21 February 2018

Black Panther

The nicest thing you can say about Black Panther is it's a typical Marvel movie: shallow, boring heroes fighting against shallow, gOOfball villains in a war to see who will control the nameless, faceless mass of drab human underlings in a series of tedious, hard to follow (due to being shot in shaky hyper-speed) *action* scenes.  Marvel movies are a chore to sit through, utterly predictable and completely lacking in tension.  The *best* (least painful) Marvel flicks are the ones which cut the tedium with humor (the Ant-Man, Thor movies) or have quirky, deranged villains the viewer hopes-against-hope will somehow best the bland, self-righteous superhero (Mickey Rourke's Ivan Vanko in Iron Man 2).  Unfortunately, there's no humor in Black Panther, unless you think the sassy, smart ass black girl *'tude* of  Black Panther T'Challa's kid sister Shuri is funny, instead of an unpleasant reminder of headache-inducing bus ride or check-out line encounters with real-life black *'tude* gals.  Black Panther does have one quirky villain, Andy Serkis' Ulysses Klaue, but, alas, his breath of fresh air is quickly extinguished, and the movie lapses back into suffocating, stale Marveldumb.

What makes Black Panther an atypical Marvel movie, of course, is its monumental self-importance. The simplest way to explain it is to say Black Panther is SchwarzeVolk.  Here's the comic book movie which lets black folk join Hollywood's artistic decline.  Now black folk have their own simple-minded mass entert(r)ainment!  Yowza!  

But Black Panther is an artificial cultural touchstone, a Hollywood flash mob of robo-critics offering it to the illiterate masses as the Holy Grail of Diversity. But does Diversity really just mean having black folk write/direct/act for the benefit of Comic Book Guy?  If all the black actors in Black Panther performed in white face, you would see what Black Panther really is: artificial diversity, faker than vibranium, the fictional magic metal that fuels Black Panther's fairy tale Kingdom of Wakanda.

I have to wonder if all the black folk flocking to Black Panther are going to be disappointed, or if they will dutifully believe what they were told to believe before the movie's release:

I live in a country that only looks to demean people like me and our places or origin, and seeing a movie like this will give us all a sense of empowerment that black people truly need and deserve. These are African people who haven’t had their identity tarnished by colonisation. This is a movie that we need.

While it's true Black Panther's Wakanda is an African Canaan, a white-devil-free homeland flowing with rhino milk, honey, flying saucers and an endless supply of vibranium-fueled gadgets that make white folks' iPhone Xs seem primitive, it's also true Black Panther depicts African Americans as pitiful ghetto urchins, loitering on basketball courts all day waiting for someone or something to lift them up.  How empowering can it really be to African Americans to be told they need to be mentally resurrected?  Though this may be the movie the Nation of Islam has waited for, I wonder if Joe 40-Ouncer is gonna like being told he still needs welfare, just Wakanda's instead of Uncle Sam's?  Or does the movie's 22nd Century National Geographic African veneer spread far enough to cover the cracks in African American pride?

If Black Panther truly was a black cultural touchstone meant to promote black empowerment, wouldn't the Jewish-American created story be changed, with the Kilmonger character, a 'hood Wakandan who learns the violent tactics of caucasian manifest destiny as an American war machine mole, reigning as the genuine Black Panther and eliminating world-wide white oppression of colored people, instead of Marvel's hired help produced T'Challa, a saintly oreo (black on the outside, Woodrow Wilson on the inside)?

Ha!  All you really need to know about Black Panther being some kind of black The Turner Diaries is white folk love it, too!  White folk are very comfortable with T'Challa, he's a reasonable negro whites can invite into their homes for dinner. . .

The Black Panther cast adequately perform their roles, though veteran Hollywood black tokens Angela Bassett and lazy eye Forest Whitaker seem a little too *important movie* dramatic, and annoyingly pompous Walking Dead black warrioress Danai Gurira is just as annoyingly pompous in her black warrioress role here.

In the end, I would wager the true legacy of Black Panther will not be some blather about diversity or inclusion, but that black movie audiences are just as easily amused as white movie audiences. 

