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Go ahead you filthy fucking heathens. Ask me how my days been.

Roger.

I have returned. It is a new dawn, a new day.

Please Holy Name^tm me.

While you're at it, could you do a new displayed name for me too? I am bored of everything I've thought of.

I know I'm being lazy, but  I need effectiveness and I know you are dependable in regards to maximum effect.

In return, I will give you the pint of Boris Johnson:

Of the end times it is written that there will be rivers of blood and you'll be able to see up Auntie Mabel's skirt as she is lifted bodily up to heaven and that God will fuck off and leave the righteous sinners alone for a thousand years to get their freak on, get their freak on get their get their get their freak on before coming back and cock slapping us all back to Calvinist Heaven (aka Catholic Hell).

It is written.

But words on a page lack that certain je ne sais quois that one finds in the words of the teeth and of the belly. The problem, you see, is seeing. Seeing is believing, and belief is a terrible idea. "Seeing" is your brain masturbating itself with logical and experiential paradox, and won't even let you remember it in the morning because it's so ashamed.

The internet lends itself so well to this circumstance. There is all here, in the crazy twilight fringes of human consciousness that spreads itself out by all means expedient, even the artificiality of a series of tubes streaming a series of ones and zeros to a series of credulous and hungry others. There's a grey goop out there already after all. It's last years stew that you keep throwing left overs into that in theory if you have the ladling skills of Constance the Ninja School Dinner Lady you could pull whatever meal you want out of. In reality it's an indistinct and frankly disgusting amalgam of all of our bits of throwaway consciousness.

Other things have been written of. The Lost Highway, a purity born of sterility and fear and undying hatred. The Lost Highway is even more lost to me now than Curly.

We wrote of prison cells and shiny golden balls. We wrote of Diabeetus and Assburgers and Jenkem.

It was written, and it was True.

But no, the True Story of End Times come not from the pages of the ever maddened mooks and mayhem as once I believed.

I know now that they are spat out in retching all too human semi digested rivers of bile and poison. They are left in the gutters to attract rats and bankers and other vermin. They are visceral and have meaning only while your oesophagus is squeezing them up in the precise reverse process by which sausages and laws are made.

The end times are yours to tell of, and if you'll excuse me I need to go brush my teeth with an Oxford English Dictionary. I think I got a few past participles and some stray gall flavoured grammar stuck up my gums.

Payne out.

Goddammit, I'm here again.

Not PD (though also PD) I'm in that place where you look around and everywhere you see the sleaze. Hell, I even saw Obamas face fall off earlier. It was for a good cause, but shit, no one needs to see that.

It was just hanging out. It was disgusting.

Anyway, Obama made me think of Cameron. Like he does. It's like Bush always made me think of Blair. And Cannon always makes me think of Ball, or and Jimmy Krankie always makes me think of Margaret Thatcher, or whatever that other Krankies name was.

Here's a man who since day one has come across as slimey as that shit I cleaned out the bottom of my fridge the other day, and about representative of the country at large as that same half rotten salad. And now we've allowed him to take over.

The proportion of women in parliament is going down (I hope I never have to hear him nudge and wink his public shool fag [as in the English schooling system position, read about it] and say "That's what she said", but really I'm preparing for it). And I think he may well be the worst cronyist I've seen in parliament in a long time. And our only hope is Ed "Whodat? Milliband.

UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG

The meat bags around here are starting to annoy me. They're all up in my grill with their vague pinky outlines, all the time. ALL. THE. TIME.

Thank fuck I can never see their faces...

If TGRR was a furry, he would be a giraffe and he would braid his ass hair into a tail.

If Kai was a furry, you'd totally get eaten in the yiff pile.

If Twid was a furry, he'd be a leprechaun. A gay leprechaun.

If Hustle was a furry, he'd accidentally the whole atlantic with supra-whale semen.

If Luna was a furry, she'd sex humans and scream "BEASTIALITY!" at the top of her lungs at inopportune times.

If Coyote was a furry, he'd call himself Man. He's an enigma like that.

If Charley was a furry, he'd probably be quite good at it.

If Cram was afurry, he'd wear a fake fursuit.

If TTM was a furry, he'd be illegal in all 50 states, not just the lower 48.

if AKK was a furry, he'd be an alley cat and he'd have a record deal by now.

If Aini was a furry she'd be a black swan. No wait, she'd be a cat or neko or whatever the fuck it was.

If Anna Mae Bollocks was a furry, people would begin to wish Dubya was still president.

If BadBeast was a furry, he could stop being the Beast of Bodmin for a while and let someone else have a go.

If Paes was a furry, he would be bred into the natural sheep population of New Zealand to form slightly less boring sheep.

IF BGP WAS A FURRY IT WOULD BE MOST UNHELLO, WEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOO

If Cain was a furry he'd be the horse from Animal Farm.

If Cainad was a furry, he'd be sniffing the glue they made out of Cain.

If cavehamster was a furry, I'd think he was a pretty cool furry. He'd run in wheels and doesn't afraid of anything.

If chef was a furry, he would advise people to bring a baggie for their fangs, and he'd BE the teddy for their ghetto shrine.

if Cuddlefish was a furry, his name would be a verb.

If Da6s was a furry, he would be worshipped in backwater hamlets all through the Pennines.

If Dalek was a furry, the party in his pance would migrate all through his fursuit, and he'd die within seconds.

If Darth Cupcake was a furry, she'd still be gone

If Demolition_Squid was a furry, everyone else would be forced to go the level beyond furry to ostracise him.

If Disco Pickle was a furry, he'd have to be wolf. No funny reason. He'd just be a wolf. An asshole wolf. Asshole.

If Dok Howl was a furry, he'd immediately construct an upgraded exoskeleton and fuck the biggest thing he could find to death.

If Phox was a furry, she'd have to wear a human face. Being human IS furry to her.

If James Semaj was a furry, he'd be a complete C.Woc

If E.O.T. was a furry, there would be no point to it anymore. The world would automatically suicide via vulcanism.

If EoC was a furry, people would just assume that things had gone very very wrong in the circus as Clown Eating Hate Sex became all the rage.

If Efrim was a furry, he'd still be a bad ass hippy.

If Emo Howard was a furry, he'd be Eeyore.

If Enki was a furry, we'd have to send him back in time to properly inspire The Epic of Gilgamesh

If Enrico was a furry, people would hardly be able to tell the difference.

If Faust was a furry, he'd be a gay leprechaun too. He'd be a top though.

If GIGGLES was a furry, he'd be a swarm of angry hornets flying in phallus formation.

If Hoopla was a furry, no matter what kind, people would mistake him for a Koala.

If Hunter S. Durden was a furry, he'd be a rabid battle llama.

If Iason was a furry, Indiana would commemorate the most exciting thing to happen to their state ever with a public holiday.

If Iptuous was a furry, he'd win best dog in show at crufts for the rest of his unnatural disgusting life.

If Jenne was a furry, all of PD would go to jail for very long time. We wouldn't be able to help ourselves.

If Joh'Nyx was a furry, he'd be a toy poodle.

If Khara was a furry, she'd be composed mostly of alluring, lingerie clad tentacles.

If Leln was a furry, she'd never leave the house again.

If LMNO was a furry, he'd.... Wait? IF?

If Madigan T Nubilous was a furry, he would fap so hard it'd make people think of Noahs Ark, where Noah just fed them Viagra instead of food.

If Nast was a furry, he'd be.... uh.... A MOUSE.

If Navkat was a furry she'd fucking everybody. In a good way though.

If Nigel was a furry, people would call it art and everyone was really a furry would have to go do something else.

If NoLeDeMiel was a furry, it might make people notice him more.

If P3nT was a furry, Falkirk would be declared a disaster area. It is anyway, but it'd be official

If Pixie was a furry, I'd totally be a furry too. I'd probably have no choice at all in the matter mind you.

If Pterodactyl Handler was a furry, he'd be redundant.

If Regret was a furry, he'd only join in to snake yiff piles.

If Remington was a furry, it would cause a brief news sensation in North Korea.

If Richter was a furry, he'd be a rancor.

If RWHN was a furry, people would pet him but he'd never get any.

If Freeky was a furry, people would merely blame Tucson and shake their head. She could get away with murder with that excuse yanno.

If GARBO was a furry, she'd be a furry handcuffs.

If Sepia was a furry, he'd be an infinite number of monkeys with typewriters.

If ShoeEars was a furry, he/she couldn't have asked for better advice than getting Roger to do his/her personals ad.

If Squiddy was a furry, she'd probably get confused for her cat and be driven mad by people saying SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR PENIS

If SisterFracture was a furry, she'd bend yuor space/time. Again.

If Suu was a furry she'd accidentally herself among the mothballs.

If Telarus was a furry, no one would take it seriously.

If That Green Gentleman was a furry, she'd be the Cat with the Hatchet

If The Wisdom Cube was a furry, it's Other Fursuit would be a Porsche.

