"Goths, in my opinion, are more dangerous to Children than pedophiles, and need serious psychiatric help. The sooner Goths realise what they have is nothing short of mental illness, the better for everyone concerned".

"THE BIBLE INSTRUCTS US TO DRESS MODESTLY. ONE ASPECT OF DRESSING MODESTLY IS MAKING SURE EVERYTHING THAT SHOULD BE COVERED BY CLOTHING IS ADEQUATELY COVERED. ANOTHER ASPECT TO MODESTY IS NOT DRAWING ATTENTION TO YOURSELF. PEOPLE WHO DRESS MODESTLY DRESS IN SUCH A WAY THAT THEY DO NOT DRAW ATTENTION TO THEMSELVES. DO GOTHS DRESS MODESTLY? NO. THEY DRESS LIKE FILTHY SATANIC WHORES. COVERED IN PIERCINGS AND TATTOOS, TORN FISHNET STOCKINGS, PVC, BASQUES AND BONDAGE CLOTHING.  DRESSING UP LIKE A SICK CIRCUS FREAK IS A DIRECT DEFIANCE TO GOD."

and this.

"THE BIBLE ALSO CONDEMNS TATTOOS, SCARIFICATION, SELF-HARMING, PIERCINGS AND DESECRATION OF YOUR BODY. YOUR BODY IS NOT YOUR OWN, IT BELONGS TO GOD. THE WAY YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE IN EVERYTHING YOU DO, EVERY WAY YOU ACT, AND ESPECIALLY EVERY WAY YOU TREAT YOUR BODY, MUST BE TO THE GLORY OF GOD. TO ABUSE OR DESECRATE YOUR BODY WITH INK OR METAL OR BODY MODIFICATIONS OR SCARS IS AN ABOMINATION TO GOD."

or this.

"GOTHS ARE PROUD OF THEIR SIN, PROUD TO PARADE AROUND LIKE SICK HALLOWEEN FREAK-SHOWS, PROUD TO DEGRADE THEIR BODIES WITH TATTOOS AND PIERCINGS, PROUD TO ENGAGE IN FILTHY SEXUAL PERVERSIONS, AND IN THAT PRIDEFUL STATE THEY CANNOT REPENT - YOU CANNOT REPENT OF SOMETHING YOU'RE PROUD OF. PRIDE IS ONE OF THE 7 ABOMINABLE SINS WHICH ARE HATED BY GOD."

It get's even better.

"GOD ALSO DETESTS RETARDS. DOWN SYNDROME, CEREBAL PALSY, THALIDOMIDES, DWARFISM, SPINA BIFIDA, AND OTHER CREATURES SPASTIC RETARDATIONS ARE REPULSIVE TO GOD. THE BIBLE STATES QUITE CLEARLY THAT THESE TWISTED LIMBLESS MONSTERS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED ANYWHERE NEAR A CHURCH, AS THEY ARE UNCLEAN AND REPULSIVE TO GOD. THEY ARE AN ABOMINATION. THEY HAVE MINDS OF SUCH A REPROBATE NATURE THAT THEY ARE GIVEN TO SEXUALLY GRATIFYING THEMSELVES IN PUBLIC, AND ARE NOTHING MORE THAN SLOBBERING STAMMERING ANIMALS. WHY SHOULD THEY GET THE BEST CARE? GET GRANTS TO BUILD RAMPS FOR THEM? WHEELCHAIRS? PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT? IF GOD DID NOT INTEND THEM TO WALK, LET THEM CRAWL LIKE THE SNAKES THEY ARE."

I'm having difficulty believing this guy is for real, (after all, I discovered it while following one of Cain's links) but having visited the website, it's not just Goths that God hates, it's Women too.

"Our own Rev RG Green estimates that 99.999% of ALL women born today are heading straight to Hell!
The truth is that so many women are turning away from God, and ignoring important Bible teachings
about how they should act, how they should dress, how they should know their places!
Though the fact of the matter is that while Bible teaches us MAN will be reunited with his maker,
NOWHERE in the Bible does it say that women go to Heaven! In fact we do not even know if
women have souls to save!"

and the Handicapped,

"I am merely trying to educate them into the Bible truths about these vile and repulsive dumb
animals. If every filthy retard dropped down dead tomorrow Jesus would weep tears of joy!
When a retard dies, God laughs!"

