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Topics - BadBeast

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16
Literate Chaotic / On becoming bi-pedal.
« on: June 02, 2011, 12:16:20 am »
Under a blood red sickle moon, we rise.
From the bones and ashes of the past, is struck a spark,
from which is born this new flame of soulfire, that will burn anew,
against the darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





17
Or Kill Me / Deserves a place here.
« on: June 01, 2011, 12:02:10 pm »
Just felt that as a master of musical rants, Ed Hammel deserves a mention here and there.

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

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

18
Or Kill Me / Anyone for a quick game of Arseholes?
« on: April 29, 2011, 10:03:15 am »
There's  game afoot, and it seems to be a game of Rectal Magnitude, so I shall call it "Arseholes".
I've been watching all these fuckers for years, and after 8 Cans of Spesh, some peoples arseholes seem to become detached completely and stagger around on their own, dribbling shit, starting fights with each other, and getting arrested.
(Some people just never get the hang of sphincter control)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

19
Techmology and Scientism / Pain Ray being tested in US Prison
« on: March 31, 2011, 11:32:54 pm »
http://www.noonehastodietomorrow.com/tech/weaponry/2725-2725

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

20
Or Kill Me / Psychology applied to territory, triggered this one!
« on: March 18, 2011, 02:09:25 pm »
Here's one that started in TCC, as a kind of "Of course Psychology is a proper Science, you silly Wiccan!" post, then developed into the kind of  blaaaah blahdy blah meandering  blurty rant  that needs to be released into an environment where such things can realistically be left to prosper, or to rot, stink, and die according to their merits.
So here goes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, where was I?   :argh!: 

     

21
From San Francisco Chronicle, January 30, 1983.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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


Soviet' faked tape is rock group hoax

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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



Crass 'KGB tape' hoax

From Sounds, January 28, 1984. Page 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



22
Or Kill Me / Just trying not to take Control
« on: February 23, 2011, 03:54:25 pm »
CONTROL

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

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

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


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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

23
Literate Chaotic / The Road
« on: February 22, 2011, 06:26:43 am »
I'm starting to think that although there are many roads, there is only one Road. Kerouac knew this, and how once you get on it, there is no getting off. You might think you're off it, but then something happens and you realise you've been on it all along. It's straight, and wide, and it disappears on over the horizon. Somehow you know that there are no junctions. No Crossroads.
No Turnpikes. There are stop-overs, where you can pull over, have lunch, forget about the journey for a while. Forget completely, while you get sidetracked by something, or someone you meet. But always that nagging feeling at the back of your head that you are forgetting something important.
       
You try to think what it is, and then you're back behind the wheel again. Different car, different scenery, but still the same road. Only now there's a sense of urgency about the whole thing. The engine has a whine to it that won't let you relax. There is more traffic too. The other cars all look a little worse for wear, the drivers, hunched at the wheel like they all had somewhere to be, half an hour ago. You can't see what kind of car you're driving, but you're sure it looks as dusty and worn as the others do. There is no scenery now to speak of, only the vast, greyish red desert as far as the eye can see. You don't remember when the desert started, it feels like it was there forever, but you're sure you can remember trees, and mountains, not so long ago. It feels like you took a wrong turn, but there are no turns on this road. All there is is dust, and asphalt, and the smell of hot oil.
         
There is no horizon anymore, the view disappears into a haze of dust and smog. The desert is punctuated with what first appear to be boulders, but on closer inspection, they prove to be old twisted car wrecks. But all old cars, like 1930's old. The whine from the engine seems to be getting louder. You decide to pull over at the next opportunity, get some rest. You can't remember how long it was since you slept, but you don't feel tired. Just old, and kind of stretched out.

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

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

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

24
Apple Talk / There was only ONE Star Trek.
« on: February 05, 2011, 02:32:35 am »
And also, I remember reading somewhere that lightspeed isn't even a constant, as it travels at different speeds, through
different mediums. So what we are using for light years, may actually only be light moments. And  because of the the infinitely ineffable dimensions of the Uni/Multi verse, any system we attempt to quantify Time or Distance with on such a scale is meaningless. And distracting. And far too confusing to try and apply to our little pinpoint of existence. But the Wormhole/Stargate analogy works for Star Trek, Farscape Babylon 5 etc, and I think it's the way to go.
As long as Wesley Crusher isn't involved at all, it should all work out in the end.   

