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Topics - Cainad (dec.)

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GASM Command / SUNY Southampton? POSTERED!
« on: September 18, 2008, 05:46:42 pm »
With two newly acquired minions fellow mischief-makers, I set out to make the evening of Sunday, September 14 as awesome as I could.

Success was had. Click for exactly 23 photos of the exploits of Lost Socks, Yonose, and myself:

Also, yesterday I recruited another skinny white guy with facial hairs who thinks this is cool shit. He's a commuter with friends at SUNY Stony Brook, where one could expect a rather larger audience...

GASM Command / TicketGASM
« on: August 19, 2008, 04:48:53 pm »

We've all seen or heard of joke parking tickets, but this promises to be completely different. Why? Because these are Discordianô joke parking tickets. This particular rant by TGRR, as laid out by Netaungrot, is the example used in this picture. For TicketGASM, more rants, short essays, and memebombs should be laid out in a format that can be easily stuck behind a windshield wiper and will look more or less like a parking ticket from a distance.

Credit for this idea goes entirely to Valerie LeFurston, who also suggested sticking such fake tickets inside real parking tickets for extra lulz.

Bring and Brag / Mandelthought
« on: July 18, 2008, 01:00:09 pm »
And we find the signal to be lost in the noise; we lose the recognition of pattern because the pattern was too new, too different.

Struggling in the haze, trying to sculpt the fog of thoughts. Which are the old and which are the new? Was it inspiration or mental masturbation? The old thoughts are fractal, building upon themselves unto infinity and yet becoming less and less significant with each iteration.

Was there ever a signal? Did we experience a new thought at all? Or was it merely a hiccup in the endless downward, inward spiral of old ideas breeding with each other? The noise of entropic decay drowns out our efforts to listen... we have traveled so far down this path that to pull back and see the whole once again becomes a titanic effort. From where we stand now every path seems to lead somewhere we've been before, and while we may amuse ourselves with new variations, we see that it's all really the same.

The thinking has become ingrown, the vines are tangled and no longer bear fruit; some of them have even begun to wither. We fear that the rot will spread to the roots, if we do not take care to prune the excess, the overgrown. But through the tangle, who can see which to cut and which to keep?

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Refresher Course on Enlightenment
« on: July 16, 2008, 02:49:23 am »
Author's note: I wrote this just now, in the span of maybe an hour. It's probably rambling and disjointed, but I hope I'm getting my idea across. The thoughts presented here may not apply to everyone, but it seemed significant to me. I demand criticism (please). Have me rewrite the whole damn thing, if you think it's necessary.

Refresher Course on Enlightenment

So here you are. Right now you're probably feeling like you're on the right track, philosophically speaking. You read something new every once in a while, maybe an expansion on something you read before, or perhaps something new entirely.

If you've gotten anywhere at all, think about that feeling. You've figured out some important truths, are now open and receptive to new thoughts and ideas, and other good stuff. What do you think is next?

Yep, you guessed it: go back and re-enlighten yourself. You've forgotten half the stuff that set you on this path in the first place, and yet it still affects you in one way or another. Fact is, you might be close to making the same mistake that lots of people make: you don't know where your thoughts are coming from. You've probably changed up your Black Iron Prison a lot during your life, but eventually you have to let it settle and allow your mind to reorganize itself. Enlightenment can be exhausting.

When was the last time you triedĖreally seriously triedĖto grasp the concept of infinity? It's a thrill the first couple times, but eventually you need to calm down and start thinking about more down-to-earth things. However, the experience won't stay fresh in your mind, and when an experience like that gets buried too deep you can forget that it's influencing your decisions. When the Shrapnel penetrates really far, you can forget that it's there. There are some pieces you've probably chosen to keep, but if they're really big it might be important to keep them close to the surface.

Incidentally, this is probably why most of the "real" religions (ha ha!) have prayers and rituals and all manner of things to inspire religious experiences. Every time they pray or chant or meditate, they're taking a refresher course in the Shrapnel of their particular faith. We (and I use the term so lightly it's ridiculous) don't have it quite so easy, because for us it usually isn't about keeping old Shrapnel or strengthening the bars of the BIP, but changing them. That's rather more difficult, because it can't be ritualized or made routine without losing its essential purpose. So we have to take a different approach.

Remember that you are a distinct, separate entity, and no matter how deep the Shrapnel gets, it's still Shrapnel and not part of you. You are not made up of parts, because you are singular being that experiences life, with its Shrapnel and Black Iron Prisons, not a jumble of those things all mixed together. Those things shape your personality, but they are not you.

You will, and probably should, choose to keep certain pieces of Shrapnel. If you spend all your time rearranging it you won't get anywhere, you'll just become neurotic about having the right Shrapnel. But try to remind yourself from time to time  that even the bits you chose to keep were chosen for a reason. Try to remember that reason every once in a while, and if you can't, well, ditch it. You may find that you don't agree with your reasoning from years ago.

