1
News:
Also, i dont think discordia attracts any more sociopaths than say, atheism or satanism.
Show Posts
This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.
Pages: [1]
2
Apple Talk / Calucgi: The Game
« on: September 08, 2009, 12:28:39 am »
http://actie.centraalbeheer.nl/commercialgame/caluccigame.htm
A weird German point-and-click flash adventure game. You play as a guy under witness protection desperately trying to evade detection.
All of the audio is in English, and the whole thing is composed of real photography and videos. I haven't completed it yet, but it's really fucking cool (and creepy) so far.
A weird German point-and-click flash adventure game. You play as a guy under witness protection desperately trying to evade detection.
All of the audio is in English, and the whole thing is composed of real photography and videos. I haven't completed it yet, but it's really fucking cool (and creepy) so far.
3
Literate Chaotic / Amusing Ourselves to Death - The Huxleyan Warning
« on: April 20, 2009, 02:33:58 am »
http://www.lists.opn.org/pipermail/local_activists_lists.opn.org/2008-August/000261.html
Chapter 11 of "Amusing Ourselves to Death" by Neil Postman. On modern media. Whole book was an informative read, I thought.
Chapter 11 of "Amusing Ourselves to Death" by Neil Postman. On modern media. Whole book was an informative read, I thought.
5
Or Kill Me / FUCK THE CONSPIRACY.
« on: May 27, 2007, 12:32:02 am »
“I CLEARLY SEE THE PERFECT PLAN – FOR I HAVE PAID FOR IT. I KNOW WHAT I REALLY THINK. “BOB” IS MY UNFAILING BROKER, AND LARGE SUMS OF MONEY COME TO ME QUICKLY, WITHOUT WORK, IN A PERFECT WAY. DIVINE SLACK NOW DISSOLVES IN MY BLOODSTREAM. FUCK THE CONSPIRACY.” – Pg. 69, The Book of the SubGenius
Yeah, you heard me, FUCK THE CONSPIRACY. I have no time to mull over the history, ways, or proof of it. I just want to fuck it up, no matter how little that may mean. So, once upon a time, a bunch of pinks lost control of the little power they had left, and thus “THE MACHINE” was birthed. It doesn’t matter now; The Conspiracy is here, and it is chugging along like the well-oiled machinery it is, right off a cliff.
So fuck it. It doesn’t have ANY power over ME, and I am free to do whatever-the-fuck I want. Everyone is, the difference being that they use their freedom for what is blasphemy to freedom: to agree. They fucking AGREE with each other, and make others AGREE with them. Fuck them. Fuck the fate of The Conspiracy, I don’t give a shit when it’ll fall or why, but as long as I can hitch a ride on it, I’ll keep hammering away at its puny mechanisms, maybe causing it to sputter or change gears. No matter how little this means, at least I know I am burdening that which I shun.
The more I think about The Conspiracy, the more I remain fettered, making me idler. This isn’t a time for analyzing, pondering, and theorizing just for the sake of analyzing, pondering, and theorizing. This is a time for action, and thought that LEADS to action. For this is The Age of The Conspiracy, friends, and we are FIGHTING BACK when we can still fucking FIGHT BACK.
FUCK THE CONSPIRACY.
Yeah, you heard me, FUCK THE CONSPIRACY. I have no time to mull over the history, ways, or proof of it. I just want to fuck it up, no matter how little that may mean. So, once upon a time, a bunch of pinks lost control of the little power they had left, and thus “THE MACHINE” was birthed. It doesn’t matter now; The Conspiracy is here, and it is chugging along like the well-oiled machinery it is, right off a cliff.
So fuck it. It doesn’t have ANY power over ME, and I am free to do whatever-the-fuck I want. Everyone is, the difference being that they use their freedom for what is blasphemy to freedom: to agree. They fucking AGREE with each other, and make others AGREE with them. Fuck them. Fuck the fate of The Conspiracy, I don’t give a shit when it’ll fall or why, but as long as I can hitch a ride on it, I’ll keep hammering away at its puny mechanisms, maybe causing it to sputter or change gears. No matter how little this means, at least I know I am burdening that which I shun.
The more I think about The Conspiracy, the more I remain fettered, making me idler. This isn’t a time for analyzing, pondering, and theorizing just for the sake of analyzing, pondering, and theorizing. This is a time for action, and thought that LEADS to action. For this is The Age of The Conspiracy, friends, and we are FIGHTING BACK when we can still fucking FIGHT BACK.
FUCK THE CONSPIRACY.
6
Literate Chaotic / Working Title
« on: April 03, 2007, 10:35:31 pm »
This story I am working on - a work in progress - I would like to have some criticism about it - but I will have more, probably tomorrow.
It is amazing, that, as I never have found the need to blather about myself - or - write in this manner whatsoever, I find it necessary to communicate the events of these past few months. I am a scientist, a chemist - as are my peers, and was happy to be that; and only that, until two months ago.
…Until.
It was a beautiful Spring Evening on the streets of District Four, as always. The dim rays of the sun, now brighter than usual, shined brilliantly through the arboretum-like canvas that was the Glass Dome. The sunshine skimmed and skipped across the rooftops of the small shops of the area quite beautifully. I was on my way to the Chemistry Utensil Shop of the area, for earlier during study I had broken a few necessary flasks. While browsing the shop’s wares, I found the needed supplies, along with a few generic items that were more improved than tools of the previous day. I picked them up as well, paid the necessary credits, and then left, with a profound need to relax from the day’s study. I headed toward the usual place - the refreshment area down the street.