If Triple Zero was a furry, you'd be choking on tribble cum dribble by lunchtime.

If Fred was a Furry, she'd be released by a madman who would then kill himself and she'd go on a rampage with her exotic friends until taken down by the cops.

I hate you!

Love and Kisses,

Your New Spiritual Advisor,

The Good Reverend Payne

So Pixie and I are talking about these guys from "Whale Wars", an animal planet show about these Greenpeace+ types, who are docked in Southampton this week and will be visiting our incredibly nice but vegan flatmates for a party on Saturday night. Like any good flatmate (or concerned flat sharer) would do, I decided to watch the first episode of this show.

Now don't get me wrong I like whales. They're good people. However the entire episode that I watch reeked of earnestness. I will watch more, but I think I can only do one at a time. Pixie, oddly enough, feels exactly the same (seldom do our TV tastes converge so well). So it sets us thinking - have we discovered the one thing that defines the soul of PD, where we both think this ultimately comes from?

Think about it:

"PD is a place where those who cannot stand too much earnestness will feel most comfortable."

Is a pretty neat one sentence summation of what I think PD is to everyone else. And all our biggest shit fests break out when someone or other gets too damned earnest about something. We hate The Right and The Left for this. The Fundies and The Dawkins Fanbois. We especially hate it in pinealists and our own.

However, do not read this post wrong - I am not saying to stop being earnest. All I'm saying is it's a pretty powerful weapon round these here parts.

...of what I've been working on the last little while, the Holy Scripture^TM Roger wanted me to compose after my Holy Quest^TM. The idea for this came to me during my caffeine and other substances withdrawl. I've been shaping the idea ever since and today I wrote down the first lines (which will most assuredly be edited all to fuck in time).

So here it is, the first bit of part one (the Proem in the genres parlance).



   I ask, oh muse, you sing of Lexakles
   the Blueshifter and belov'd of Eris.
   Brought to Illiam by Discordia
   who laid 'pon him proud elucidation
   as in his heart he knew not who he loved.
   Speak then of him coming near from afar,
   of great conflict and destinied balance.
   Tell of the trials he tested, triumph
   in Trojan, Greek and in Eris' name
   so doing in wearing glory and fame,
   to stand before bittered foes, Lexakles!
   Jester to a king who hath not a throne -
   Become grave man of great spirit a'fire,
   Builder and razer, poet'cal liar,
   A warrior skilled, strifing discord blows,
   Final to trickster whom contention sows.
   All this, and more did The Blushifter wring,
   to sing of his song is life to my lyre.
   When all glory is dead and heroes, gone,
   lord Lexakles will be gold gainst our brass.
   In balance, in truth, in beauty withal
   conquering madness, deceiving the fall
   of humans who know not the truth most foul.



I intend to continue working on this as and when I can, and further parts will probably be thrown down in literate chaotic.

BEHOLD!

Doktor Howl,
All the other Doktors,
Everyone else who posts on PD,
Everyone else who doesn't.

That is all.

being an impromptu sermon in open bar that I was originally loathe to remove from it's context. Having reflected on it more I decided to give it a new home. Enjoy.

Happy Wednesday.
Today will be better or I will kick it in the FUNT! THE FUNT!
I'm going to make my coffee and then sit on my butt some more. Yeah.
This Friday is Mr Squid's b-day. We're gonna go see the Edward Gorey exhibit at the art museum and eat frozen yogurt. Later, dinner at a Pho place with our friends.

I will not let my job get to me today. I will smile and ignore the fact that I want to kill everyone I work with. I will smile. I will smile.

I've seen your smile.

I have seen your smile. I've seen it before on many faces and in many places.

It's the kind of smile that involves mostly teeth. The lips, usually more given to a plump and fleshy arch, resemble a rictus. Hold firm, that you do not allow movement to cause irreprable damage to your facade.

It's the kind of smile that never truly reaches the eyes, at least not in the unconscious sense of muscles arranging themselves like so many eels over the orb of hardened and largely dead bone we entrust the day to day safety of our brains to. No. If it reaches the eyes, it's by more malevolent and rationalised ways.

It's that kind of expression you will see on the hedge fund manager's secretary as her boss opens the windown, 24 floors up, and prepares himself for the final crash. And she wills the bastard tyrant on with a will bordering on the physical. It's the kind of shit Goya used to paint on his walls, but seen from the other side.

People will see it and hurry by. They will take the superficial politeness and avoid looking deeper. There are things, Squiddy, things under that rippled surface that man was not supposed to have knowledge of. And sure, you can hold that smile for a day. For a week. For a month. But it will end. Something will crack it, and the sheer horror of the collapse will unleash something terrible and dark from behind your brain cage. From behind even your brain. From somewhere so deep that imagination is enough to cause you vertigo.

The witnesses will talk e'ermore about the laughter, Squiddy. And they will shudder as they contemplate the depths from which it rose. They'll buy a ticket to anywhere. Perhaps to Tucson...

To The Human Resources / Recruitment department,

My name is The Good Reverend Payne, and I am writing in regards to the position
you advertised in a realy obscure corner of a recruitment website. It seems a hundred people have managed to find and apply for it already, and I am number one hundred and one. Apparently there are enough desperate plebs that even obscure corners are panned out long before even someone as asiduous as myself can copy paste a standard cover letter and CV onto an email addressed to you. By the time you read this, your eyes are bleeding and whatever compassion you've had for your fellow man is long dried up. Either that or you're an emotionless automaton. Hey, it happens.

I am really wanting to get a job. Not because I feel passion for your company (no not even a semi, here). Nor do I feel that working in a call centre trying to flog shitty insurance products (or whatever it is you people do, I couldn't decipher your advertisement or the corporate-speke on your site). No, I want a job because I've dragged my ass the length of the country and am currently living off of my girlfriend like a leech, mostly because the government isn't giving me enough money to keep myself fed and such. This is normally where I type down a bunch of platitudes that everyone seems to think prospective employees should write to make themselves seem attractive. Basically, if you hire me, I'll work my ass off to keep it. What more could you really ask for?

I've worked in various types of jobs in my time. From packing freshly baked "pies" on a factory line for an extremely dubious company to supervising a bar for a friend of mine who was managing an alread sinking and exploding ship before I joined up. I've done shitty jobs my entire working life, and I know how to do them well.

If you actually read my CV, you will note that I've been out of work for a while. It's really not my fault that I lost my shit and got thrown in a Psychiatric Ward, and that until recently I wasn't allowed to work. It wasn't like I was idle in that time though. It's just that writing shit like "I know exactly who I am now. I have such a high degree of self awareness that I can actually freak out my Psychiatrist." on a CV. I can't really write any of the shit down on my CV that I've done over the last few years, because I can't provide an official bit of paper saying that I have.

Well anyway. Give me a job! Save my relationship and my short to medium term future! I'll be so fucking grateful that I won't even bitch about you for at least 6 months. I promise...

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

S. Payne (The Motherfucking Messiah)
0*********9
*******@googlemail.com

So, we are running the fourth iteration of DoD in a few weeks time in Edinburgh. Last year there was an obvious issue with the traditional "let's all just get drunk" faction and the progressive "we're a group of Discordians, lets do Discordian things" cult.

Aaaaaanyway, in discussion with Pixie last night she thought some form of distribution of memes and such in return for beer would perhaps work out. Like "You can only have a drink after you've said one of these bizarre statements to a random stranger".

I'm pretty short on such ideas though. The best I've come up with so far is "Excuse me sir, your duck appears to have fled". Which sucks.

The only thing I would say is seeing as we're going to be in a Scottish pub for at least a few of these things, please to avoid anything too controversial with regards to Religion, Politics or Scottish Football.

...until I have to catch a bus to get me to Southampton where I will be for the next couple weeks. Ask me anything!

This year, we are thinking of changing the Edinburgh date from August 23rd (or closest Saturday to) to a mid-june date - the reasons being numerous and based mostly on cost and availability of accomodation in Edinburgh in August.

I have chosen the date Saturday 12th June for now, though this is up for being changed if enough people need it to be. Discussion of DoD is as usual still mostly done on the dedicated board on POEE, but for exposure to more people who may or may not want to come up for it I'm posting it here too.

NOTE: There are still plans to run a second DoD event in the southron reaches of the UK this year, most likely around the traditional August date. As I will probably have my hands full with "Movin' To Southampton" plans around that time it may make more sense for someone else to arrange it.

Hai you spags! Tis the double headed Payne Pix monster back in full effect! Me (pix) is much calmer and feeling less mad nao Payne has arrived. His journey was FAR too eventful, there were fights arrests and everything. None involving him, and my maternal household actually figured out what to do about me turning 30 on friday without me having to mediate and the squat party in my head kicking off again. Fuckers dont invite me and i cant even have a joint. BASTARDS!

Fuckdamnit 

Yes, you fucked up. Again.

Because the free market demanded it...