17 November 2017

The Sin of Judge Roy Moore

16 November 2017: Two more women have come forward to accuse Roy Moore of sexual assault. They join a growing list of women who have alleged sexual misconduct by Moore, a former judge seeking to fill the Alabama Senate seat vacated by the US attorney general, Jeff Sessions. The controversy has roiled the Senate race one month before the state’s special election, with top Republicans in Washington calling on the embattled candidate to drop out of the race. The scandal began when the Washington Post reported that Leigh Corfman said that when she was 14 in 1979, Moore kissed and touched her and made her touch his crotch. Beverly Young Nelson then came forward to claim Moore physically attacked her in a car when she was 16, grabbing her breasts and trying to force her head down on to his crotch. A Washington Post report published late on Wednesday detailed the accounts of Becky Gray and Gena Richardson, who in the late 1970s worked at the same mall from which Moore was rumored to have been banned after local talk that he had been bothering young women there. Moore’s campaign did not address the new allegations, but has vehemently denied the claims made by his other accusers, and told TV talking head Sean Hannity 'I don't ever remember dating any girl without permission from her mother.'  Mr. Moore has long courted controversy, making incendiary comments about gays, Islam and race, and portraying himself as a defender of Christianity under siege in America.

Nobody has yet claimed Roy Moore forced his adult cock into unwilling jail-bait pussy, or pried open barely legal thighs to commit unsolicited cunnilingus--no, the allegations seem to top out at the level of *mall creeper.*  Moore was a thirty-something nerd loitering in the malls of Gadsden, Alabama, pestering junior high and high school girls.  In today's malls, with today's technologies, Moore probably would have been snatching up-skirt shots of teen snatch with a cell phone, but back in his day, Moore had to actually try to *sweet talk* Dixie Lolitas into car rides and movie dates where he could then fumble his way through his awkward molestations:

From The Life and Times of Judge Roy Moore:
Roy picked her up around the corner from her house in Gadsden, drove her about 30 minutes to his home in the woods, told her how pretty she was and kissed her. On a second visit, she says, he took off her shirt and pants and removed his clothes. He touched her over her bra and underpants, she says, and guided her hand to touch him over his underwear.

Moore denies these amateurish sex crimes, which probably ended with him shifting uncomfortably in his own sticky underpants, but in these cases of *they said/he said,* the single biggest proof of Moore's guilt may be his own marriage certificate. At age 38, Moore married a 24 year old, thus offering concrete evidence the thirty-something Moore did, indeed, have a taste for the young stuff.

Not to dismiss the anguish the mall creeper caused his victims, but in the Grand Cosmic Scheme, Moore has a bigger sin choking his soul. . .

Moore is, at best, a self-proclaimed Christian, and views his political ministry as sanctioned by God. This is why Moore will not confess his mall creeping ways. Moore sees himself as the victim, persecuted as Jesus said His followers would.

Sin is missing the mark God sets for us. And Roy Moore as self-proclaimed Christian has missed the mark much more badly in presenting the gospel of Jesus Christ than he ever did when groping at a little girl's panties.

Jesus said "My Kingdom is not of this world." The ways of the Kingdom and the ways of the world are in opposition. Jesus came to call people out of the world and into His Kingdom, but Roy Moore tries to drag Jesus from the Kingdom into the world. His political platform is nothing but the heresy of dominionism. In fact, Moore is the kind of bewitcher Paul warns about in Galatians. Roy Moore, dragging his 10 Commandments wherever he goes, would put the stony heart of the law back into Christianity and have men justified by the law rather than the faith of Christ. And that's a damnable heresy:

But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed. As we said before, so say I now again, If any man preach any other gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed.

When we look upon Roy Moore we see one who loves the praise of man more than the praise of God. Moore uses his false doctrine to seduce brain-dead Christians into giving him a seat of authority in the world.

Roy Moore can't do a God damn thing for the Kingdom from the U.S. Senate. . .anybody who believes Christianity can be advanced through legislation is a fool, and doesn't know the first thing about Christian doctrine. The Law that Roy Moore drags around was set aside by Jesus and replaced by the Sermon on the Mount. The Law that Roy Moore drags around was a dead stone that could be circumvented by the wicked midrash halacha. Indeed, when Roy Moore acquits himself of girl molesting, he sounds like nothing so much as a talmudic rabbi:

I don't remember ever dating any girl without the permission of her mother. . .

