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Blarg. I'm dead.
Registered: Jan 2001
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Origins
You’ve .. stopped reading, haven’t you? You’ve already chopped this up into digestible chunks to slice apart phrase by phrase with your laser wit. I urge you, allow those fragments of experience you call time to coalesce into a longer moment. Relax those shoulders. Take a few deep breaths.
The thing is, Jim, I’m not talking to you. Not to that spiders nest of fearful whispers you call a mind that even now hisses a confused babel of replies that will smash mine away and reinforce your steel-sure position as master of your contracted world-view. The little monkey’s cage in your head fills with shrieks of outrage, all those paws on all those keyboards, racing to crystalise another perfect gem...
Wait. Drink some herbal tea, do some deep breathing, chant ‘Om’ a few times - or rape some miner at knife-point; whatever does it for you - and allow the nest of voices in your head to lapse into silence briefly.
I would continue but you wouldn’t read it. You’d do what you’ve done with everything else you’ve read, which would be to skim it, enjoying the little junkie shocks of pleasure when the odd phrase sings in harmony with your psychotic world view and you’d ignore the rest. There’s little else that could explain your exquisite misunderstanding of the phrase ‘survival of the fittest’ - unless you’re stupid. And you’re not.
In fact, I think you’re extremely intelligent, in a sort of feral, sub-human way. You’ve even learned to articulate the language, although in that manner language does, it has warped in your head to mean what you feel.
Fittest indicates survival for those who fit best into their environment. Thus a Delta Force operative who, we might agree, represents the doggest of dogs that ever ate dog would not survive a thousand atmospheres under the ocean next to a benthic vent pumping out super-heated salt water, since the fittest species to conserve that habitat’s energy signature is called the four metre pognophora worm.
See how those serpentine voices allow to writhe from their susurrus coils images of pressure resistant body armour and reinforced pressurised vessels? Of course we can send the poor fucker down there but it’s not his habitat and he’s not going to enjoy it. Unless he’s some lunatic. Or a scientist. He’d rather be at home fucking. Besides that particular little scribble of energy is quite a beautiful one, if fragile. What are we going to do, slaughter the fish and crabs, eat the worms and use the hot water to wash the RV? It’ll cost you a couple of million each BTU and it’ll fuck your paintwork. Sit down, shut up and work out how to produce less children from your loins and more energy from the environment in a manner that won’t kill you quickly enough to require you to produce more children from your loins.
Hear how those clacking claws of protest start to hiss in your ears? How dare my government tell me how to how dare you tell me how to how dare you how dare? Not I but you must dare. You must dare to tell yourself these things, you lazy motherfucker. Then you must dare to do them. And if you don’t know how then you ask someone, you cowardly, chicken-shit little cock-sucker, selfish, shit-chomping, infantile fuck biscuit ..
Forgive me, let me just wipe the spittle off my chin.
I’m talking to you, as I said; but neither all of you nor none of me.
I’m not trying to change our mind, Joe; we haven’t got anything nearly as well defined as a mind. I’m just hoping to point out that some of the foundations upon which you base every action in your life are just simple mistakes in verbal comprehension. It might provoke some sort of epiphany as you are ramming your rapidly aging penis into the dry anus of some weeping, blood-soaked teen you have bound to her bed in another of your abortive, fear-encrusted attempts to propagate your genetic material. You might suddenly stiffen as the peristaltic moment of self-loathing nears and you realise that your entire life has been a meaningless cluster of badly understood high school mis-readings. You might become filled with a righteous vengeful rage. You might in that moment vow to make amends by doing selfless good for the rest of your life. I’m not sure it would help. We do not nouns but verbs, it’s as simple as that.
As to your interesting collection of varigated hatreds that flower extravagantly from a rich compost of xenophobia, well, bless you Jim, I won’t even call it racism because it implies you operate with a value system, something even racists enjoy. At least when they get their wires crossed they get them all crossed in the same direction. At least there are wires to cross and uncross. Your curious combination of lust and sadism manifests backed by an obsessively meticulous study of world history that you call your ‘politics’ and then gushes forth in whichever direction provides it freedom. There’s always at least one.
Your astoundingly facile, binary classification of the world (left-wing vs right wing; East vs West; Allahbragoddabuddabra) would at least be served better were you to fill the categories with something less diametrically opposed, something a little more individual. Start with harmless trifles: all things beginning with the letter B vs all red things; East vs forty degrees off True North: you know the sort of thing. To be honest, one would have thought that the species as a whole would have progressed beyond oppositional binary thought and into something more extensional, but this wacky concept that we have two (2!) arms and two (2!) legs fascinates for a while. There comes a time when one must move on.
