31 March 2016

How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?


Was it one of those big scary dogs?  Or just one of those little bitty faggy dogs rich old bags like to carry around?

But, uh, I guess that's really beside the point. . .

The point being:

Imagine if a nigger muslim in France made four white gals fuck a dog. . .

Imagine. . .and it wouldn't be like that pantywaist John Lennon *Imagine* song, no, sir.

No, if a nigger muslim in Gay Paris made four white gals fuck a dog, there'd be flowers left at the kennel, anti-nigger laws passed, a day of mourning, solidarity marches, the Eiffel Tower lit up in whatever color symbolizes white self-pity, and the gendarmes checking out the dog licenses of every nigger dog-owner in France.

The point being:

Colored people get fucked over 24/7 all over the world, and they barely make a peep, or if they do make a peep, nobody can hear it over white nit-picking. . .but when white people have their little tragedies, and they are so fucking little they can name their tragedies after the month and date (9/11 in the USA, 3/22 in Brussels, etc.). . .one fucking tragedy and the whole day is forever ruined and subject to memorializing. . .if colored people did this they'd have to have a memorial service every day of the year. . .

The point being:

Coloreds are far better at following Jesus:

These things I have spoken unto you, that in Me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. . .



30 March 2016

Two Utterly Repellent Human Beings

Haha!  I'd forgotten that Fiorina was more nauseating than Cruz!

Look at the two together!  Two utterly repellent human beings!  

Look how Fiorina condemns herself as double-minded:
Hahahaha!  

Listen, if Donald Trump, essentially a harmless buffoon, is Hitler-Lite as Media loves to promote, then what are these two 100% corrupt, dishonest, amoral office-chasers?  

Monsters.

Ted *Carpet Bomber* Cruz and Carly *Rebuild The Sixth Fleet* Fiorina would kill more people than Godzilla. . .and would expect to be worshiped by the sheeple for it.

The comedian Louis C.K. recently sent out an email to his fans, begging them not to vote for Donald Trump. . .C.K. is a funny guy and he makes funny TV shows. . .and he ought to stick to that instead of making voter guides if he thinks Trump is the true danger.  These Military Media Complex Robots like Cruz, Fiorina, Clinton and Kasich are far worse morally, for they actually know what they are doing, while Trump is merely mugging for the camera. 

[Bernie Sanders?  He appears a little more humane than the others, though he did support the wars in Serbia and Afghanistan. . .but if you're one of those sheeple who feels like you have to vote, vote for this candidate.]    

Anyways. . .

The sheeple ought to wonder how a shrew like Fiorina ended up as one of their choices for Figurehead.  Idiotic and unlikable, a failure in the business world, all of a sudden she shows up on the television screen in those retarded *debates* as if she was a legitimate candidate!  There she was huffing and puffing against Vladmir Putin, of all people!, a real statesman!  

There was no *groundswell* for Fiorina.  No popular support.  Nobody wanted her or even knew who she was. . .and yet all of a sudden she's shoved in the sheeple's face as if they had asked for her!
Huh??  What??  Nobody asked for the dumb cunt!!

Nobody asked for that God damned dumb cunt, or for that creep Ted Cruz, or for any of these jackasses!  But that's the sheeple's choice. . .and, amazingly, they seem to take it seriously!  Haha!   

Democracy?  Are you shittin' me??  It's a God damned prank!

Trump is *frightening,* but not these other idiots?  You got it fucking backwards.  Trump is the least frightening of all. . .because he wasn't shoved in our face by the Unseen Powers.  He comes to us out of his own naked vanity, which is certainly less frightening than these mystery stooges in their *people's choice* masks. . . 

23 March 2016

The Witch and 10 Cloverfield Lane


I seen two movies recently, and a couple things about 'em bother me:

The Witch: So it's 1630 or whatever and Satan ain't got nothin' better to do than go possess some beat-up old black goat and prank some nobody family of gullible Puritan New England sod busters?  I mean, was the world already so thoroughly damned Satan didn't need to bother messing with Louis XIII or Phillip IV?  It'd be like Rasputin choosing to cast a spell over some grubby St. Petersburg washerwoman instead of the Tsarina. . .what's the point?  It don't make sense. . .