Today A Pixie was taken to the dentists and had an extraction done.

then she did demand Mittens and Nail Polish.

also- pictures from Pix's phone.

the shoes pix did not bring cos they wouldn't fit in her bag.

Snowman Syn welcoming Pix on her way up to Stonehaven

After DENTAL SURGERY she took this picture of a seagull shiteing on Rabbie Burns Heid. We were on our way to buy:

MITTENS! But not just mittens....

INSTANTLY CONVERT TO FUCKMITTENS FOR NO EXTRA COST!

Overall, Pixie handled the whole "TAKE TO DENTIST AND VANDALISE HER MOUTH" as a first date pretty well. The medications and such messed her up for sleep like, especially after I fed her soup and cut-up-sammiches (tiny triangles for side mouth chewage), and I ended up just falling asleep as well. Now we are both b0rked the circadian rhythm. I have not yet been punished for the whole incident. Now we are both awake, and Pixie has been hyper as all hell whenever she's not sleeping. Put the mittens on her and it's amplified all the way up to 11.


(x-posted from poee

You think that's gravity, do you? No son, that's the world sucking so hard that you're stuck to it like that bit of paper that clogs up the pointy end of your vacuum cleaner. This world is just so much busting your back cleaning a filthy manky house, top to bottom, just to find some fat ass parked in front of the television watching "How Clean Is Your House?" or "Grimefighters". They turn to you and say "See? It could be worse, right!" and you know as soon as your back is turned you're going to have to clean the god damn place again.

And then again. Forever.

Except it won't be forever. It'll just feel like it. No son, it's more like 80 years, give or take a few. In that time you'll be born, grow up, grow up some more, grow up some more (it takes a while, you just never notice how long it REALLY takes), do some menial factory schooling where you learn what it takes to "get by" in this world from school yard bullies to classroom bullies to bullies who you MUST tack a Mr. or Mrs. to the front of their name, then you go out and get yourself some menial factory job (possibly in a menial factory, but just as possible are Graphic Designer, Insurance Salesman or Postal Delivery Operative. All this and MORE could be yours for just 200 hours a month!) and then you stop working. And then you die. I mean, it could be worse, right? This is the plan people! Stick to the god damn plan!

Ah yes, the plan.

Now some would have you believe you are an oppressed minority. Some would have you believe you are the silent majority. They'd sell you your own dreams back to you to make a buck and make a name for themselves and all that Hollywood crap. I know you know the type. I know you have never been suckered by them. NEVER. You're too smart for that shit, right? Okay, so sometimes you have to fall back onto ideology, but everyone does that so it can't be all that bad. And sometimes you HAVE to decide between two evils, but hey that's just how the world is! So we're left here with imperfect people running imperfect Governments presiding over imperfect nations and spreading their shit around so that everyone who doesn't matter can take a bite, but it could be worse, am I right? LEMME HEAR AN 'ALLELUIA!

Praise the motherfucking Lord, asshole. Praise him, or sooooo help you God.

Now, I have no beef with God. He ain't never done nothing to me, and as long as it stays that way, we're solid. I DO have a problem with his lunatics though. Fuckers all up in my face leaving mental graffiti with their spiritual spray paint. You know, the kind of assbag who has no problem telling a newly bereaved mother that her child is going to hell. But hey, they have their free speech too! Too fucking right they do, but so do you Son and I ain't never seen you tear a strip out of this self righteous prick. So they've never actually tried to come and intimidate, cajole, harass and brainwash you and yours. They've never tried to bring hell upon you to show you the error of your ways. No sir, that's always one country, one state, one county, one town, one street over. If it's happening to other people, it could be worse, right? I mean the fuckers, if they had their way, wouldn't even let you know about gravity. They'd have you believe a tiny angel was holding you down or some shit. They'd never let you believe it was the world sucking so hard.

And so I leave you with some thoughts:

Play as hard as you can, work as little as possible to make it happen.

People in positions of power, believe in their power. You don't always have to.

Idealism before Ideology. If you think the world can be a better place DO something about it. Don't consult the fucking manual.

When you have a choice between 50 flavours of shit sandwich, that's not freedom. That's 50 flavours of shit, and everyone will demand you take a bite. Pack your own sandwiches.

You will never be able to defy gravity (that's how much the world sucks). You can however defy your own expectations, but only if you're willing to face up to the illusions they really are.

Yes, I am going to be coming back here more now. I've been ignoring you all for a few weeks now, only reading threads linked to me in IRC and such. I needed a break.

I am not, at this time, in a position to tell you all what I've been mostly doing. Suffice it to say that it was good fun and worth it. I have also been attempting to redecorate my room.

I have done no writing, but I may have a rant or two to shit out later we shall see. No WOMPs either. I need to wait for either a faster connection or for photofuckit to stop sucking so hard at killing my minimal bandwidth.

Anything I MUST read?

Do you remember when word got out? They called it a leak. Some "unamed source" lifted the corner of the ragged and stained cloth that covered The Great Machine, and let this two-bit hack have a brief glimpse at the pulsating, grinding, filthy leviathan. It made the evening editions, as soon as the words were written down, they were given the hurry-up by the ranks of editors and copy-checkers. It was Good Shit.

There was the outrage on street corners, there was all that fear. On that nights news, talking heads argued back and forth over what it could mean. No consensus was found, there was no common ground, nothing could even be articulated. The hack hanged himself that night, or at least he was found hanged the next day. When he was buried, no one attended his funeral - personal effects were sold on eBay, his diaries making a lot of money for the first detective to the scene of his death. Your bid for them failed.

Sales of personal firearms, alcohol, tinned food, eco-friendly cars and guitar strings went up. There was a dip in the form of almost every leading sports star. I lost a bet to you. An unexpected peace broke out in the middle east, a week before the President was due to invite the leaders of Isreal and Palastine into the White House.

As time went by, we forgot. The Great Machine was no longer front page news. The talking heads had now turned on the President for his naivety regarding the middle east, which had just seen the bloodiest days of conflict in months - even years, according to some (even you). The hack's diaries were never read, at least with anything like the seriousness they deserved. A metal band in Illinois found some inspiration in them and had a minor hit, before creative differences ended their career.

In the bowels of The Facility, The Great Machine had a new seal on an almost, but not quite, inconsequential piston. The leak had been fixed with little fuss.

Do you remember?

I live in a world where I believe smoking a cigarette (a stimulant) relaxes me. I harbour a desire for a relationship I could have had, once, believing that it would be perfect now. I can feel in my bones that I am special - above all the rest of the people that populate my world. Only fate has stopped me from being recognised for it.

I live in a world where achievement is subject to a law of diminishing returns. To keep the same pace of success requires ever greater effort. Eventually, getting out of bed in the morning will be a victory. I idolise and despise victims in equal measure because I am a victim myself. I too have been ground down by a world that refuses to see me, but I'm better than those other victims because I know how much effort I put into each and every success.

I love my illusions. I love everything about them. I hated them to begin with because they were made by those "others", but I tailored them to fit me (another success! Seriously, you should read my C.V. sometime, it's a catalogue of unrecognised genius and heroism). I have total control over that which controls me, honest.

My opinions are the only ones that matter. That really matter. I like a bit of variation, but I block out everything that is too far removed from my own ideas. Far easier to label them immediately and file that shit away than to argue it down. I know I'm right already, and that this opposition is merely the "others" trying to break me down again. It's easier to continue watching TV shows that agree with me, and reading authors that say what I want them to say (I'd rather read myself, of course, but those lucky bastards got published despite being obviously inferior).

If only it wasn't so difficult to gain my successes. To gain that inspirational spark. To seize back my potential from those who oppose me. Come the day I am recognised for what I really am, I will grind the "others" faces in my previous indignities. All I have to do is wait here to be discovered...

[The Essentials:]

I like the WOMP idea.  I'd leave the Intro and Attention Noobs thread stickied though.  I notice a lot of people do read the latter, often when they sign right up, so it seems to be doing the job.

Unless someone wants to write a new, spiffy, updated for 2009 advice for noobs?

So... You did it, you finally did it you crazy bastard. You signed up to PD.com. Your life as you knew it is over. You will never be able to go to other forums without being called a troll (or feeling restricted so much by them that you actually just start trolling them anyway). Here are a few pointers to ease your way into our little community.

I have divided them into neat little sections like a Real Person. I hope you appreciate my effort.

The Essentials:



-Right, first off, you are going to be called n00b, assface, prison bitch, prolapse-in-waiting or whatever else the fuck we want to call you. You can get pissy about it if you want, but the smart ones seem to go for calling us humorous names in return (the operative word being humorous).

- If you haven't already signed up, and are just lurking, then don't choose a retarded name. We've heard all the Discordian old standards already. You might make it if you call yourself "Emperor Norton Fnord Whiskey Sniffer" or some shit, but we'll still call you whatever we want and our perceptions of you will be somewhat tainted by your lack of originality.

-Which leads us to point two: Leave the pinealism at the door, unless you really DO have something new to share. We really have heard of the PD already, and that guy R.A.W. (He died, you know? Oh, you know already?)