This isn't about living in the past. This is about cleaning your metaphorical closet every once in a while. It's about looking at the old photo album of your life, remembering what you've experienced and keeping yourself consciously aware of what you're doing, rather than letting the stuff build up and leaving you back where you started before you came down this path: loaded down with Shrapnel, trapped in the BIP.

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / BIP in unrhymed verse
« on: July 12, 2008, 05:09:07 pm »
Author's notes:

There are no new ideas in this piece. It's essentially just a rehashing of the BIP (as I understand/understood it) that I wrote a long time ago and have gotten a lot of positive response from people who have read it. I'm posting it here because I won't feel complete until somebody tells me it sucks and what's wrong with it.

Do you know where you are?
These four walls, this ceiling, this floor?
This is your life. This is your cell.
Welcome to your Black Iron Prison.

Donít panic, youíre not here to be punished.
You were born here.
This is your cell. This is your life. This is all you know.

Beneath you, you can see the floor made by your parents and teachers.
To your left and right, society, media, and your peers make two walls.
Above you, there is a ceiling just barely too high to touch: these are your dreams.
Behind you, the darkest shadows are cast on the third wall, the wall made by your fears.
The light shines through the bars in front of you, through the fourth wall.
But this wall is not a wall. The bars are different, somehow.

These six sides hold you in, safe within a tiny cell of truth.
Take hold of the bars; feel the cold, Black Iron.
What are these bars? Why are they different from the other five sides?

You made these bars.
The light shines through them, but still they hold you in as surely as a solid wall.
They are your beliefs, your thoughts, your identity.
Every time you tell yourself, ďI am this, I am that, I am not these other things,Ē you create
another bar.
The stronger your beliefs, the stronger the bars become.

You can break some of those bars, if you choose.
If you are not afraid.
Or you can build more bars, making them thicker and closer together.
It doesnít matter which beliefs make the bars; they all block the light.

Or Kill Me / The Iconoclast's Manifesto
« on: May 17, 2008, 11:03:03 pm »
Author's notes:

This is a work in progress; I fully encourage criticism and suggestions for changes. I fully acknowledge the irony in writing a manifesto for iconoclasts. In fact, it might be lulzy to try and ruin iconoclasm for everyone by turning it into a meme and duping people into accepting the dogma of challenging dogma.

The Iconoclastís Manifesto

   We reserve the right to hold heretical viewpoints that you find abominable. We hold true that anyone who feels justified in attacking an individual because they have an unpopular opinion can fuck off and die.

   We identify ourselves by our willingness to challenge the accepted dogma, theory, doctrine, or paradigm regardless of the consequences to our social status. We acknowledge that the positions we take may result in our being subjected to more intolerance than conventional wisdom would suggest is wise, but we find ourselves refuting conventional wisdom remarkably often.

   While we generally try to take positions that are based on reasoned arguments, empirical evidence, historical precedents, or any combination thereof, we reserve the right to play devilís advocate just to piss you off and destroy any notion you might have that your ideas are universally applicable.

   We acknowledge that the original use of the term iconoclast specifically refers to the destruction of religious icons, but we may choose to attack cherished beliefs relating to anything, including but not limited to politics, art, religion, philosophy, and identity.

   We reserve the right to change or violate the terms of this manifesto as the individual iconoclast deems fit.

   We reserve rights, period.

Bring and Brag / Double writing-poomp.
« on: April 11, 2008, 08:18:47 am »
Donít listen to people like me. Iím a crank, thatís why. My mind is part of the lunatic fringe, and Iíll tell you weird things until your ears fall off. People like me, weíre dangerous. Weíve got nutty ideas and are always trying to rope you normal, healthy people into our bizarre schemes and world-views. Sometimes, it even sounds like we may be right about the strange things we say, but really, itís not worth all the babble.

Why am I telling you this? I donít know, I really donít. Iím a lunatic crank, a madman, and every day I think about the sort of things that you only think about in your deepest dreams, those odd, funky things that you can never quite remember when you wake up but sure seemed interesting at the time. And whatever forces occupy this lunatic fringe are telling me to tell you that you ought to stay away. The chaos of the crazy world produces nutcases of all kinds, and this particular nutcase is telling you to stay sane. Donít do anything too crazy, keep most of your ideas to yourself, donít read too many books, watch plenty of tv, and plug your ears and hum when people like me start talking.

Everything will be fine.


The individuals compressed
Smooth, pleasant, consistent
Too large, the structure warps
The creases fatigue
Shards scatter
Scintillating, sharp
They settle to the bottom
And stratify.

Bring and Brag / Untitled
« on: March 06, 2008, 02:31:25 am »
He dug through the rocky soil on which he knelt, scraping away with hands that were callused despite the thick and worn canvas gloves that protected them. The wet dirt soaked the gloves, chilling his hands.