So even if Roy Moore did finger-fuck a fourteen-year-old or two, he asked mom first, so. . .it's all good.

But that kind of legal pussy hair-splitting can't be excused if one follows the Sermon on the Mount, which convicts man to his innermost heart:

Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: but I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.

That's why Jesus didn't come to save Israel from Rome, and it's why Jesus doesn't give a good God damn about saving the USA from whatever Roy Moore thinks it needs saving from. Jesus' mission, and it remains the church's mission, is to call repentant sinners into His Kingdom.

It is not the church's mission to call Jesus Law-Giver into the World, for if righteousness comes by the Law, then Jesus died for nothing.

Is Roy Moore a con man using his false gospel to fleece baby Christians, or just an idiot self-proclaimed Christian so blinded by dominionism he's lost his way? Unknown. But what is known is that Moore's Senate campaign and his desire to call Christ into the world is an act of vanity that should scandalize Christians, and the fact that no church leader has called for Moore to be delivered to Satan for the destruction of his flesh tells us the church is as pathetic in its mission as Moore was in his finger-fucking.

07 November 2017

Stranger Things, Season 2

Stranger Things, Season 2: There's such a huge drop-off from Season 1 to Season 2, I now wonder if Season 1 was actually any good?  Maybe if I went back and watched Season 1 again, I wouldn't overlook the things that bothered me about it (Winona Ryder's screeching acting, the mostly ugly cast, including the repulsively anorexic chick who played Nancy, the deliberately overly abstruse story meant to hide the fact even the writers didn't know what the Hell any of it meant)?  Was Season 1 really a decent spooky paranoid cosmic mystery unraveled by a mostly-amusing gang of nerdy D&D kids and loser adults?

The main problem with Season 2?  There is no mystery for the nerdy kids/loser adults/ugly cast to figure out, it's the Upside Down Redux, and since we already know, more-or-less, all we're ever gonna know about the Upside Down, the writers have nine hours to fill before Eleven concentrates real hard for the two nostril nose bleed required to close the dimensional gate between the UD and Hawkins, Indiana.  

And that's a long nine hours, believe me. . .

With no mystery to tease, the writers try to fill the episodes with humor (the negro nerdy boy Lucas now has a wise-cracking little sister, think Wanda Sykes as an 8-year-old), new characters (a Jewy-iooking gOOfball conspiracy theorist, a Jewy-looking new Hawkins Lab doctor, played by a bloated-almost-beyond-recognition [if, like me, you haven't seen him since Aliens] Paul Reiser, a fat schlub boyfriend for Winona Ryder and Billy and Max, two angry new-kids-on-the-block step siblings from an ΓΌber-dysfunctional family {in fact, the 'what's with this family?' question is the only real mystery of ST2}), a lame subplot (Eleven finds Eight, another Hawkins Lab experiment girl, and joins her laughably un-punk punk gang just long enough to learn about hair gel and eye shadow before realizing she's more Jack-and-Diane than Sid-and-Nancy), lame product placement (Three Musketeers and more of Season One's Eggos) and sex, lots of sex (though, thankfully, given the ugly cast, it's off-screen sex).  

And some of the sex is a little creepy.  In one uncomfortable scene, the Jewy-looking conspiracy theorist seems more Harvey Weinstein than Sherman Skolnick as he practically demands that anorexic Nancy and pasty-faced Jonathan fuck right in front of him.  And there's a troubling stink of pedophilia to the Hopper - Eleven relationship, as the unkempt cop baits Eleven with her cherished Eggos, then locks her away in a cabin in the woods to watch TV all day, before returning at night to play an unhealthy-looking game of house with her. 