-You know what, leave all the Dada, surrealist crap at the door too. Some of us really dig that shit, hell most of us do. The first time we see the shtick performed anyway.

-Sometimes, you will encounter aggravation of various forms. This is life, if you haven't learned to deal with it yet, then you shouldn't complain to us, you should complain to your parents or guardians for raising you so poorly. The best response is to act like a damn biped. On a related note, there is a custom among some of us to give you all some kind of leeway for the first 50 posts or so, to give you a chance to find your feet. This, it must be stressed, is NOT a rule and is not a license to be a douchebag. It's a guideline and anyone can break it if they want to for any or no reason.

-You have a right to say whatever retarded shit you want. You can't feel precious about that, because we have the right to be completely assholish back.

-Sometimes you may say something that we flame the fuck out of you for, but you wont know why. It's because you've unlocked one of the secret prizes! We have a lot of shorthand references to old jokes/trolls etc. It's nothing personal, we just like to keep these little land mines around. Usually, a bit of forum searching and research will reveal what it is we are responding to.

-Be yourself. I cannot stress this enough. Weird posting styles (all in rhyme, all in bold, replacing 'I' with 'J') are all well and good, but come across as completely retarded. You don't need to impress us, seriously.

-You may never find out what some of the acronyms stand for. PROTIP: There isn't a dictionary telling you what they stand for.

-Lastly, for all the idealism, we ARE still monkeys. We like to throw the poop too. This is after all a community of people, and communities are funny that way.

The "Rules":



-The only rules here are

   -Don't do anything that will get the owners into legal trouble. If you don't know what this means, find out.
   -All pornographic material must be linked and marked NSFW (Not Safe For Work). We don't want                                                                                                                                                someone fired for some bullshit, do we?
       -Outting ongoing troll activities.

There are a few other etiquette based things that you should just know anyway (spamming, thieving peoples work etc.) depending on circumstance you wont be banned for this, but it will go very badly for you.

The Good Shit:



We have a lot of different projects and ideas flowing around. Some are dead for the moment, some are live'n'kicking, but it doesn't matter. If you have something to bring to it then have at it. We have some good shit around (The Black Iron Prison, Intermittens and the GASM projects to name a few). We appreciate originality and humour. If you can bring some intelligence, wit and skill to the mix you're sorted. Think for yourself, schmuck!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thoughts, edits etc. appreciated.

ITT we predict how much the Scottish Government will be panned for abetting terrorism by not debasing our (supposedly, at least) liberal and democratic values.

My guess is they'll be pretty roundly beaten up by everyone.

EDIT: Spell-fu broken today

[The McCain Experience Greatest Hits - Are You McCained?]

The McCain Experience Greatest Hits - Are You McCained?

After one of arguably the longest and most prolific careers in the industry, John McCain has finally approved a Greatest Hits album, acceding to the wishes of his many fans, and of course the record company. The tracks chart a course from his humble, almost unknown, beginnings right to the pinnacle of his popularity late last year, and reflect the many changes the world as much as the man himself have experienced in the last number of decades.

The opener is the pounding Hanoi-ing, a funky '60s beat tied in with McCain's inimitable style. The lyrics themselves are worth paying close attention to here: "It's turned China white, my hair, my hair, now c'mon everybody throw hands in the air IN THE AIR!". Strong stuff, and very heavily charged with personal emotion and experience - a theme McCain returns to with regularity throughout his career. Hanoi-ing was of course the break through single after five and a half years on the edges of the industry, and some pundits would have it that this very struggle is what made McCain the performer he is. Other critics hold that those very years are what have damaged his credibility as a superstar, and that the bitterness engendered by being frozen out has never completely left him.

The second and third tracks (Killin' Time and My Bed? My Bad?) are from the grandiosely named National Hero album, which overall reflects McCains attitude to his new found fame and the roller coaster ride it took him on. The tracks positively ooze with egotism and brashness. While the album itself sold well, critics were to pan it comprehensively, often returning to it in later years to add credence to their diatribes against him. Nevertheless, National Hero did enough to propel McCain into his epic third studio album D.C. D.C....

Carpetbagger, the fourth track was the lead single from the first part of the D.C. D.C. triple album, and is a suitable track for this compilation. "I've been to Hanoi, I've been to D.C., I've gone over the water, and came back greasy" was a controversial lyric even at the time, and was seen as political posturing even by those who knew him best. McCain to this day insists that he only wrote what was in his head and had carried no agenda over from the early days of his career. The critics were as ever quick to pick up on his early isolation, and would often cite it as the influence behind all of his work. Other, and perhaps even more controversial, tracks from the first part of D.C. D.C. include "No Milk", seen as an attack on civil rights leader Martin Luther King and "Fall Time in Santiago", which can be seen as (at the very least) a rose-tinted view of General Augusto Pinochet, the Chilean dictator.

Hands in my Pockets, the seventh track here, and the only truly notable track from D.C. D.C. part two, appears to be McCain declaring his innocence for some unstated crime or other dodgy activity. While no one has ever exactly pinned down the incident to which the artist refers, there is plenty of speculation from both fans and critics.

The eighth, ninth and tenth tracks on Are You McCained, all come from D.C. D.C. part three, and reflect McCains later signature fusion of staying solidly to his genres roots, while occasionally throwing his listeners with some motif or instrumental piece from something out of left field.

After the release of D.C. D.C., McCain put his career aside for a time, and worked on various projects both within and outside the industry. Several collaborations with artists both within and outside his genre garnered applause from even some of the more jaded critics. During this time, John McCain also fell into a deep and bitter rivalry with "Little" George Bush, and while he showed he could work with the man several high profile clashes led to an ever strained atmosphere.

It was after "Little" George seemed to be fading in his power with "Half Here, All Gone", that McCain decided to release a comeback album, White House, Who's House? MY House!, a blatant attempt to move on "Little" George's fan base. Recording was beset with problems, and almost didn't even make it out of the writing stage, but it was pushed through by the record company pairing McCain and the then relatively unknown Sarah Palin in a duet album. Insiders claim that McCain was unhappy with this turn of events, but knew that it was the only chance to have the album released at a time it would have most effect.

The opening and title track from White House, Who's House? MY House! is the 11th of the compilation is a confused declaration os his desire to not be "someone" but to do "something" instead, and features McCain solo. While the single itself sold well at the time among loyal fans, it didn't seem to have much market impact. So much so that marketing was reduced for the album, and McCain himself had to fund it.

"All Heart" and "Ambien" deal with the many stories regarding his health, and "All Heart" in particular goes to great effort to list all of his medical treatments to date in an effort to assuage concern: "I've got 99 ailments, but a twitch ain't one". For songs that are trying to assure to his good health, the duet with Palin seems to be very strong here, and it seems she's actually holding him up at times.

The final track "365 2 173" is an almost fitting denouement to both White House, Who's House? MY House! and Are You McCained. For while it promises much, it ultimately fails to deliver, and as it is a song about failure this is in some ways ironic. Ultimately, White House, Who's House? MY House! sold well to the hardcore fans, but appealed little elsewhere. And while it's star, McCain, seems to be fading into relative obscurity Sarah Palin appears to be building from her first mainstream exposure.

Our ultimate verdict: One for the history buffs and completists, but with little lasting appeal and a very confused and angry short term appeal. You'd have to have been mad to buy it in the first place.

You told me you knew a truth, the truth would set me free,
I bought all your bullshit, it made sense to me,
Over, under, all about, the fools are runnin' round,
And the truth that you promised me has been driven underground.

She called me yesterday in tears, said sex was off the table,
I believed in love, and thought it pure like the fable,
Up and down, through and through, diseases abound,
Those sex lies are by betrayal crowned.

All in my head. The patterns of behaviour.
All in my head. The things that I saw.
All in my head. Law and Disorder.
All in my head, better off in bed, better off unsaid..

The Man called to sell me shiny things,
To have this stuff would set me free on wings,
Debtors and Creditors, the money can't be found,
The freedom we were sold has such a tinny hollow sound.

All in my head. The patterns of behaviour.
All in my head. The things that I saw.
All in my head. Law and Disorder.
All in my head, and I'm better off in bed, pretty much dead..

Teachers and cops and friends and enemies.
Family and employers and childhood priests.
They gave you the iron, they gave you the plans,
But you built up your prison with your own two hands.

Found my diary today, from when I was fifteen,
I lied to myself , like I was the star of the scene,
Around and around, in ever smaller circles,
I counted off the years like I was counting kills.

All in my head. The patterns of behaviour.
All in my head. The things that I saw.
All in my head. Law and Disorder.
All in my head, and I'm better off in bed, better off unsaid,
Pretty much dead, Better off unsaid.

EDIT: I prefer the version of these words LMNO put to music down there _\/, so I'm making the small changes he made to this.

[1:1]

It is traditional for me to impart great truths to you when I resurrect, and I shall continue this tradition with this - the first chapter of my Book of Prophecy.