Basically, John, it comes down, as someone once stated so eloquently of someone else, to this: you sound like a twat. It might appear at first sight glib, but in such simplicity is a profound insight. You demonstrate eloquence but one cannot polish a turd. Even as your words gleam and your wit sparkles, even as some are swayed by your assuredness, one cannot escape the feeling that you are just some sort of a cunt. You know, a real shitbag. A mean-spirited, destructive, selfish, self-obsessed, I’m alright Jack so fuck you kind of a guy. The sort of person who is eventually dishonourably discharged from the armed forces, despite excellent weapons skills, because in the end it’s about the guy next to you - but not for you it isn’t. The sort of politician who is suddenly found to have squandered millions from the public purse. To have murdered, and not even with the courage to do it himself. Corrupt, untrustworthy, cunning; dangerous. Excellent material for election to a puppet government. You know the sort of thing.
You’re the kind of guy, Joe, the NRA would rather they didn’t have as a member. On the whole, the NRA are a collection of stand up folk who like guns. Guns don’t kill people, they say, people kill people. People like you. Registered members must wince every time they hear the sickness tumble from behind the tiny pinpricks of loathing floating in the murky holes of your eyes. They wince because their manifesto is personal responsibility - something by which you yourself seem entranced - yet as a self-confessed arms dealer, providing merchandise to an acknowledged terrorist organisation whilst bleating in outrage about the actions of those evil sand-niggers, you haven’t quite yet reached the critical mass of paradox which will cause your embolism. When the war against terror really kicks in, I would suppose you will have plenty of time to work out that little mental switchback in your cell in Cuba. Or is justice selective in your mind too?
Remember, James, I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to those sub-vocal, pre-verbal bestial instincts, the sex and death, fight-flight-or-fuck guts of you that perverts your higher functions to justify its actions. The part you haven’t tamed yet. Your chariot is wildly out of control, your four horses whinnying as your rider tugs ineffectually at the reigns. Give up coffee, sugar, white bread. Stop drinking, stop smoking, stop eating that weird processed food to which you have become addicted. You bench your own mother’s impressive weight in iron, but can you stop and shut the fuck up for longer than thirty seconds?
People like you, Johnny - shitbags - currently survive in the global environment because you are some of the fittest - I hope you understand me; look at the environment - and I hate to say it but you thrive. You breed like rabbits. That whole Malthusian nightmare, set adrift in a cascading self-replication that claws for energy, gorging itself fearfully in in shadow of some unavoidably ever-impending entropic winter, destined for an eternal spiral tumble into a universal black hole. Yet Malthus is often quoted in fear but not in hope. He goes on to urge birth control and conservation of environment (often misleadingly named resources). Do you dare? Personal responsibility? Self-regulation? Freedom to control yourself?
Dare you?
Ah, Joe, I can’t point the finger. You transcend those bi-polar divisions which which you love to hate. You hide in all countries, all societies, all walks of life. You fool most of the people most of the time, you stick insect you, blending into the wood of the trees. Yet you give yourself away. Our eyes are evolving too, cunt. And when we finally see you, we’ll come for you.
I like you, Jay, in a crazy, mixed up kind of a way. You remind me that there’s a great deal of work to be done in the world, a huge amount of education. If I were of your ilk, it would be the work of tracking down every last one of you miserable, hate-mongering, psychos and plunging a titanium (minimum magnetic signature!) ice pick up into the base of your skull and rotating it several times very quickly. I’m not. It’s strange, isn’t it, that these vicious wars and violent solutions to problems that present themselves on a human scale are never carried out by egalitarian movements because they would immediately, once the death-lust had died back down, discover that they were a bunch of blood soaked oxymorons.
I must stress again, Jenny, that I’m not hoping to sway your opinion one iota - nor do I want to provoke an exciting exchange of opinions that will allow us both to shine in others’ eyes. I just want you to know that you have demonstrated yourself to be in every way the completest of cunts I have ever encountered - and I know why.
You’re already extinct; you just haven’t stopped talking yet. All your foetid thoughts jerk your marionette body around like those images of dead stars do the slaves to astrology.
I guess it comes down to this, baby: the only failing of a truly peace-loving society is in refraining from actively ridding themselves of people like you, but then it would no longer justify the name. So they must rely upon natural forces. Perhaps a whirlwind of change will provide that always possible, often elusive third way - a pacifist, egalitarian society which protects itself by murdering fuckers like you the instant they appear. I find it hard to envision myself, but we live in paradoxical times. What’s another between friends? Habitats change as novelty increases, extinctions occur and usually in catastrophic shifts. That word is a comfort. Catastrophic. Sudden, massive, unavoidable.
It’s a waiting game, Jack. You’re fading fast. Claw at those last brief moments of tainted glory. We, and I speak for those of us who have ventured beyond your binary bird, await your extinction.
...
You .. knew I was joking about the miner, didn’t you?
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02-18-2003 01:39 PM