Almost as disturbing is the interracial tween romance between negro Lucas and new-girl-on-the-block Max.  1984 redneck Indiana hardly seems a breeding ground for tween race mixing, so one must wonder why the writers decided to shove this mud couple in the audience's face?  In fact, one of the charms of Season 1, in our hyper-sexualized American culture, was how unsexualized the nerdy D&D kids were.  Now in Season 2, they all seem to have pussy fever (except the terminally faggy Will, who spends most of the season being raped in an Exorcist-like possession by the Upside Down's Dark Shadow. . .speaking of which, after 13 seasons of Supernatural's much-copied demon's black smoke jet-streaming in and out of the mouths of the possessed, can't horror shows and movies find a new way to depict possession?).  And Mike is so blue-balled over Eleven, he acts like a girl on the rag as he brattily wet dreams his way through the 7 or 8 episodes until they are reunited. 

The only tit-ill-ating scene that isn't off-putting is also one of the few comic interludes that actually works, when Mike's sexually frustrated mom has her sexy time (romance novel in candle-lit bubble bath) interrupted by new-boy-on-the-block Billy, a normally-roid-raging imitation Leif Garrett who manages to control his temper just long enough to honey-trap some info out of the dripping wet milf.

No mystery, unpleasant character development, ill-fitting subplots: unforunately, Stranger Things Season 2 is an Upside Down version of Season 1.

28 September 2017

Football Follies

29 September 2017, GREEN BAY - A request by Green Bay Packers players for fans to join them in a show of unity during the national anthem before their game Thursday apparently did little to calm the debate.

Packers fans on Wednesday continued to blast the NFL, the team and players for what they perceive as showing disrespect for the nation, the flag, the military or the national anthem by sitting, kneeling, remaining in the locker room or locking arms during the national anthem. Supporters say players are peacefully exercising their free speech rights on the best stage available. 

"I am so ashamed of and appalled by the ignorance of any NFL player who would dare disgrace our Stars and Stripes or the memory of hundreds of thousands of fallen U.S. heroes who paid with their lives so that we may live free," said Steven Tiefenthaler, a native of Brookfield who now lives in San Antonio. Tiefenthaler is a Packers shareholder and 20-year U.S. Air Force veteran.

What is this football/anthem nonsense really all about?

Why are some of the masses rebelling against one of the great opiates of the masses?

Isn't it strange that the sheeple snap from their trance when a handful of footballers refuse the ritual hymn?

Why are they so troubled they can no longer enjoy their favorite pastime?

Why do they take it so personally?

Quite simply, those who are troubled by the disturbance to the anthem ritual are human zeroes.  Their souls long ago dissolved by materialism and narcotics, they accepted the Mark of the Beast.

Their God told them to take no thought for what they should eat or drink, or how they should clothe themselves.  Their God told them not to store treasure on earth.  

But they told God to go to Hell, and listened to the lying wonders of the Beast, and sought paradise on earth, through crude materialism.  

Their right hands and foreheads are occupied continually with worship of the Beast, seeking continually to live as the Beast demands, buying and selling, buying and selling, all their life energy devoted to building personal storehouses on earth. 

Their God promised a mansion in eternity, but the human zeroes could not see past six hundred threescore and six. . . 

Empty and Godless, they shed their true identity. . .

Now these zeroes must identify themselves. . .

In the land of the football scandal, some miliions and millions identify themselves as Americans.  

Can you imagine that?  A creature of wonder, a biological miracle in an incomprehensibly vast universe, crowned with consciousness, yet it limits itself to a name on a street sign. 

An American.

A creature designed out of time abstracts itself to some pretense that has barely existed for two hundred years. . .

In the football land, America is the power which allows the human zero to buy and sell, America is the power which animates the human zero, and if some being refuses to worship any image of the American Beast, then an anger to death will be provoked.  

The Great Image Of The Beast has commanded:

Get that son of a bitch off the field right now. Out! He’s fired!

Quite simply, a fair percentage of the sheeple are so far gone, so *American,* their identity so wholly given over to the Beast, their lives so spiritually cut off from true man and True God, they see the inconsequence of not participating in the ritual hymn as blasphemy. . .

Blasphemy, a sin worthy of death. . .

And some dumb American will no doubt believe he is serving his god when he kills. . .some other dumb human zero. . .some other human zero worshiping his own Beast. . .some human zero who identifies himself as a Black. . .or a Faggot. . .or whatever else they choose to deny their Father in Heaven.