1:1 In the third year of the reign of Hugh, Moderator of PD came Hustle, Moderator of Pimpsville unto Apple Talk, and besieged it.
1:2 And the Lord gave Hugh Moderator of PD into his hand, with part of the vessels of the house of Admin: which he carried into the land of Maine to the house of his Admins; and he brought the vessels into the treasure house of his Admins.
1:3 And the Moderator spake unto Rev. Uncle BadTouch the master of his eunuchs, that he should bring certain of the children of WOMP, and of the Moderator's seed, and of the princes;
1:4 Children in whom was no blemish, but well favoured, and skilful in all wisdom, and cunning in knowledge, and understanding science, and such as had ability in them to stand in the Moderator's palace, and whom they might teach the learning and the tongue of the Spags.
1:5 And the Moderator appointed them a daily provision of the Moderator's meat, and of the wine which he drank: so nourishing them three years, that at the end thereof they might stand before the Moderator.
1:6 Now among these were of the children of PD, Payne, Eve, Fred, and Cramulus:
1:7 Unto whom the prince of the eunuchs gave names: for he gave unto Payne the name of The Motherfucking Mesiah; and to Eve, of Kimmy Gibbler; and to Fred, of Noodle; and to Cramulus, of Shit on a Shoe.
1:8 But Payne purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the portion of the Moderator's meat, nor with the wine which he drank: therefore he requested of the prince of the eunuchs that he might not defile himself.
1:9 Now The Great Admin had brought Payne into favour and tender love with the prince of the eunuchs.
1:10 And the prince of the eunuchs said unto Payne, I fear my lord the Moderator, who hath appointed your meat and your drink: for why should he see your faces worse liking than the children which are of your sort? then shall ye make me endanger my head to the Moderator.
1:11 Then said Payne to Sheered Volva, whom the prince of the eunuchs had set over Payne, Eve, Fred, and Cramulus,
1:12 Prove thy servants, I beseech thee, ten days; and let them give us pulse to eat, and water to drink.
1:13 Then let our countenances be looked upon before thee, and the countenance of the children that eat of the portion of the Moderator's meat: and as thou seest, deal with thy servants.
1:14 So he consented to them in this matter, and proved them ten days.
1:15 And at the end of ten days their countenances appeared fairer and fatter in flesh than all the children which did eat the portion of the Moderator's meat.
1:16 Thus Sheered Volva took away the portion of their meat, and the wine that they should drink; and gave them pulse.
1:17 As for these four children, The Admin gave them knowledge and skill in all learning and wisdom: and Payne had understanding in all visions and dreams.
1:18 Now at the end of the days that the Moderator had said he should bring them in, then the prince of the eunuchs brought them in before Hustle.
1:19 And the Moderator communed with them; and among them all was found none like Payne, Eve, Fred, and Cramulus: therefore stood they before the Moderator.
1:20 And in all matters of wisdom and understanding, that the Moderator enquired of them, he found them ten times better than all the magicians and astrologers that were in all his realm.
1:21 And Payne continued even unto the first year of Moderator Faust.

Mechanically Recovered Meat Hole!

LOVE IT!

So much more than "Discordian Recipes", anyway.

Lots of rhyming going on, yo? Don't know if this is really my style any more, but I used to write shit like this all the time a few years back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Who's manning up to man the defences?
The patriot called, now come to his senses?
The bomb maimed your pride, now it mains you,
The fight that you sought, isn't the one that you're in,
It's Dirty. It's a Dirty old fight, It's Dirty.

Who's paying the fines for fucked up finances?
It isn't that banker, bailed out, "good intentions".
The shit hit the fan, now it hits you,
Staining your beautiful and hard earned suit,
It's Dirty. It's a Dirty new suit. It's Dirty.

Oh for a world that was clean, oh for a world that was clear,
For a world that, for you, held none of your fears,
The answer is simple, or so we are told,
It's repeated until our dreams are bought and are sold,
To make the world simple, to make our suits clean,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
We replace the stains with dirt that's unseen,
We have to get our hands Dirty.

Who watches the men who are watching us?
Who watches them? Are they watching themselves?
Your reflection of fear now reflects you,
But at least you can see what never was there,
It's Dirty. It's a Dirty new vision, It's Dirty.

Oh for a world that was sane, oh for a world that made sense,
For a world that, for you, held no more pretence,
The questions are scripted, the vision is bold,
A lie, oft repeated, becomes plated with gold,
To create a world in our image, to wipe the slate clean,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
We replace the stains with dirt that's unseen,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
To make the world simple, to make our suits clean,
We have to get our hands Dirty.
We have to get our hands Dirty.

'Cause he's a lazy bastard, I assume.

Posting this here for him.

GREETING YUO FUCKERS.
THE PDEE
This is an all-rehashed version of the Principia, intended for distribution. To this end, I have re-worked graphics and whatnot to make it the smallest page size I was able to find at any print-on-demand publisher (4.25" x 6.75"). It is also pretty bare-bones, in an effort to make it cheaper - it's got RAW's intro, the original 75 pages, the Starbuck's pebbles myth, a few random other things, and the Fifth Edition. 94 pages total, plus an obnoxious orange cover. I tried te make it as cheap as possible (but alas, lulu wants their cut). I'm not making jack from these, by the way, like 30c American per. Virtually nothing. I'd like to thank Syn (or whatever Payne made his fucking name into this week ) for his assistance, and anyone whose stuff I raped and didn't know the author.
Also, anyone who contributed to the Fnord Fonts, I am indebted to you, as I made extensive use of them.
I am planning to do another one, more along the lines of my original idea, but it will have about twice as many pages, and so will be less feasible for giving away. But still smaller page-wise.

- Reverend Smeg the Kilted, KSC
Hail Fucking Eris.


----------------
The noise in my head is: The ADICTS - Viva La Revolution

I've been thinking recently that history (as an academic exercise, as opposed to The Past in totally objective terms) and shrapnel (as the concept has been formulated on PD, and specifically in the way I've been trying to make it work) are very similar things, if not quite the same thing.

I'll start with history here.

Historians will usually tell you that their "job" is to inform the present day, and by extension the future, about the pitfalls of history. The mistakes of people that were made in situations similar to what we face today features strongly in this, but more importantly a relation of 'Why' we got to where we are today as opposed to 'How'. The latter almost always requires an historian to overlay some form of Theory of History over past events, in the vain hope that we can create some form of recurring pattern from them and thus have a stronger tool for predicting the future.

History, however, is not a grand story, written by even a competent author. It's a series of decisions, actions and events occurring in the contemporary present. There is no beginning, end and climax. There is no thematic arc and there is no cast of characters (there are characters, certainly, but they weren't cast for the role or written in to satisfy a need for them in the plot).

Having thought about this a bit, I decided to try my hand at creating a model for my view of history. The first idea that popped into my head was a very simple and controlled thought experiment that may not work very accurately or even reflect the real world, but bear with me.

I started with something that was very fresh in my mind - the recent presidential elections. Picture a voting district with absolutely no decided voters in it. Every single one of them are 'swing' voters and are not predisposed to either candidate (an impossibility in real life).

When their votes are counted, the results are roughly 50/50 to each candidate. There are only two candidates running here. and every single eligible person cast a vote for one of them.

You can view each vote, each person, with a colour coded square. For perversity consider 'black' as a McCain vote and 'white' as an Obama vote. You can also arrange these squares onto a grid, and assign each square a place on that grid based on extra information about them, for example; ethnicity, geographical location, age, weight or whatever else you want.

The more extra information you use to arrange the grid, the more broken up the blocks of colour will become, until it begins to look like a screen shot of static on a detuned television. the complexity doesn't even have to end there; you can create a series of these picture representations by doing the same for voting results over a number of elections or by changing the parameters by which you placed the squares on the grid.

Run these series of pictures as an animated .gif and you will end up with a crude version of television static.

Historians will look at this model and try to glean a Theory of the History of the electoral results from it, but as we've seen, the complexity only increases with added (possibly important) information even from a fairly simple premise.

Real television static is caused by the TV set picking up signals from a relatively wide band of the electromagnetic spectrum, including other broadcast frequencies and even a trace of the background radiation from the birth of the universe - the big bang. What historians are trying to do with finding the thematic arc of history in our model is really finding one specific frequency and its effects on the results, so they can apply that finding to other models. They are looking for 'Why' of past events.

When you expand the premise of our model to include the almost infinitely wider range of reactions (add differently coloured squares) and the same for the extra information we used to place those squares on a grid, the huge complexity of such an undertaking makes the effort to find out 'Why' in any useful detail becomes a pointless exercise.

Presidential candidates, luckily for us, are not historians. They will look at the actual results and move on. The breaking down of demographics and analysing of electoral performance is a job for their campaign staff and their parties, the only important thing for them is the 'How', in this case how the result turned out for them and how that impacts their election night.