But, anyways, it's not terrible. . .but don't bother watching it if you are expecting a *horror* movie. . .it's more a drama of religious paranoia and a character study of those overly-pious Luke 13:4 types who see The Hand of God at work every time someone slips on a banana peel.   There are a couple of arresting *shock* scenes tossed in, the hi-lite being a witch engaging in some barnyard follies with a goat, but these profundo rosso moments don't fit with the rest of this otherwise gloomy fifty shades of Decalogue melodrama.   

10 Cloverfield Lane: At the end of the movie the damsel in distress uses a little itty-bitty Molotov cocktail to kill a Monster that caused some kinda airborne ecological disaster that killed shitloads of people. . .so. . .uh. . .doesn't the United States' $666 billion military have, like, a cruise missile or something that coulda 86ed the Monster from the git go????  (Huh?  Oh.  Right.  Sorry!  Guess I shoulda used one of them *Spoiler Alert* thingies.)  

Yeah, but, anyways. . .this one is pretty terrible.  A *big* part of the problem is Big John Goodman's character.  You're supposed to feel the damsel in distress is in distress at being locked in a bomb shelter by, and with, Big John Goodman during the Last Days. . .but the damsel in distress never really seems to be in true distress, because Big John Goodman's character is more goofball than menacing psycho.  He likes to cook and do kitty jigjaw puzzles, for crying out loud!  No tension, and the, I guess, intentional humor of goofball Goodman's character isn't really that humorous.  This one's a misfire from beginning to end.

16 March 2016

Holiday in North Korea

So this fucking crybaby has to do 15 years hard labor in North Korea?  Big fucking deal.  It's a small price to pay for reaping the benefits of living in BabylonUSA.  This fucking crybaby is undoubtedly a supporter of the US government, and I bet he never gave a fucking thought to his government's 65 year treatment of North Korea:

From the outset, the aim was to wipe out every urban center in the North. In his recent book, The Korean War: A History (Modern Library, 2010), Cumings notes: “The United States dropped 635,000 tons of bombs in Korea (not counting 32,557 tons of napalm), compared to 503,000 tons in the entire Pacific theater in World War II…. [A]t least 50 percent of eighteen out of the North’s twenty-two major cities were obliterated.”

To comprehend the scope of the destruction of North Korea by U.S. air power, consider some comparisons. In Germany, estimates of the number of civilians killed in the Allied air war range from 305,000 (U.S. Strategic Bombing Survey) to 600,000, out of a total German population of 78 million. The bombing aimed at destroying the Reich’s industrial capacity and breaking morale through sheer terror. Where the civilian population was targeted with firebombing – notably Hamburg and Dresden – this was widely denounced as war crimes. In Japan, due to racist prejudice the U.S. rulers had fewer compunctions about indiscriminately slaughtering Asian, rather than European (“white”) civilians (see John Dower, War Without Mercy: Race & Power in the Pacific War [Pantheon Books, 1986]). Some 100,000 people were killed in a single firebombing raid on Tokyo in March 1945, and more than 200,000 were murdered in the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that August. In Japan, estimates of civilian deaths range up to 600,000, out of a total population of 72 million – the same scope as in Germany, but over a much shorter time period of nine months.

In North Korea, in contrast, the U.S. bombing went on for three years, and its purpose was not terrorizing the population, it was annihilation. Cumings quotes Curtis LeMay, the architect of the aerial bombing that incinerated Japanese cites (and who later advocated bombing Vietnam “back to the Stone Age”). LeMay says he argued with his Pentagon superiors at the outset to “let us go up there . . . and burn down five of the biggest towns in North Korea.” While there were objections about civilian casualties, he said, in the end “over a period of three years or so . . . we burned down every town in North Korea.” The number of civilian dead in North Korea during the war was over 1 million, and total casualties were 1.5 million-plus, out of a total population at the time of 8-9 million: almost 20 percent of the population.