28 July 2017


The birds of the air chirping.  Landing to pull worms from the wet earth.  The rain moved on, the clouds passed.  Now a clear, warm spring day.  The birds of the air devouring their spineless prey.  After the long dark winter, once again we see the world can be a light, comfortable place. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  Passing an old woman with a little dog.  The old woman, an old bag, in all honesty, coated as if it were still winter.  How many more springs remain for this old bag?  The little dog will surely outlive the old bag.  And then what?  The dog pound?  Or the kicks of some resentful relative of the old bag?  What was it the Preacher said?

For what befalls the sons of men befalls the beasts, even one thing befalls them, as the one dies, so does the other. So a man has no preeminence over a beast.  All is vanity. . .

All is vanity. . .

Therefore, we must use the measure of discernment granted us by the Lord of All to apprehend as much Truth as possible from the world's lying vanities. . .

But today the sky is the pale blue of the Kingdom of Heaven, and the air is scented with fresh creation. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  Cars drive past, imprisoning the lost on their way through their misguided lives. . .but that is their problem.  I shake their exhaust from my feet. . .

Here come two joggers. . .middle-aged women in tights and sweatshirts. . .friends/neighbors encouraging each other in rejuvenating their clunky bodies?  Perhaps they seek to find their lives in their flesh, but as the Apostle said:

Bodily exercise has some value, but it is small compared to godliness. . .

But let the dead bury their dead. . .today the reborn earth recalls the Temple of Eden, in which the Creator placed His image.

Walking, walking to the park.  Oops!  I stop.  There, at the side of the road: a squirrel.  The remains of a squirrel.  Near its mouth a pool of raspberry-colored muck.  A bright red death on a spring day.  The muck of the squirrel, and the birds of the air chirping.

As I continue walking, walking to the park, I recall a saying of Jesus:

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. . .

I've wondered on this many, many, many times over the years.  No saying of our Lord is more incredible, or requires more faith, considering the way life is dispatched so easily, carelessly, thoughtlessly, and in such bulk.

Our so-called *science* would tell us in the history of man 100 billion have died and returned to dust.  Imagine how many billions were aborted, or miscarried, or died in infancy. . .

Mere blips.  Blips of existence.

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

The mass of the dead, those mere blips of existence, and yet the very hairs of their heads all numbered. . .

When speaking of sparrows and hairs, was the Lord of All offering only a general benediction to the twelve whom He sent to the lost sheep of the House of Israel?  Or is the Heavenly Father truly there, in the raspberry-colored muck of the world? 

One answer or another only leads to more questions. . .

We see through a glass, darkly. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  I breathe the newly minted air of spring as its gentle breeze whispers in my ear, but as I near the park entrance, I hear the cries of a child.  A girl.  I see now it's a little girl.  Crying.  Crying in the parking lot.  I look around.  Nobody.  No adults.  No one.  The girl is all alone.  A little girl crying all alone in the parking lot.  No shoes.  Wearing a yellow raincoat.  Too big for her.  The coat hangs well past her knees and the sleeves extend well past her hands.

There's a path in the park that loops around a pond.  There's a bench three-quarters of the way that gives a nice, quiet view of the pond.  I go there and sit in serenity.  That's where I was headed.  But this crying little girl, all alone.

All alone, except for me, now.  I don't like this little girl, and her fate means nothing to me.  But I know I am supposed to like this little girl, and am supposed to care about her fate, so if I just keep walking to the serenity bench, I will not experience serenity as my disregard for her will trouble my thoughts.  So I will have to do something.  I will have to do something so my thoughts are not troubled.

The little girl has stopped crying.  She is staring at me.  Most people don't notice me.  I move unobserved through the world, my presence long since meaningless.  I'd forgotten what a burden it is to be looked at, and this child's stare is heavy.  Weary of it already, I sigh.  But there's no other choice, so I begin.

"Are you here by yourself?"

The little girl nods.

"Did someone bring you here?"

Another nod.

"Was it your mother?  Did your mother bring you?"


"Do you know where she is?"

"Bitch goed!"

And she starts crying, again.