Now, to tie this into my thoughts on shrapnel, I needed to consider how small actions and events affect people in the contemporary present, and how those effects continued to influence them. I immediately realised that the important lesson to take away from the thought experiment was to remove the 'why' from the discussion. Why shrapnel affects us and continues to do so is not so important as how it does, which is possibly why I've been on such a loose end with this concept for a while now.

Becoming aware of the shrapnel that affects us, and learning to deal with it is the ultimate goal here. We don't need to invest the entire process with a narrative in the hopes of creating a usable model which we can attempt to map shrapnel and its effects. The causes, processes and consequences of shrapnel are too complex to allow it and are very much tailored to each individual, so any model we arrive it will be inherently flawed anyway.

Maybe it's time for me to change the channel of this detuned television and actually watch something on it. Maybe some porn or something.

Basically, what I'm after for turn at editing is an examination of what the building blocks of "modern" Discordia are, mostly in terms of what the general consensus is at PD. So far, the articles that I would like to include are my own take on what that is.

Few of the following articles I want to include have been given the final okay by their authors, and I have a number more I'll need to search for. The following list is just to set the tone of what I'm putting in:

STFU With Your Hippie Shit -CAIN
State of a Union? -HSD
Larry King Interview -ENRICO
Short Circuits - Part 70 - Inaction  -LHX [Can't find where I yoinked this from straight away, I'll link later]
Memo from Ramses -Unknown Author, found by Cramulus
Barbed Wire -PAYNE

I'm going to cull some more "funnier" stuff from the Lollercaust thread, and probably include Cainads thing "who killed lulz".

Anyone else have suggestions for what you'd like to see included?

Any criticisms of what I've done or not done so far would be appreciated also.

This project is likely to run for a couple weeks (more than long enough between issues).

This is not a hug from your mummy.

This isn't kissing it better.

It isn't being able to stay up a bit later with a cup of warm milk when you've had a nightmare.

Life sucks. Hard. And it's only going to get worse, you can see the signs everywhere. It's in our politics, it's in our banks, it's in our TeeVees, It's in our advertisements and our schools and our stores and in our streets.

You can't walk down those streets anymore without feeling dirty, as the apes breathe out the air you are breathing in, an endless cycle of sharing each others air, in and out out and in.

This is not democracy.

This is not people power.

This is not a shift in the market.

The election is just a symptom, it's just a reflection of the apes infesting central North America. Vote, and get a free loaf of bread. Bread and circuses. Seriously, that is actually happening.

Augustus limited the borders of the Roman Empire, knowing that to try and control more would lead to more hassle than it was worth. Maintain the borders with the legions, keep the army away from Rome as much as possible, reduce it's influence over the politics of the Empire.

Where are the limits of the American Empire? Have they now be found?

This is not the end.

This is not the beginning of the end.

This is not even the end of the beginning.

This is the same old story, the decline and fall of an empire into corruption, decadence and ultimate failure.

It is a time for yetis, it is a time for getting your yuks in, it is a time to get mad as hell while you still can.

The sun melted down through air that seemed thick and stagnant. Thick with moisture, with potential. But dead and still.  The clouds seemed to reach all the way down, a uniform, pregnant, gray, and only the hint of a breeze that sent leaves and other detritus skittering along the ground in small fits and starts.

The imposing cliff faces of concrete surrounded the small square. Faceless, yet the buildings seemed to convey a quiet malice none the less.

Will, a sturdy young boy of six years, was running, every limb using far more energy than was neccessary. He ran along low walls, into a flock of pigeons. All the while burbling with delight. His father walked, far more deliberately, farther up the road than his son, who would occasionally look back to see that he hadn't lost his caretaker.

He was unaware of the atmosphere of this place. Unable to feel the presence of the tall building looming over him. At six years old, everything looms, and everywhere is a playground.

Wills father was all too perceptive of the discomfort of the urban jungle. He was a tall man, well in excess of six feet tall. His face was weathered, and his eyes haunted. The features of a man who had seen much, lost more and was still standing.

Rashid Parmen had fled his homeland when he was in his late teens, his parents had been killed in one of the paroxysms of violence that periodically shook communities apart in the old country. He had stowed away in a container ship and come to Britain, knowing that another outbreak of feuding and aggression could cost him his own life, that he had been lucky to avoid his parents' fate.

He had turned his hand to anything he could to make money, had seen the best and worst of what Britain could offer. Rashid had met Wills mother, Amber, and they had begun a whirlwind affair. Rashid hadn't truly loved her, but he needed the closeness and companionship, and Amber had never needed that love. She had been trying to piss mummy and daddy off, and she had succeeded. They disowned her when she married Rashid.

Will had been born a short time after, and for a short time they were content. Amber had died when Will was two, killed in a senseless road accident, run over by a young man in expensive car who had had too much to drink. Her killer had never been caught.

Rashid looked to Will, now with arms outstretched and airplaning through another flock of pigeons and making piping "Rat-at-at-at" noises. Will was all he had left, and Rashid was Wills only family. He loved his son with a fierce loyalty, he had sacrificed much for him and was prepared to sacrifice much more.

The tall man had almost reached his destination, a small office set into the corner of the square. He had determined that he needed to get out of Britain, go somewhere less untrusting of men and women with the wrong colour of skin. Having no documents, he had been told that this office would help him leave the country safely.

"Will! Come here!" His son immediately ran back to him. Rashid picked him up with his hands under his armpits. "I am going in there for a little while," he indicated the office with his head. "Can you go play on the swings while I am gone?".

Will was excited by the trust, and enthusiastically nodded. Rashid laughed and put him down, tousling his hair just as his son ran across to the play park in the middle of the square. He watched his son for a moment, then turned into the darkened door of the office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been fifteen minutes or so since his father had left him at the play park. Will had been perfectly content to swing back and forth, up and down, his legs pumping to gain him greater height. There were no other children there, but there was a crowd of people in the square, and Will watched them. So many different kinds of people, walking, wandering, sitting down and talking. Will liked to watch people, he made stories in his head about them. That one over there was an astronaut, and the woman sitting in the bench sang songs.

There were sirens wailing nearby, and even though he heard sirens all the time, Will was still excited by them. He wished he could see some firemen working, that would be great fun. It never happened though.

Which made it even more surprising to him when a police car screeched to a halt at one of the entrances to the square. He stopped pumping his legs, letting the swings momentum die as he watched the police men get out of the car. They didn't do anything except stand near the car. That wasn't right, they were supposed to chase the bad guys.

Will felt his curiosity rising, he was staring at the police men now, wanting to figure out what was happening. As he did so, more police men came, and they started to position themselves around the square, speaking to the people, moving them all away to where the first car had stopped. One of them came over to him. A real police man! Will was excited, but nervous too. He hadn't done something wrong, had he?

"Hullo, little man," the officer greeted him, very serious and stern. "you have to go stand with everyone else now."

Will started as the police mans hand landed on his shoulder, but didn't question him. As he was guided over to the other people, Will kept looking over his shoulder, looking for his father.

As he got closer to the knot of people, he was relieved to see that some other police men had notebooks and were asking questions. He knew that when police men weren't chasing bad guys, they were "making inquiries". He didn't know what this meant, but he knew it involved talking to people and writing things down.

He joined the milling group of anxious pedestrians and shoppers, and the police man walked away. Will looked around, his nervousness gone and his curiosity on the rise again. The astronaut was being questioned now, and he looked like he was getting angry at the police. Just then, he felt a presence beside him. He looked around and up to find a woman standing next to him, he hadn't seen her from the swings.

She was wearing a bright red dress, and he was sure he should have seen her. No one else here was wearing such bright colours. Though he hadn't seen her before, he wasn't particularly alarmed. He was surrounded by police men and was therefore safe.

He grinned up at her, and she flashed a quick grin back before bending down to be face to face with him.

"What is your name boy?" Her voice was gentle, but Will could hear the authority behind it. He didn't even consider not telling her, let alone lying.

"William Parmen, miss. My dad calls me Will though." He was thrilled when she smiled encouragingly.

"You are a brave boy, Will. Where is your dad now?" Will pointed across the square, to the office in the corner.

"He's in there miss, he said he'd be out soon." When he said this, the woman nodded. She placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"I'll be here for you until he comes back, Will." He nodded at her, his thoughts having turned back to his father. He was watching across the square now, waiting for him to come back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rashid was exiting the office before he noticed the police presence. He didn't know why they were there, nor did he care. He was only worried about his son, who wasn't in the play park. An officer approached him.

"Sir, I'll have to ask you to come with me"

"Where is my son?" Rashid ignored the hand the police man had raised to take hold of him.

"Sir, this way." The hand landed on his upper arm.

"My son, where is he?" The police man didn't answer, instead trying to pull Rashid away. Rashid used an open palm against the mans chest and shoved him away. He turned and walked into the open square, keyed up and nervous for his son. As soon as he stepped out of the shade in the corner, he spotted Will in the knot of people on the opposite side, and he started jogging over.