This fucking crybaby thought he could go into North Korea, steal one of their *comical* (in his typically dumbass AmerICKan point of view) propaganda banners and take it back to the US as a *souvenir.*  Hey, dumb ass, your fucking government burned half their fucking country, when their people were no threat to your people, and your fucking government has never stopped fucking with them. . .so, yeah, maybe they are a little *paranoid* and kOOky, but they got a couple million charred corpses worth of reasons for being so.

And even if the North Koreans framed him, he's still a dumbass fucking crybaby for thinking he can *holiday* in a country his government perpetrated a holocaust against.  15 years hard labor seems about right for such monumental poor taste and bad judgment. . .



THE AMERICKAN MIND:

"Hey, where do you wanna go for Spring Break?"

"Daytona Beach?"

"Nah, we go there every year.  Let's go some place different, for a change."

Think. . .think. . .think.

"Hey!  I got it!  Let's go to North Korea and laugh at how crazy the survivors are!!"

"Oh, man, that'll be a blast!  Great idea!"

15 March 2016

Killing Time

You'd think there would be a lot to say, after all these years.  But there really isn't.  

Siegfried (barely, his voice a wisp) breaks the silence:

"Greatest faggot that ever lived?"

Ha.  That's how we used to do it, way back.  Thirty, thirty-five years ago.  Working for minimum wage at the recycling center, standing under the awful summer sun in a 40 yard roll-off, sweating out the previous night's gin and vodka while sorting bottles and cutting off their little metal cap rings.  Filling the empty hours of paycheck-collecting by asking goofball questions to conjure time-killing words.

"Well," I say, "I assume you mean real faggots, and not these remodeled faggots like Michelangelo, real great straights of the past that present day queers project their homosexuality back onto, to make their 'race' seem noble."

"Yeah, it's gotta be a real faggot," he wheezes.

"Hmmmn.  All right.  Well, there probably wasn't a real fag until the 19th century, so. . ."

It's been fifteen or twenty years, maybe twenty-five years, since I've seen Siegfried.  He made the same mistake millions make: desultory marriage leading to schizophrenic parenting leading to chopped down family trees.

"You know, it might be that Oscar Wilde or Rimbaud was the first real faggot.  What do you think?"

"Rimbaud wasn't a faggot," Sig croaks.  "He was a teen hustler.  After he got clean and sober, he went to Africa and fucked nigger women.  Lots of them."  He stops to catch his breath.  "Got some nigger disease that ate away his leg, then his life."  He rasps a laugh.  "In that age, he woulda lived longer as a faggot."

"The times have changed, huh?"

He nods.  Joe Siegfried.  Sig.  Almost dead, himself.  I hated coming down here, back to this shitty town.  Lots of bad memories.  I started sweating a couple miles before the exit ramp.  

"Greatest faggot ever?" I say.  "Well, until Magic Johnson comes out of the closet, I guess it has to be Freddie Mercury.  He was the first fruit to become a cultural pet.  Now even the Vatican can pat David Bowie on the head, and nobody grumbles about it."

When Sig's brother Larry called and said Sig was basically dead, I got an externally-induced hit of vertigo.  I hadn't heard from Larry in a long time either, since he stopped trying to get me to join his Christian Identity church in Idaho, so that itself was a jolt, and then when he told me about Sig, the room started to spin on me.  Siegfried is about as near to a friend as I've ever had.  We were born on the same day in the same town in the same hospital.  This shitty town and this shitty hospital, though the part we are in now, the part where Sig lays dying, the *Cancer Care Unit,* is relatively new. 

"Freddie Mercury?  Yeah.  That might be right," he says.

Sig's propped up in a mechanical bed, under a pale green blanket.  He's got a tube in his nose, and another in his wrist.  The one in his nose is hooked up to a little machine that looks like a portable air conditioner.  The other one is hooked up to a bag dripping some clear fluid. 

I've been here about fifteen minutes.  It took about five for us to fill in the last thirty years.  Could have summed it up in four words:  Lousy jobs, lousy lives. 