25
Or Kill Me / February makes me shiver, with every post that I deliver,
« on: February 04, 2011, 10:26:42 pm »
I started posting this in TCC, in some thread about some other shit, and it developed into something more than the thread was up to. Turned in to a bit of a rant, so rather than be misunderstood on a Pagan forum, I thought I'd much rather be misunderstood by people who take the art of misunderstanding seriously, even to the extent of trying to get their heads round it before crying "Shaddup you fuckin' hippy", and suchlike. So I'm leaving it here.

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

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

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

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

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

Some old dead dude once said,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

26
I can feel the suspicion before I go to the bedroom, and carry my beloved Dolly to the Table. Candles? Wine? She's going to know there's something going on before I settle her into her chair! Why do women have to be so much hard work!
My resolve set, I call in. "Darling?  Are you decent?



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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Some people can be so shallow.

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

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

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

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

27
Apple Talk / Attn Roger
« on: January 25, 2011, 04:08:19 pm »
 *Deep breath* Are you getting Judgemental on me? Just because I use a little recreational Dubstep?  I'm still just as full of rancid anarchic bile as I always was!
It's only Dubstep, it's not like I'm suddenly filled with a sense of "goodwill and fluffy fucking benevolence" for my fellow man!  OK, so it's not exactly Anti-Nowhere League, (who still put any of your Yank Punk in the shade btw!) but it relaxes me. And it's only a little bit,  I can handle it!  So don't you start getting all fucking judgmental on me sunshine! It's not like I've suddenly sealed up my hateshit hole, and gone all reasonable, or started going to Anarchists Anonymous meetings, or Anger Management Counselling or some other dribbling Hippy shit like that! I am every little bit the  seething, toxic stinkhole, that I always was, and I can still belch out a plume of red hot unmitigated rant stench when occasion demands!  You bloody youngsters!  You think you invented belligerence and pugnacity, but I was ranting half housebricks at the fucking man and his legions of greyfaced bone headed bitchboys while you were still taking laundry home to your mother every six weeks!  So if I want to listen to a bit of fucking Dubstep now and again, I fucking will!  And all your "Rantier than thou"  fucking  judgementalistic comments will not change that one little bit! Have you got that? Because I can even  listen to fucking Enya all day long if I want to, and still be able to rant my fucking bile duct up at the drop of a hat, with "Orinoco Flow" on my internal IPod,  and still not even pause for breath!  So with all due respect, you can stick that "sad banana" up your fucking pooh hole, Mr Good fucking Reverend "I am the Lord of the Rant said he" Roger!  And while I was dribbling this spew of a rant, answering your "Man I don't even know you anymore" tripe, some fucker's gone and hidden the thread! Grrrr!    :argh!:  Don't think you can evade my answer using tactics like that young man! This shit is flowing with a life of it's own now, so  it's getting it's own fucking  thread. So there! *exhales*

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

28
Apple Talk / Real Life Superheros.
« on: January 10, 2011, 08:41:37 pm »
This made  me laugh. There's a little "Justice League Seattle" thing going on up there. I like Seattle. 

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

29
Or Kill Me / Santa's Grotto
« on: December 25, 2010, 10:38:11 pm »
Xmas is like a Boil that slowly builds up starting about the end of October, getting imperceptibly more and more full of stinky pus every day, and then, sometime about. . . . well now, it bursts, and that toxic build-up of cultural abuse, Voodoo TV Advertising, the subconscious fear of some overly jolly, fat, vagrantly bearded bastard making you sit on his "knee", while he gropes around in his "sack", on the premise of having a "Gift" for you!

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

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

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

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

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

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

30
Or Kill Me / Santa's Grotto
« on: December 25, 2010, 10:37:22 pm »
Xmas is like a Boil that slowly builds up starting about the end of October, getting imperceptibly more and more full of stinky pus every day, and then, sometime about. . . . well now, it bursts, and that toxic build-up of cultural abuse, Voodoo TV Advertising, the subconscious fear of some overly jolly, fat, vagrantly bearded bastard making you sit on his "knee", while he gropes around in his "sack", on the premise of having a "Gift" for you!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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