There was much clatter as I entered the refreshment area - all of the fellow chemists were speaking of their recent study. One was boasting of his improvements on the current military formula for the “paste” of their “sticky bomb”. Another was discussing with a peer how he had a dilemma with his current assignment - improving upon a deodorizing formula used in District Two.
“Hello, Joseph.” The barman said, “The usual?”
“Yes, Percy.” I said.
When I received my order, I began munching on nutritional supplement #49 along with a glass of purified water. As I was eating, I couldn’t help but notice the peculiarities of the man sitting next to me. He looked disgruntled, and was awkwardly slumped over the bar, picking at his food, and grimacing as he put it in his mouth. He barely had a head of hair - usually people would wear caps in this instance. However, I finally recognized him.
“Ronald Burns!”. I said, enthusiastically. Ronald was renowned for his work in collaboration with District Two - the medical studies district - as a biochemist. At one time, he was part of the Hierarchy - able to choose his own work instead of having the state choose it for him.
“What of it?”, he said, with a scornful look. “Oh, you’re that Joseph Cardly fellow - aren’t you? We worked together on that blasted Hanover project, correct?”
“Yes.” I said, though shocked that he would refer to his studies as “blasted”.
We talked no more, though I still did notice peculiarities about his manner - and he drank no water, but drank from some archaic silver flask, a container I hadn’t seen in a long time. After a while, he staggered off, and his eccentric walk attracted the attention of fellow bar-goers.
It is amazing, that, as I never have found the need to blather about myself - or - write in this manner whatsoever, I find it necessary to communicate the events of these past few months. I am a scientist, a chemist - as are my peers, and was happy to be that; and only that, until two months ago.
…Until.
It was a beautiful Spring Evening on the streets of District Four, as always. The dim rays of the sun, now brighter than usual, shined brilliantly through the arboretum-like canvas that was the Glass Dome. The sunshine skimmed and skipped across the rooftops of the small shops of the area quite beautifully. I was on my way to the Chemistry Utensil Shop of the area, for earlier during study I had broken a few necessary flasks. While browsing the shop’s wares, I found the needed supplies, along with a few generic items that were more improved than tools of the previous day. I picked them up as well, paid the necessary credits, and then left, with a profound need to relax from the day’s study. I headed toward the usual place - the refreshment area down the street.
There was much clatter as I entered the refreshment area - all of the fellow chemists were speaking of their recent study. One was boasting of his improvements on the current military formula for the “paste” of their “sticky bomb”. Another was discussing with a peer how he had a dilemma with his current assignment - improving upon a deodorizing formula used in District Two.
“Hello, Joseph.” The barman said, “The usual?”
“Yes, Percy.” I said.
When I received my order, I began munching on nutritional supplement #49 along with a glass of purified water. As I was eating, I couldn’t help but notice the peculiarities of the man sitting next to me. He looked disgruntled, and was awkwardly slumped over the bar, picking at his food, and grimacing as he put it in his mouth. He barely had a head of hair - usually people would wear caps in this instance. However, I finally recognized him.
“Ronald Burns!”. I said, enthusiastically. Ronald was renowned for his work in collaboration with District Two - the medical studies district - as a biochemist. At one time, he was part of the Hierarchy - able to choose his own work instead of having the state choose it for him.
“What of it?”, he said, with a scornful look. “Oh, you’re that Joseph Cardly fellow - aren’t you? We worked together on that blasted Hanover project, correct?”
“Yes.” I said, though shocked that he would refer to his studies as “blasted”.
We talked no more, though I still did notice peculiarities about his manner - and he drank no water, but drank from some archaic silver flask, a container I hadn’t seen in a long time. After a while, he staggered off, and his eccentric walk attracted the attention of fellow bar-goers.
7
Or Kill Me / The Artilleryman Rant, Part 1
« on: March 10, 2007, 02:28:38 am »
'Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I'm getting ready. Mind you, it isn't all of us that are made for wild beasts; and that's what it's got to be. That's why I watched you. I had my doubts. You're slender. I didn't know that it was you, see, or just how you'd been buried. All these - the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way - they'd be no good. They haven't any spirit in them - no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn't one or the other - Lord! what is he but funk and precautions? They used to skedaddle off to work - I've seen hundreds of 'em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their season-ticket train, for fear they'd get dismissed if they didn't; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to undertand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn't be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner foe fear of the back streets, and sleeping with wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one miserable skedaddle through the world.
Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays - fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built of rabbits! Well, the Martians will be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they'll come in and be caught cheerful. They'll be quite glad after a bit. They'll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar-loafers, and marshers, and singers - I can imagine them.
There'll ne any amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There's hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that I've only begun to see clearly these last few days. There's lots will take things as they are - fat and stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it's all wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you've see the same thing. It's energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of - what is it? - eroticism.'
- from H.G. Wells The War of the Worlds
I just finished reading this book, and wanted to share, even though you are probably already familiar with it.
Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays - fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built of rabbits! Well, the Martians will be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they'll come in and be caught cheerful. They'll be quite glad after a bit. They'll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar-loafers, and marshers, and singers - I can imagine them.
There'll ne any amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There's hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that I've only begun to see clearly these last few days. There's lots will take things as they are - fat and stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it's all wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you've see the same thing. It's energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of - what is it? - eroticism.'
- from H.G. Wells The War of the Worlds
I just finished reading this book, and wanted to share, even though you are probably already familiar with it.
Pages: [1]