I stare at the second hand ticking around on the clock on the wall.  Sig is shorter of breath and one day closer to death. We were born on the same day in the same hospital.  And so when his brother told me he was a dead man, it was sort of like I was a dead man, too.  It knocked me off balance, for a moment.  In reality, I am as healthy as a horse.  But then again, if a horse gets a little leg injury or something, they pretty much have to shoot it, so how healthy can a horse really be?

I'm starting to sweat.  I just wondered how I am going to take my leave.  Of Sig.  How am I going to get out of here?  How much more time do I have to spend?  I look at him.  His eyes are closed.  Is he asleep?  Dead?

"Sig?" I whisper.

"What?" he croaks.

"Nothing.  I thought maybe you were asleep."

"It's my eyes.  They get dry and scratchy, so I got to keep them closed, sometimes."

A nurse comes in, fiddles around with the equipment, puts a little thing that looks like a staple remover on Sig's index finger, and which apparently measures something or other, as she monitors it for a few seconds, then writes on her fancy clipboard.  The nurse is not pretty.  She has a plain pale face and a chunky body.   Siegfried married an ugly woman fifteen, twenty, twenty-five years ago, whatever it was, and moved back to this shitty town and that was the last I saw of him, until today.  His brother kept in touch with me for a lot of years, always nagging me to join his kOOky Seed Line church.  When I first met Larry, Sig's brother, he appeared to be a regular American fake Christian, then he went completely off the rails.  Satan fucked Eve, he informed me, and as a result, Cain and the Jews were born.   Well, a miss is as good as a mile, as they say.  Anyway, a few days ago, he got my current phone number from a mutual acquaintance, called me, told me about Sig, and wondered if I would look in on him and see if he was "mentally prepared to die, if he had worked out his salvation with phobias and traumas."  Larry said: "I know it's a lot to ask, and normally I'd do it myself, but, for legal reasons, I can't leave Idaho just right now."

So here I am. . .

The second hand ticks around the clock. . .     

"I got one for you," I say.

"What?" he wheezes.  

"Greatest nigger that ever lived?"

"For God damn sure it wasn't King," he pants.  There's a baby cup-looking thing on his overbed table, he takes a little sip.  "All that black motherfucker ever did was complain.  'White people don't like me.'  That's all his fancy. . ." He has to stop to catch his breath.  "That's all his fancy fucking speeches were about."  He stops again, closes his eyes, shakes his head.  "If it was me. . .I woulda told the whites. . .'make my day. . .hate me even more.'  But. . .he didn't have no dignity."  He pauses again to catch his breath.  "Begging white people to be Christian to him.  Can you imagine. . .Christ asking Pilate to be fair?"

"Man, you're still holding a grudge over that lost birthday party?"

We were born on April 4th, and on what was our 8th or 9th birthday, and this still being years before I ever met Sig, and years and years before Sig ever told me the story, Sig was at home getting ready for his birthday party when the TV blasts the news that Martin Luther King has been shot. . .next thing Sig knows, their phone is ringing off the hook with the parents of all his buddies punking out of the party, all too afraid to go out lest the blacks in this shitty town start 
rioting. . .and so Sig has hated King, Jr. for almost fifty years, now.

"I mentioned it once.  One time."  He coughs.  "A childhood memory.  And you made it into some. . .psychological condition." 

"You were always so offended by the MLK Day holiday."

"Not because of the birthday!" he puffs.  "Are we gonna give a holiday. . .to every motherfucker who complains?  Every day becomes a fucking holiday!" he heaves.  He sips from the baby cup.  "The fucking mail will never get delivered!"

The conversation dies.  I start sweating again over how I'm going to get out of here.  Siegfried's eyes are closed.  I take a good long look at him.  He looks horrible.  Rotted.  The body rotted.  His mind seems fine, though.  Well, look at Stephen Hawking, thinking all those giant thoughts in that puny body.  Just an audio book, basically.  Sig's almost at that point.  Soon he'll be just an audio book.  Just words coming out of his piehole, the rest of him useless.  I suppose I should get down to business, then maybe I can slip out of here. 