"See," he thought to himself, "never thought you'd love a simple pair of gloves, eh? Useless for keeping out the cold, but these hands would be bloodied up without 'em, no doubt." He grinned, and pushed away some more dirt to reveal the prize he sought: a humble potato, grown in the land he had claimed and planted by his own hands. The gloves, the dirt, the potato (and the several dozen like it in the field), and his own rough, cold hands... he loved all these things, and his grin grew wider at the thought of all the love there was in his life now. Since the incident twelve years ago, he'd learned to love the hard, gritty, dirty things that kept him alive. Other people were so morbid and unhappy about what had been lost those twelve years ago, but really, he thought, hadn't there been enough time to get over it? No matter; he loved those people who complained anyway, because they helped keep him alive as well, and he them. Still, he wished they could face up to reality a little better.

"After all," he said aloud to no one in particular, "you can't really be miserable when your life's as good as it could possibly be." That's how it was: since the incident, a life sustained by digging up potatoes and sleeping in a crude stone hut was about as good a life as one could get. And happiness was all about living the good life.

He had laughed those twelve years ago, when everything had collapsed and the United States of America was essentially bought by its creditors. He still laughed sometimes, to himself, but he knew it disturbed the others so he tried to only do it when no one else was around. However, just last week one of the others had seen him leaning against the wall of his hut--the first one he'd helped build--giggling uncontrollably.

"Damn you, stop laughing!" She barked at him with the tone of one who is sick of hearing a joke she doesn't get, "What is wrong with you? Do you like the state the world is in? Because if you do, you're sick!"

He stifled his laughter and wiped his eyes clear. "I know you don't think it's funny but try to understand... I saw it coming all along, and the look of shock on everyone's faces was precious. I'm sorry you can't appreciate it; it's kept me in tears of laughter for twelve years. The old world could never do that for me."

"You and Roger are two of the most twisted people I have ever met. I'll never understand any of you crackpots," and she walked off, shaking her head.

Roger was like him. He had seen it coming, he had laughed when it happened, and he still laughed. The traveling merchants talked about other people who were like that. In fact, many of the travelers themselves cracked a strange smile whenever the incident was mentioned. In the survivor communes to the south, they said, people like that were actually called Laughingmen. The world he lived in needed Laughingmen like himself and Roger. For years, they had been the only ones who could smile. Their mad laughter kept everyone alive, and he loved it.

Or Kill Me / It was me. I did it.
« on: February 23, 2008, 04:52:52 am »
It was me. I did it.

All of humanity's problems, it's crimes, its sins, its stupidity, all of the evil and ugly things produced by human action: it's all my fault. I am the source of these terrible things that make people hate one another, all the little wrongs done and revenged upon everyone.

Hatred, grief, guilt, murder, and pain. All of these and more are my doing, and everything wrong with society can be traced back to me somehow.

I have a million names: Satan, sin, human nature, the Devil, godlessness, blind faith, Jews, Muslims, Christians, Pagans, capitalism, communism, hubris, and ignorance, to name a handful. Ever since humanity first appeared on this Earth it has tried to name me. But a thing cannot be killed by attacking a name given to it, so I persist in what I do, my action amplified a thousand times when humanity lashes out at another one of my labels.

They have never found me, they have never come close to destroying me. Whenever I am sought out, those unfortunates who are in the path of my pursuers see me standing right behind them who would destroy me, guiding them. When they try to flee from me and my influence, they find me standing right in their way. I can do all of this because of one simple fact.

I don't exist.

Techmology and Scientism / Steampunk?
« on: February 10, 2008, 06:02:36 am »
I can't tell if this thing is steampunk, or just frickin' weird and awesome-looking at the same time:

A "writing ball." Discuss.

Or Kill Me / Language and Asshattery
« on: November 14, 2007, 03:47:58 am »
We all know that the number of Americans who speak a second language is pitifully low. The most common second language is Spanish, and that's only because we share a border and many, many citizens of ambiguous status with Mexico. Any foreign country that isn't Anglophone knows the first step in making money on the international scene is to learn English. The Francophone countries tend to be the most pissed about this, but they deal with it for the most part. Asian countries learn English like it was the recipe to turn lead into platinum; many of them will PAY native English speakers just to talk to students.

This is totally unfair. Obviously something needs to be done to make American citizens on the whole more multilingual, because this "Foreigners can learn to speak English or fuck off" attitude will probably bite us in the ass sometime in the future. There are probably a zillion psychological articles about how being bi- or multi-lingual makes people smarter, but it may well be that the simple act of talking to someone in their native language will improve their opinion of Americans just a little bit.

So this is what should be done: the USA should massively boost incentives to learn other languages, and make sure that education is available to make American citizens fluent in Spanish, French, German, Italian, Russian, Arabic, Farsi, Swahili, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Vietnamese, and Thai...