The utterly worthless and vile Rev Green, seriously needs fucking with. He dwells in a dark, and loveless place.

hxxp://www.godhatesgoths.com/

So, everyone who posted answers in the ''Answers only'' thread, Beasty respectfully requests that you to go back to your first post there, and repost it here, with the
question that spawned such a hideously surreal response. Then for the second, etc. Only in this way, can we ever hope to regain some kind of control over such a well meant, but ultimately endless thread, before it takes over the whole of the intrawebz.
I'll start then, shall I?

Answer;  Because there were 6 kittens in the litter, and only room for five in the sack.

Question; Why do you keep throwing that kitten into the Canal?

Post your tributes to the dearly departed greats (and not so greats) here.
This is for poor Frank, who died yesterday. Once seen, never forgotten.  My pary is for Timperly, who lost their Frank.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvkt-3oskiI&feature=related

Last week, I said I'd post a crop circle story, so here it is. Last year, I met a guy who was part of a small group, who made crop circles, locally. He first began doing them, in a pranky sort of way, at the end of the 80's to take the piss out of all the people who offered theories of Aliens, or Fairies, or Hedgehogs, or whatever, just for the smuggish lulz factor, and he still makes circles to this day, but now he is a lot more open minded about the whole thing, and admits there is more to them than he can explain.

He told me a story about a night , about four or five years ago now, in early June. His technique was to take a google map of the field they were intending to do, and would work out the design, and dimensions beforehand, on his Mac, usually that afternoon, depending on the amount of people he could round up. (Usually three)

On this particular occasion, all the details had been ironed out, they had all the lengths of rope, with marker knots tied, and printouts of the design. All three of them were about to leave, at just past midnight, when there was a torrential thunderstorm. They waited it out, and ended up leaving at about 2.30am to do the circle. They estimated for about an hour to get this one finished, as it wasn't too elaborate or ambitious. The thing is, when they got to the field, it was apparent someone had already been there, earlier on and made their own circle. Disheartened, they returned home.

These things occasionally happen, as there are a few teams that regularly make circles in the area, independently of each other, during the season. However, the next day, when they went back to the field to view the circle that had been made, it was the exact design, and dimensions as the one they had planned to do. The only three people who knew what the design was to be, had been together all the time, from beginning to end, so there was no way anyone else could have known of their plans.

And the only opportunity anyone could have had to do it, was during the thunderstorm, and it was a big storm, and there was no moon that night.
To this day, no-one else has claimed responsibility for it, (And the teams usually like to claim their credit, with each other, after the fact, in a spirit of competitive rivalry) and he is as much at a loss as to how it happened, as he was on the day. For a while, he said he nearly drove himself batshit, trying to figure it out, but by the time he told me the story, he'd just accepted it as one of those things he would never get to the bottom of.
Theoretically, it could have just been a coincidence, but the design was exactly the same as theirs had been. Dimensions too. I can't even begin to offer an explanation for it.
I know the guy in question reasonably well, and I'm pretty sure he was telling me the truth. One of the people who was with him that night was present when he told me the story, and he confirmed every word of it. 

So there it is. Every year, there are a few circles made, that no-one claims, or knows who was responsible for, not necessarily the more complex ones, but always occurring on moondark nights, mostly between the end of May, and mid August. There have also been a couple every year, in fields of winter wheat, at around the end of December that no-one knows anything about. These ones never get any publicity, because they aren't "In season" and whoever does them, is unknown to any of the regular teams. Similar patterns have also been seen in Ice, on Russian lakes that have frozen overnight, and also in fresh snowfall in Siberia. No footprints or anything, and the official explanation, is freak wind conditions. And that's the best explanation there is for them. But who knows for sure? It could be Hedgehogs I suppose.

Gods always seem to really get quite "precious" when they decide they have been dissed, challenged, or insulted by Mortals. There must be
some kind of "Don't they know who I am?"! gene running through the Pantheons, like Victoria's recessives. You'd think the God's would be above all that kind of petty vindictive posturing, but they don't seem to handle insults in a mature, Godlike manner at all. And always really gauche, ostentatious displays of utter pwng, and  never knowingly understated, when they are in a capricious or smitey mood,  or even just out of  boredom.

I know there are many absurd examples of Deities mashing up any mortal who dares to even jokingly question their omnipotence, but here's an example I got carried away with, in someone else's thread. A totally off topic electrocution curiosity was churning me up inside, so rather than hijack what is already a perfectly aligned thread, I'm going to spew my imaginative carrion here, and hopefully, someone might add another few scenarios of God sized hissy fits, or smiting of infidels, heretics, etc.