"You know, uh, Larry wanted me to ask about your, uh, spiritual condition."

"'Spiritual condition?' What's that?"

"Uh. . .he wants to know if you are ready to die."

"You can tell him. . .since I never lived. . .I am ready to die."

"You never lived?"

"You think. . .you think this marking of time. . .is living?" he labors.  "No.  I never lived.  I was pushed around. . .from birth to death."  He struggles to sit forward on his bed.  "Forces. . .seen and unseen. . .pushed me around. . .from the fucking cradle. . .to the fucking grave."  He sags back.  "No choice. . .no free will."  He settles his head back onto his pillow.  "I was herded through this miserable life. . .by the power. . .of the world. . .the flesh. . .and the devil."  Sig looks down at the tube in his wrist, shakes his head.  "I never even had. . .the self-control. . .required. . .to kill myself.  So you can tell my brother. . .I am ready to fucking die."

I can't ague with that.  

We're brought into this world for a purpose of the Higher Power.  We have no say in the matter.  We have the same freedom as the aborted and the stillborn: to die due to the design or the incompetence of a higher power.

But that's not all of it. . .

"What about the other part?  Judgment.  Are you ready for that?"

"Uncertain."  He sighs.  "It's hard to talk.  Fuck.  I don't talk much, anymore."  He sucks in some air.  "Uncertain. . .which is what everybody should be. But most ain't. Whatever stupid belief. . .they put their faith in. . .they have a certainty. . . that they will be all right."  He spits out the air.  "But they ain't in no position to know that."  A smile crosses Sig's face.  "Greatest thing Christ ever said. ..'not every motherfucker that says to Me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the Kingdom.'"  He nods.  "All these people so sure they're 'saved'. . .and it ain't just Christians. . .whatever people believe is next. . .spiritual or material. . .even if they believe it's nothing, just 'sleep'. . .a 'blackout'. . . whatever. . .they have. . .no authority. . .for their self-assurance."

"Yeah, but doesn't the Christian at least have an assurance through Jesus?"

"Give me a minute."

He's breathing heavily. . .

Man, I wish a good-looking nurse would come in here and bend over or something. . .

I'll stop at Little Caesars on the way home and pick up a Hot'N'Ready.  Five bucks. That's about the only square deal left. . .

And I'll read L'Assommoir again.  The laundry fight between Gervaise and Virginie will lift my spirits. . .   

"Listen, if I read the gospels, and I understand His plan, and I see His plan verified by the resurrection, then I got one hundred percent assurance His judgment is true," Sig says, his voice now remarkably calm. "So if I know His judgment is true, then I can face Hell.  Listen, not the pretend sex/drugs/rock'n'roll white trash Hell, the real Hell, endless misery, depression, all that good shit, I can face it with serenity, because His truth sets me free."  

"Even in Hell?"

"I'll be more alive in Hell than I am here. I won't be distracted from myself.  I'll live out eternity comparing my failed fucked-up life to His triumphant life.  I'll live out eternity marveling at His victory, and I'll be God damned thankful for my tiny, nearly insignificant part in His judgment of this world."

Behold the man, Joe Siegfried, on his death bed, his face glowing like the face of an angel in one of those old greaseball paintings. . . 

"I'll tell Larry no man has ever been more ready to die."

Sig nods. 

My work here is done, but I will not rush out.  I will let a few moments pass, out of respect for the occasion.  

I watch the second hand tick around the clock. . .

I watch the second hand tick around the clock. . .

I watch the second hand tick around the clock. . .

The time has come. . .

I stand up.

"I have to head back," I say.  I put my hand on his shoulder.  "You are one of the few I was glad to know.  Be of good cheer, my friend." 

As I'm about to step into the hallway, I hear him, his voice now frail, again:

"Simon of Cyrene."

I turn around.

"What?"

"Simon of Cyrene," he rasps.  "The greatest nigger that ever lived."