...this isn't working.

Think for Yourself, Schmuck! / Content for... something...
« on: September 13, 2007, 09:41:30 am »
I originally posted this on, and I figured whoring my kopyleft work a little more wouldn't hurt. Most of this is written in the vein of the Principia, because, like most young schmucks who discover Discordianism for the first time, I once thought I was gonna write the next <insert Latin word here> Discordia. It seems we've generally come to agree, that the BIP, the way it is now, is basically good, but perhaps too antagonistic and in need of the goofy formatting that makes the Principia and Apocrypha so amusing to read.

So burn a couple brain cells on this:

*The author apologizes for any offense this text may cause, but isn't really sorry*

A Tale of the Prudish One

Zarath the Confused Sage, whilst joyously throwing acorns into a river and at the occasional squirrel, a man walked up to him and asked, "Why do you throw acorns?"

After a moment's speculation, Zarath replied "Because it is more enjoyable than eating them, and it is safer than throwing hand grenades."

"But why interact with them at all?" asked the man.

"Well, why not? It does no harm," Zarath replied.

"But what is the reason for throwing them? Does it serve a purpose; is it part of a plan; what is gained from it?" the man pressed for an answer. Zarath became irritable.

"What is your problem, man? Does it bother you that I have no organized plan of action for dealing with these acorns? Perhaps I do it so the acorns will be carried downstream, where they might find a place to take root."

"But you should find a place to plant the acorns yourself if that is your reason," the man said, not understanding Zarath's irritation, for he was too disturbed by the confusing, un-purposeful nature of the Sage's behavior. "There are more efficient ways to plant acorns; you should not waste your time if you do not have a plan."

"Why are you so prudish? What care I if my throwing of acorns yields no future benefit to me? I throw them because I wish to, as it pleases me. If an acorn does take root because of my actions, then something has been gained, otherwise, nothing has been lost."

"Why should you wish to do anything at all, if it is not part of a plan for future gain? Idle pursuits are sinful!" the man seethed, himself becoming annoyed with the apparent lack of order in Zarath's mind. He worked himself half to death to maintain a particular order in his own thoughts and actions, so it seemed wrong, even offensive, that someone could be so contrary to his values. "The world is orderly in nature, and we must ourselves be organized in all things. Else we shall engage in the destructive ways of chaos and disorder!"

"Know-nothing!" screamed Zarath. "Without chaos, there can be no creativity, only mindless repetition and eventual stagnation!" With that, Zarath threw his remaining acorns at the prudish man and began hopping around, making chicken noises (bwauk, bwauk, bwaaauk!). The man fled and returned to his dull, comfortable life, and willingly bloted out his confusion with predictable, orderly thoughts of lunch and tax forms.

Zarath realized that he had met his nemesis.

| Misuse of this information could|
| cause confusion and/or multiple |
| interpretations. Don't do       |
| anything to prevent this.       |

The Tao of Eris
Many things to think about
Best to forget them

On Tuesday I read a book,
'Cause I thought it was worth a look.
I found it quite boring,
By the end I was snoring,
So a nap is what I took.

The Book of Dewlap
Zarath the Confused Sage was speaking with his companions during teatime (being an American, who was in America at that time, this meant he was having tea at the proper, Greenwich Mean Time when it was the middle of the working day according to his local time zone. It made no difference), when one of them asked a question of him:

"Zarath, the conundrum that we know as the 'Chicken or the egg' argument has vexed me lately. Which came first?"

Sipping his tea, Zarath realized too late that the tea was very hot, and he proceeded to burn his tongue. Unable to answer the question, he waved his hand in an attempt to get another to speak for him.

Rising to meet the Confused and now Slightly Burned Sage's needs, a perceptive young companion spoke aloud: "What Zarath means to say is that neither the chicken nor the egg seems to give a damn which came first, so we may conclude that they were born, simultaneously, from a wombat."

Satisfied, Zarath shrugged and those present were enlightened.

A farmer told a man from the
city: "My cows are invisible, good sir."
Disbelieving, the city fellow looked into
the farmer's field,
And Lo! he could not see any cows.

If I find Jesus, does that mean the game is over, or is it my turn to hide?

Concerning the Number Eleven
*A Numerological Principle*

  • Wherefore, if there are exactly eleven people present at a party, it shall be nigh impossible to divide the cake into eleven pieces, making it necessary to acquire more cakes of the same size to make eleven, or some multiple thereof.
  • Wherefore, be it known that eleven is therefore an impractical and awkward number to use in any situation
  • Wherefore, any person interested in promoting Holy Discord should attempt to apply the number eleven as often as possible, for obvious reasons.

The Reverend Gamalost was known
to wax philosophic very often,
because philosophic tended to lose
its glossy sheen all too easily.

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