"Stop right there! Get down on the ground!" The police man behind him called out. Rashid ignored him. As he ran on, he heard the man speaking into his radio.

"I've identified the target! He's coming to your position now!"

"Roger that, we are prepared. All units take cover"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will saw his father coming across the square for him and started waving. He wanted him to see the police men working. Over his shoulder, beside the car, he heard a couple of excited voices, but he wasn't really interested in that. He'd heard a number of people get very excited when the police were questioning them. His entire attention was focused on his father.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, the woman in the red dress was still there.

A gentle squeeze again. Just as a loud retort echoed off the tall, gray buildings. Everyone flinched at the unexpected noise.

Even as he watched, his father stopped. He looked puzzled, too.

And then he fell over.

Will was shocked to his very core. He was moving before he even realised it. As he got to the edge of the crowd, a police man grabbed his clothes, and Will hit him between the legs. He was instantly freed, and immediately on the move again.

There was someone running behind him, but he ignored it.

He reached his father, crumpled on the ground, looking smaller than he ever had before. There was blood everywhere. Will slid to a stop and threw himself down grabbing at his fathers face, shouting incoherently.

His father just looked back at him, unable to speak, unable to make any noise except for a dreadful gurgling from the back of his throat. Will continued to cry and fumble at his fathers face, noting how his small hands were lost in his fathers beard, strangely aware of every little thing right in front of him. As Rashid Parmen struggled to take a final breath, Will watched him die.

As his father went limp, life leaving him, the woman in the red dress knelt down next to him. She screamed and moaned, but Will barely noticed. Everything had frozen, gone into slow motion, from his eyes to his heart.

Two policemen arrived, and they pulled both of them away from his fathers body. Will didn't, couldn't, fight back. The woman did, but was pulled back all the same. They were brought to a bench close to where they had been standing before. A young police man stood nearby, but all the others were too busy trying to control the crowd.

Will buried his face into the womans shoulder, and cried. She held her head down, close to his.

"Will, we are in danger. I want you to do exactly what I tell you to. Can you be a brave boy for me?"

Will didn't answer, it was impossible to answer.

"Will, we are going to get out of here. Right now."

I watched with great interest your WRATHful duels.

I challenge you BOTH at once!

O.K. I'm going to start by addressing an idea from The Diceman by Luke Rhinehart. It's been coming for a long time now, I just need to shit it and get it out of my system.

I always felt this was an enjoyable enough book, with some clever ideas, principly the idea of our egos being made of a large number of conflicting desires and emotions, the large number of which are chained down and oppressed by One Self, a monolithic ego that we identify as being our "real Self".

I never really liked the solution in the novel, the idea of rolling a die to decide what you are going to do in any given situation and being absolutely bound by the dies decision.

It seemed inelegant - a destruction of any form of responsibility, which I personally feel is ultimately counter-productive. (Of course the complete abandonment of responsibility can lead to some really good opportunities for horrormirth, as long as you don't mind being the guinea pig).

Saying that, I don't really know if there IS a solution to this "problem" of chained mini-egos, but I'd like to find one. As Discordians, many of us try to stick crowbars under the One Self of ourselves and others, to break roles and habits and shake people up a little. We perform mindfucks in an effort to do this usually, or go straight to the root and attempt to change habits and roles directly (usually to ourself, using one self as a test bed).

There are some of us that will intentionally play a specific role for a time, let that mini-ego have it's time in the spotlight. We try to do it to others by making attempts to derail their One Self momentarily, allowing one of their mini-egos to step forward temporarily.

What other methods could we be looking at? Are there any new ideas out there to achieve these aims?

I feel that the larger the amount of tools at our disposal, the greater the chances of our success. The more cutting edge our techniques, the more likely we can avoid our targets in built defences, slicing past the scar tissue caused by years of a specific type of shrapnel.

I'm not talking about evolving the Mindfuck concept, I'm wanting some bluesky thinking on what we could conceivably replace it with in the future.

Go.

Dunno if this has been posted before, but I shall post it anyway!

When I was in Edinburgh, I become briefly obsessed with peanut butter sandwiches. It became pretty much all I ate for a week.

To mix it up, I'd toast them thusly:

Make a standard peanut butter sandwich, sprinkle some cinnamon on that shit.

Butter the outside of the sandwich, sprinkle some brown sugar on that shit.

Grill it until the sugar is caramelised.

Wait for it to cool down a bit (it get's really hot), then eat.

Repeat until you are sick of peanut butter.

When it's dark, turn a light on.
Like God in genesis, it's for you to do.
Pay no mind to the mirror on the wall,
Cold and vicious, dead as pterodactyl eyes.

When it's cold, put your coat on.
It's winter until you make it spring.
It's time for you to wake the fuck up,
"Harsh injustice" just another of your lies.

   And until you realise that it really was only you all along,
   The fear you felt has scared all other fears away,
   And working for nothing but a chance to work tomorrow,
   Is when you realise, is when you can say:

There is
No man,
No plan,
Just what you see through the bars of your cell
No pain,
No blame,
But that which you create yourself.

When you're put down, seize your freedom.
It's always yours, and never given.
Bastardised, your rights are trampled,
Have you no more to do than sigh?

   And now you look for answers, and find there are none,
   The books you've read have only given you more to say,
   When "rights" and wrong, and wrong can be right,
   Everyday is a fight, a message, an urge to say:

There is
No man,
No plan,
And the cell, too, is another lie
No pain,
No blame,
And no father in the sky.

Are you scared?

Do you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, fearing that in a day, a week, a month, a year that this house, the bed, the wife, the kids the car may all be taken away from you?

If you're late to work, are you scared that you'll be sent home early with no job? "How will I pay my rent now?!"

When you get an unexpected call, or find a brown envelope in the mail, does your heart flutter as you wonder exactly what it is being demanded of you now?

As you walk to the store when it's getting dark, do you try to look out of the corner of your eye at the kids sitting around with nothing to do, expecting them to make a sudden move for you?

Do you expect to find no money in your bank account every time you check it?

Are your bowels feeling loose, as the crunch of the jackbooted stormtroopers gets ever nearer, sounding like God chewing his cornflakes in the morning?

Do the words "Four More Years!" make you want to grab a gun and head for the hills to live out your days scavaging an existence off of this slowly dying land?

Is there a conspiracy everywhere you look now? Have you seen the lizard eyes of Sarah Palin yet?

Do you mistrust each and every word you see written down, looking for whats written behind them?

Is Robot Nixon living in your closet?

ARE YOU SCARED YET?

[Take out that damned jackboot from your ass.]

6~Take out that damned jackboot from your ass. It's not cool, it's not funny and it's like a genetic disease in that you'll end up passing it onto generations of your descendents.

5~Learn to question EVERYthing. Occasionally, people tell you lies. Even people who sound perfectly reasonable and sane. The softer they speak, the more polite they are, the bigger the lie they can be hiding from you.

4~Stop waving the flag/passport/skin colour and calling it "Patriotism".  That shit just isn't funny anymore when the Government is already doing the same thing. Patriotism isn't about being a better citizen, it's about demanding a better country.

3~Take a crash course in bullshitting. It's the "in" thing these days. You might as well learn to be better at it than your Priest, Bank Manager and President.

2~Take time off and have a little fun. It's what they don't want you to do, right? When people say "Oh, telling someone not do something is like inviting them to go ahead and do it", they could well have a point when it comes to this. Do you REALLY want to be stuck in that cube all day when the sun is out?

AAAAAAND

1~Swim with dolphins. Nothing like having a wet slimy horny motherfucker wrapping it's prehensile penis round your leg to realise that these lists are all bullshit, and you really need to make up your own damn lists.

Setting: A large airy room, all in marble and gold. There is an open area in the middle of the room, with large "steps" set around it in concentric circles. Set into niches in the walls are statues of George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, George H. W. Bush, every President since Nixon, every Prime Minister since Atlee.

There are a lot of aging men and woman, dressed in bed sheets sitting on the steps talking quietly amongst them selves, and one standing in the middle of the floor, preparing to speak...

"Distinguished friends! We are here to today to discuss diverse matters of interest to our interests as representatives of ourselves and each other! Let us proceed firstly with the matter of our next Emperor."

He pauses and regally surveys the the seated councilors. He points to one.

"Copious Taser, you may speak first."

The indicated man stands up, smooths off  his bed sheet and proceeds to the floor.

"Friends! The Emperor (may he reign forever!) is due to step back from the throne in a few short months. The People, hardly oppressed by his benevolent policies, have decided that this is a good time to consider our politics, and hold them under SCRUTINY! I have spoken with some of you about this, and have decided that we needs must divert their attention to other matters of smaller import, such as the prospective candidates genitalia, or mayhap the colour of their skin!"

The seated men and women nod sagely, some mutter supportive sounding words. There is a small grunt as one of them in the back row is introduced to another's knife. He slumps over, but no one thinks it out of the ordinary, as several others are similarly slumped over in slumber.