A car enters the parking lot.  A Jeep, really.  Wrangler, I believe they are called.  Two smiling young men get out.  One of them wears a red t-shirt with "Mmmm" printed in big black letters on the front.  Neither pay any heed to the crying girl or me as they make their way into the park.

"Your mother just left you here?" I ask the girl.

She nods as she wipes sadness snot from her nose.

"What a cunt," I gripe, more from the trouble the mother has caused me than for the little girl.

I pull out my cellular phone.  I really don't like talking on the phone, but there's not much else I can do.  I tap the numbers.  Almost instantly, there's an answer.

"County 911, what's your emergency?"

"Well, uh, it's not really my emergency.  I'm at Lillie Park and there's this little girl here, she's been left here alone, there's no one with her.  She's crying fairly loudly."

"How old is the child, sir?"

"How old are you?" I ask the kid.  She immediately stops crying.


"She said 'free,' but I think she means three."

"And you're positive there's no caretaker with her?"

I sigh heavily.  

"The kid says nobody's here.  I been here 5 minutes, she's crying, nobody's come around."

"Does the child know her address?"

"Do you know where you live?" I ask the kid.

She shakes her head.

"She doesn't know."

"Ask the child her name."

"What's your name?" I ask the kid.

She says something, but I can't understand.

"What?" I ask.

She says something.  

"I can't understand what she's saying," I tell the 911 operator.  "It sounds like she said 'Tylenol,' but I doubt that's her name."  "Is your name Tylenol?" I ask the kid.  She shakes her head.  "No, her name's not Tylenol."

"I'm going to dispatch an officer to the scene. Where in the park are you located, sir?"

"In the parking lot, at the main entrance.  Off of Platt Road."

"An officer should be there shortly."

"Do I need to stay?"

"It would be helpful if you could remain with the child until the officer arrives."

"All right," I sigh.

Now I have to wait.  Stand here and wait.

The sun shines bright.  It dries the earth.  You can hardly tell it rained earlier.  There's a worm on the sidewalk.  If it doesn't make it back to the earth, it will desiccate.  Spring.  The rebirth.  But death is never far.

The little girl is staring at me.  I look at her.  I look.  Oh, no.  Now that I am really looking at her, it appears she's not wearing anything underneath the raincoat.  Maybe, hopefully, some underwear, but I can tell from the open buttons at the top, there's nothing covering her chest.

What a ridiculous situation to be in.  Where are the cops, already?  I feel a headache coming on.

"What cunt is?"

"Huh?  Oh.  Oh.  A cunt?"

The little girl nods.  She heard me.  She heard me mutter that her mother was a cunt.  I'm not used to people paying attention to me.  Of course, she's just a kid, doesn't know I should be overlooked, doesn't know not all adults are noteworthy.

"Well, you know you have a hole between your legs, right?  All girls have that hole, did you know that?"  She nods.  "Well," I sigh, "as some girls grow up. . .as they age. . .everything around that hole, everything from the toes to the hair on the head, all the bones, the muscle, the blood, the guts, even the heart and the brain, the engines of our thoughts, of our. . .being. . .everything becomes corrupt.  Do you know what corrupt means?"  She shakes her head.

I notice a man on foot entering the park.  A bum.  He's carrying a fishing pole and an old coffee can.  Ha!  Maybe he's trying to get a free dinner out of the pond!  Fry up some tiny smallmouth bass under the overpass, wash 'em down with a forty ouncer.  Anyway, I wait until he's out of earshot, then I continue.

"So, corrupt means rotten.  Some girls grow up and turn rotten."  The little girl doesn't seem to understand.  "Like a banana," I explain.  "Have you ever seen a rotten banana?  It's bruised brown and black and it's brown and mushy inside.  Have you seen a banana like that?  A rotten banana?"  She nods.  "Well, some girls get that way.  They become bruised.  Their insides, their spirit and soul, become brown and mushy.  They're rotten.  And so one of the words grown-ups use to describe rotten girls is 'cunt.'  Does that make sense?  Do you get it?"  She nods.

I've always believed I could have been a fine teacher.

This little girl looks like she's about to cry, again.  Best to tell her the lie that keeps everyone going.  Things will be better.