**STARTS TO DAYDREAM**

                                                Earlier today, at the Golf Course

"The pressure is really on now, just had his third Eagle, now only needs a par to win, walks across the green with his putter over his shoulder,  got to make a four yard putt for the Pro-Am Sponkhill Memorial Trophy". He squares up to the shot, just about to start his gentle backswing,  and suddenly, out of a blue, clear sky, a blinding light, and a sound like ripping a hurricane in half, and he's gone! One smoking Golfshoe, left empty, near the pin,  but no sign of him at all, and the ball rolls slowly towards the hole, then . . . . . . . . .

You decide whether the ball drops in or not, I am "Plasma Man" Struck by Wild Lightning!  Transformed into a sentient ball of ionised gases,
With the power to be blown about, by a light breeze, Plasma man prevails, self appointed Guardian of the Dewponds Golf course, he wanders like a lonely sentinel, overseeing fair play, and good manners on the links!

And in the Local Papers,
"Golfing Legend, and almost really real Discordian, Prefect Q. 4 McFukmuk met with  serious resistence on the 18th hole of the Pro-Am Sponkpot's Memorial Trophy earlier  this Morning, when he was reported as having had "some kind of a fit, or seizure"  He was found to have been vapourised in a freak accident, involving a bolt of Lightning, a putter, and a metal spiked Golfshoe"  

"Witnesses described the incident as happening "very fast" .

Golfing partner, Stefan "The Strimmer" Stankiroskanoff" said to our Reporter,

"I've never seen anything like that happen before, I hope he's OK, there's the Aesir Challenge Cup qualifier next Thursday "  
He said,  between sobs.  

"He was only saying, not two minutes before it happened, how he was going to totally ream the Aesir in the playoffs, and how Weddesun had better be playing better Golf than he did last year"

His very last words were

"I'm going to Bitchslap that Thor Weddensun, on every single hole next week, then plant my Dunlop 64 right up his jacksy, just cuz I can!"  Then he was gone! Just like that!"

"Golfcourse Staff are searching for any pieces of debris before they start to stink the place up, but although there seems to be  a substantial blast patch, very little of substance is seen of McFukmuk's vapourised remains."  

A Spokesperson said,
"The Course will be open for business again by 4.30  this afternoon"

Just going to keep some Yahoo Answers Trollings going in, because they tend to take all the best ones down really quickly nowadays.

Actually upload someone's entire consciousness, from the carbon based information system, that is our wetware, to a silicon based information system, like, for instance, my PC?  (And of course, into the univirtual interwebz?)  I suspect such a thing might be being worked on, by some fiendish,
Frankengatesian type, somewhere, but is it going to be happening, like anytime soon, (next 30-40 years?) Because that would be something to hang around for, wouldn't it? Not that I'm planning on going anywhere, but it would be  better than just  incontinence, brittle bone disease, and encroaching senility to look forward to, wouldn't it? I don't mean some illusary Matrix type thing, but a limitless, instantaneous, meat free, playground of lightspeed,
cyberkicks, and teralulz.. So come on all you sciencers, pull your virtual thumbs out of your arses, and invent me a modem, that I can squirt my awareness in and out through my spare USB2 port, please.  (If it's not too much trouble, I mean.)




 

I'm halfway through cleaning my Stepfathers pond filter. It "wasn't flowing properly"  he said.
Probably because it hasn't been cleaned for about 8 years!  I mean, I'm all for a little Bio-diversity" but some of the things in the cistern must be unknown to Science! Foul, foul slimy mud, alive with things that would have woken  Gieger up in a cold sweat, had he dreamt of them. And the stench, God, the stench! I have to go back out, and run a hosepipe through the whole thing in a minute. Sobbing at the thought of it.
Why?  Why did my poor Mother have to marry a man who allowed such things to flourish? I have a good mind to fill the bloody pond in, and pave over it, as a car port. The memory of the stink will never leave me. "We'll all be old, and infirm one day" I hear you say.
Old people are just twisted, sick caricatures of everything that is wrong with the world!

(I don't mean that really, he's quite a sweet old fella, but the smell of that cistern is a wrongness that will stain my life,  to my dying day!)

Five major box office smashes, that you have never seen, have no desire to see, and would quite happily go to your grave,
without feeling like you missed anything. 

Mine, (I'm sure I can think of more, there must be  more)

Rambo, First Blood
Pretty Woman
Top Gun
Titanic
Brokeback Mountain