"Some others are making scenes in public, and ignoring our pleas for them to focus on what we tell them to. Our loyal citizens are having their freedoms protected by our actions to keep these rebellious scalliwags in order."

He pauses for a moment, seemingly trying to regain some of his composure which has obviously been upset by the mere thought of having to deal with public unrest, here! In the Land of the Free!

"We are now arranging to have the two most likely candidates to assume the Imperial Mantle to be as popular as the other in the plebeians eyes, the better to distract them from our essential work. My friends, we are close to getting past this period of unrest, and getting back to more years of stability and freedom to do as we wish."

There is polite applause as he bows to the assembled elders and makes his way back to his seat. The Speaker steps back to the floor and draws breath to speak again. He pauses when Copious Taser sits back down on a tack and yelps. A few of the men and women near him giggle behind their hands.

"I thank my friend Copious Taser for his words. It is true that these are unsettling times, but we are almost through them. We must remain united and strong within these walls, fractious though we may be out-with. I call my friend Pluribus Unum to the floor, he has requested a chance to speak before you today."

Pluribus Unum stands up, steps over several sleeping and "sleeping" elders, wipes his sandals of blood on one of their bed sheets, and makes his way towards the centre of the floor.

"Fellow councilors! I bring to you happy news today! I, with some diverse help from some among you, have been working on our "doublethink" policy. Yes, we were worried to begin with that this frankly Orwellian idea would be too obvious to the people, too likely to ferment unrest rather than quell it, but we were wrong! The people have been weaned on television since birth now and have no idea who old George was, let alone read his books. We now have implanted the idea that only protests held in cages are valid with our "Freedom Cage", and have now so closely aligned "Freedom" with "Security". Through logical progression, we can now enforce "Security" with "Cage", and then we will have them, if you excuse me, by the balls."

Again there is quiet acknowledgment of this small feat. And a small strangled yelp as The Speaker is 'removed' in the traditional and time honoured way.

"When next we meet, there will be a new Emperor. I expect we will back our assigned candidates, and have a nice and close "election". Remember to tell your candidate to keep his trap shut! One small slip now will blow everything to hell, and we don't want that, do we? I thank you, my friends, for your time."

He moves back to his seat, and The Speaker, a woman now walks back to the floor.

"Lastly, we shall hear from our "underground" man, our representative amongst the people. He hasn't much time to speak to us today, or his lack of presence will be noted. Let us listen!"

A previously unseen man steps out from behind a pillar, he is wearing a bedsheet like the others, but it is also pulled up over his head, hiding his features.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, hear me! My work amongst the people goes according to our plan. I have guided the most rebellious of them in directions that we believe are fruitless. Amongst some, I have encouraged parroting of old catch phrases and jokes and the taking of illicit substances. Amongst others, acts of petty vandalism and the creation of what they term "meme-bombs". As we..."

There was a small murmur of dissent and unease, but also some of support for the mystery man.

"As we already suspected, many of the latter ARE dangerous. It is well that we caught them when we did. We are feeding them all with small portions of the truth, to keep their need to know sated, but as planned they do not know the whole of it, as much as they want to. My latest report, regarding the adaptation of the "three man con" has been dispatched to this esteemed council. What you will read concerns the removal of the third participant from our Three Man Con policy, the third participant of course being the person being conned. My work continues, and my updates will also. Thank for your time, friends"

He turned, somewhat melodramatically, and stalked towards the door.

As he neared it, some of those closest to him may have heard him whisper to himself.

"Fucking dupes. Stupid, blind, ignorant dupes."

But they wouldn't have known who he was talking about.

I'm surrounded by the stench of life and death, but the stink of rotting flesh in between is stronger. The dead reflectionless eyes of the autopiloted walking, talking, breathing corpses that surround me no longer inspire pity.

I don't want to help them anymore. I don't even believe they can be helped.

I have my own problems to deal with anyway. My own head is broken, and the bodge job repairs I've carried out on it will only take me so far before I have to take it in for a service, and I really don't want to do that again.

Sometimes, I sit on a bench at the harbour, watching the bar flies coming and going. I have a drink myself, but I'm not using it as medication, I just like the way I think when I'm mildly drunk. The bar flies are self medicating. They just want to stop seeing the noxious meat their lives are feeding on, the shit their lives leave on societys decomposing body.

I look at them, and I laugh at their folly. It only sounds like screaming when my heaving diaphragm breaks down some internal defense and I see I'm far more like them than I'd like to believe.

So I occasionally write little bits and pieces of almost meaningless text, trying to sort out my own thoughts, trying to reconcile the facts that I hate my species, but don't hate myself. That I can make excuses for my own behaviour, and believe them, but cannot forgive the same faults in others.

Then I take my anti-depressants, and worry about it tomorrow instead.

....And hidden it behind some MSPainty squares. If you want to see this lailtastic picture of one of our posters, my demands must be met. Each demand that is met will remove some of the squares, and you will begin to see the unfolding glory of the picture that lies behind.



To begin.....

I demand pics that WOMP has not seen before that can be used to further our aims of WRATH. Either of people we have already, looking even more retarded than they already do in our vaults, or fresh blood!

BRING IT TO ME!

Suddenly, everything has changed.

There are times when your mundane life is changed irrevocably by an unforseen circumstance. It doesn't have to good or bad. All it is is an event that changes all sorts of little things. Like love at first sight, or losing your legs in an accident.

The event has to be relatively huge to make the kind of differences I'm talking about, but it's effects will reverberate throughout your life and everything you are.

For me, my personal apocalypse was what set me on the path here. The circumstances surrounding that time are related elsewhere and don't need repeating here, but it was like a distillation of the Paths and Shrapnel discussions we've been having.

I was free falling down one of my paths, which was suddenly a dead end, and I ran right into it. The dead end was the biggest piece of shrapnel you've seen in your life, it forced me down another path. It also forced me to take some measure of control over the paths I was walking.

Others I have talked to have related some similar tales, of how some specific event that seemed huge at the time (and may still seem huge, even now) have set them on the path to PD.com.

Personal Apocalypses is something I used to talk about with LHX quite a lot (I never see him around anymore). It seemed to be an intrinsic part of who many of us are and what we're about.

Is it possible to take something from this idea, and use it to either move paths/shrapnel forward, or maybe even a new concept?

***I am aware of some of the parallels with filters and circuits and what have you, I'm looking to see if there could be something original (gasp!) in this...***

You're born, you live, and you die.

We all do, (although, sometimes a lot of people seem to be barely living at all, look into the eyes of some commuters in the morning, you'll know what I mean.).

Some philosophies may tell you that the journey is more important than the destination, or that the the journey is itself life.

Personally, I think that may be bullshit. The journey is the journey, no more, but no less.

Let us break this down. You are at home (you're born) and you want to go the store (death). Your entire "life" will be spent making your way to the store.

Do you go there as fast as possible, limit your exposure to pain and uncomfortable ideas?

Do you go there in a sweet car, drinking, on drugs and surrounded by women, living fast and ignoring more intellectual pursuits?

Do you instead take a scenic route, walk by the canal, looking at the beautiful scenery, trying to absorb as much of the "good things" in life before you die?

There is no correct answer, and you could do any combination of these, and (almost) infinitely more.

What's interesting is when you look at how this applies to your entire "real" life, and you superimpose the paths that others of our species take. Our (almost) infinite choice is reduced to a nebulous collection of people doing exactly the same thing, taking the same routes to death.

Why is this? Do you WANT to be a sheep?

Me neither.

Break out the map and compass kiddos, it's time to explore the badlands. Let us see what lies off the well beaten paths that lead to our anonymous deaths...

This is for all of you out there who have shit going on, in your life, and can't deal. Can't vent. Can't defend yourself from.

There are times when you must be seen, heard, felt. And even the most apathetic or the most cynical of us do it. There are times when you must stick your head over the trench wall and see others toiling away, and take comfort from the fact that you are not alone.

So I am here. I am listening.

Some of us take up the pen, the sword, the megaphone, and turn negativity into a positive. Some of us create temporary monuments out of the shrapnel that rains on us.This is why: if we do not shit our hate, we will die.

Your tasks are your own, what you do, you must do alone, but what is done, will be seen.

The best will be remembered and emulated and refined, it is true, but the best will fade as fast as the worst.

There is nothing permanant. In the space of a life time, we build many monuments, and we tear many down.

There is respite, though. There is a moment of hiding in a shell crater as you run across no-mans-land, sharing a knowing glance with another refugee, leaving your mark, before you jump up again, and run to the next bit of scant cover.

There is that assurance that what we do will have meaning, for a fleeting time perhaps, but not an empty gesture.

EDIT: Because the original subject title suxx0red.

Hey Paes, you know I was telling you that rumour about LMNO and the depraved things he was doing to Hippos?

Here's the evidence.

He's obviously sick or something.



LMNO/Hippo Cross Breeds?! NO THANKS!