"The police will be here soon.  They'll get you home and everything will be all right.  I'm sure your mother just got confused or something."

"Po-lice is cunt," the little girl says.


Well, she's a quick learner, that's for sure.

I hear one of the porta-john doors squeak open, up where the trail begins.  Out steps the fishing bum.  He looks at me looking at him. They say in Paris, France there are some charming bums.  They call them clochards.  Our bums are not charming.  Piss-stained liars, that's what our bums are.  The bum looks at the little girl.  Looks at me.  A gutter look.  Bums are like children, taking note of everything.  But their minds are diseased.  Everything processed in the trough.  The poor fish that has to swim in his belly.

But here's the squad car, finally.  Two officers get out.  One approaches me while the other gets down on one knee to talk to the little girl.  I tell my cop the story, he asks for my name, address, phone number. . .and that's it.  I can go.  I look at the little girl.  And now what for her?  Returned to her. . .returned to where she lives?  To start it all over again?  The circle.  The millstone of life.

I look at the little girl.  I wouldn't want to go back and start all over.  Growing up is a losing proposition.  The best you can do is survive, then get a job and labor for someone else's benefit. And yet, our Lord said that's exactly what we have to do, go back and start all over, again:

Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. . .

I look at the little girl.  Should I say goodbye?  But I never even said hello.  I turn around and head for the serenity bench.

15 June 2017

The 12th Dimension: Faith

The above Newsweek article contends:

"It is as if the brain reacts to a stimulus by building then razing a tower of multi-dimensional blocks, starting with rods (1D), then planks (2D), then cubes (3D), and then more complex geometries with 4D, 5D, etc. The progression of activity through the brain resembles a multi-dimensional sandcastle that materializes out of the sand and then disintegrates," he said. Henry Markram, director of Blue Brain Project, said the findings could help explain why the brain is so hard to understand. "The mathematics usually applied to study networks cannot detect the high-dimensional structures and spaces that we now see clearly,” he said. "We found a world that we had never imagined. There are tens of millions of these objects even in a small speck of the brain, up through seven dimensions. In some networks, we even found structures with up to eleven dimensions."

If true, we can thus speculate on the enigma: why one man hears the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, and another does not.

Jesus, speaking of Himself and His followers, said:

The sheep hear His voice: and He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them, and the sheep follow Him: for they know His voice.

Speaking to the unbelievers, Jesus said:

But ye believe not, because ye are not of My sheep, as I said unto you. My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me: and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of My hand.

The Apostle Paul said:

Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. . .


For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God. . .

So if we wish to be contemporarily scientific, we can therefore speculate the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ have been gifted  by God with brains capable of an extra dimension, a 12th dimension not built upon sand which quickly disintegrates upon hearing the gospel, but a Faith Dimension, in which the gospel takes root, forever. . .

09 June 2017

Media *Shock* Is Fake News

Predictably, Media report *shock* at the election results in Britain. Jeremy Corbyn, who Media mercilessly mocked and slandered for the last two years, managed an almost-draw with establishment figurehead/ugly cunt Theresa May in May's stupidly called for *snap elections.*

Here's Corbyn's platform:

Investing half a trillion pounds in rebuilding Britain's industrial infrastructure, building millions of homes, making universities free, and re-nationalizing the country's railways, utilities and postal service. He proposed to pay for all that by hiking corporate tax rates from 17 to 26 percent and imposing taxes on real estate and incomes over $100,000 a year.

The Western Media, hardly free, controlled by fewer people than make up a National Football League team, and a propaganda distributor for the ultra-rich, always mock even these most modest economic proposals to just slightly lessen the burden of the poor. Older whites always fall for it, for they're still under the illusion/delusion they're *middle-class,* but, increasingly, Western white youth see through the propaganda and realize they are no better off than most niggers. . .hence they gravitate to *populists* like Corbyn and Sanders, even though Jez and Bern are old enough to be their grandpa.

Media claims *shock* at these election results. . .of course, Media aren't really shocked, Media's just grateful Western medicine can keep enough old fart diabetics, heart patients and alcoholics alive long enough to let *conservative capitalists* squeak through a couple more elections and squeeze the last few drops of blood money from the turnip poor.