Democraps And Repubicans

   The difference between Democrats and Republicans is Democrats want all your stuff and the Republicans just want 35% of it.

HALOS 1,2,3 And 4

3 and 4 just dont have the friendliness of 1 and 2. And by friendliness i mean, the enemy doesn't come up to you and ridicule you after they kill you, and fill your corpse with a few more rounds of lethal insults made of boiling plasma. In 1 and 2 there was more banter, between your troops and and with the enemy. The hunt was always on but so was the fun. And when you failed and got killed, having 8 foot lizards in blue armor trot up to you and insult your dead body in a light hearted gloating way...when you respawned you were even more determined to kill them this time. 1 and 2 bred a sense of determination in you every time you failed to make the lizard men - and the stumpy amphibian dorks and the feral canines with the glowing shields and the gorilla thugs - every time you failed to make them your footstools. After being insulted after the fact this just made you clench your teeth and swear "No computer programmer with slant eyes and his baseball cap on backwards sitting in an office at Microsoft can make a fool of me!" Which very often was not true. But the lizardmens' insults just made those moments when they were true, it made them more likely to be proven eventually wrong. And in the very end, once you had become master of the game and the last laugher at their taunts...life made some sense.

   None of this happens in Halos 3 and 4. Halo 3 is almost stupifying in its lack of charm. And Halo 4 takes sterile to a whole new level of dazzling superficiality. It's sad, actually. On the other hand, now that the creators of Halos 1 and 2 have been fired: it makes you appreciate the originators of the game even more. When you see that ten years down the road the advances in technology have not been matched by similar advances in spirit and innovation; then the people who made 1 and 2 start to take on a reality in your mind and you appreciate that the talent and spirit of a particular time, or a particular era, can never be duplicated. Like Brigadoon, or a spectacular poppy season in the Antelope Valley, you just have to wait and wait and hope that you are alive when that mechanism for genius erupts again somewhere else so you can see it twice in one lifetime.

HI JOE! YU TINK ME PLITTY??

"holy shit, what happened, who are you, are you alive?"

HO JOE! ME SOO-PLIZE PACKAGE FAW YOU FUM ME!! YOU LIKE HAIR PIE? ME PLETEND DEAD. DEN YU CAN PRAY WITH POO-SEE AND I BE DEAD!! YU RIKE!! NO CLITICISM OF TEENY COCK FLUM DED WOMAN!! MOST TIME I HANG FLUM LISTS!! PLETEND DED!! MEN RIKE DED PIECE OF ASS!! HAHAHAHAHA ME NO KNOW WHY!! BUT IT PAY LENT!! SO WHO GIVVA FUCK!!! YU RIKE CROTHING? I MAKE!! GOOD WITH HANDS!! UNTIE ME AND WATCH ME TURN COCK INTO JIZZ FOUNTAIN!! YOU RIKE JIZZ? AMAZING, WE ALL CUM FLUM CUM!!! HAHAHAHAHA NO WONDER WE FUCKED UP!! CUM TASTE RIKE SOMETHING DLIPPING IN H.P. RUVCLAFT STOLY ABOUT CLEEPY TAING INNA HOUSE!! BUT WUTDAFUK, ONE SIP GOOD FAW FIE DOLLAH!! PUSSY JOOS EVEN WUSS JOE!! GO AHEAD TAKE-A LIK!! YU SEE!! TASTE RIKE CHINEE TAKE-OUT FLUM LESTAULANT IN RAND OF SATAN!!"

Letter To Joan Rivers

 Dear Joan Rivers: 

   

   Ya know, I really gotta tell ya something; after about a year of watching Fashion Police, your show is really starting to fucking piss me off. Well, not the whole show.  Just two of you, actually. Just two effing people.  Did I say "fucking" before? I'm sorry. I meant effing.

   

   Now, I know that the whole idea is that the four of you sit there, relaxing, saluting, saying "what were you thinking," and you all make infuriated and aghast pronouncements on what someone left the house with. God forbid they should do such a thing without calling the four of you first. And you make vital and important decrees and solemn edicts over - oh dear - a fashion mis-step here, and - oh no -  a slightly crooked tie there - which, frankly I don't have a problem with when you and Giuliana do it. You two at least dress like people who have wriggled their way to the surface of the earth and have noticed that this planet has people on it, not subterranean clowns covered in melted Crayolas and looking like demented mental patients that rectal worms being shit out the ass of a hyena eating a dead eland would avoid being seen with. 

…..Meanwhile: those other two: those other two deranged schlubs -  who are probably the consistently worst-dressed piles of refugee-camp escapees in the history of ready to wear washed-and-dried road kill - they're sitting on your panel casting stones… at people who should be shooting tank shells back at them! 

   

   The people hauled by the ankles out of the German gas chambers were dressed better than George and Kelly usually are. Poor, lowly, underfed Hebrews,  screaming and writhing in their horrific death throes, they were giving more thought to how they looked in their final moments surrounded by a glowing cloud of Zyklon-B than Kelly and George have ever done in their entire lives.

   

   There should be a fashion police monitoring the fucking Fashion Police. Maybe the Fashion FBI. 

  

    I mean, really… Kelly and George?….really?…critiquing how people dress? What, have they both been taking Colossal Nerve classes at the local Temple Beth Shalom, Have Some Fruit,  You Look Tired, Sit Down A Minute, school for Jews?

  

    I mean, Jesus tap dancing Christ, you've got the lantern-jawed daughter of a bat-eater, with lavender-pink hair, whose vocabulary consists of the word "a-MAYYYY-zang"  and  the endlessly repeated sentence "I LUV huh, I just LUV huh, she is my BEST frund evah." I mean who gives a shit who her best friends are. 

   And then she elaborates on this moment's "best friend" by adding a personal touch of their intimacy together:  

   "She gave buhth to BOTH of my cats. I delivahd them frum huh vagina myself," or some other announcement of intimacy that means nothing to anyone - - - - -  "She is mah DEAH-est most deh-LITE-fahl frenT….. BOT…..I HAHF to say…..Brenda -  (a ten minute spastic silence incorporating shaking, and a facial expression of emotional paralysis, finally broken by the 3,000th utterance of) -  "WHOT WHEH EEYU THAING-KING!!!" 

   

   Is "what were you thinking" part of the work-agreement in the AFTRA Contract?…. you have to say that a hundred times per episode or you get docked in pay?

   

   I'm going easy on Kelly because she used to be a drug addict: George Katzenjammerkids, however, is another story. 

   George is the one who really fucks reality and sanity in the ass and squirts a whopping load of looney-jizz into it. 

   He dresses worse than a homosexual Hells Angel on strychnine with an LSD color wheel up his ass. No socks, shitty loafers, a fucking sweater vest over a purple shirt with an orange tie that doesn't match anything you would even find tossed-aside in a Rupaul-designed bath house inside Richard Simmons' anal canal. And then this ensemble from brain-rabies hell is rounded-off by a pair of fucking rodeo dungarees a fucking Mexican wouldn't wear to the cabbage-field outhouse. Then this clown-that-would-frighten-clowns blithely crosses his legs into his kaleidoscopically delightful balls  and has the fucking nerve to issue edicts of disapproval to  the sane because they are not batshit crazy like he is??

   

   I mean has anyone but me noticed he is the worst dressed life form on the fucking planet? Bacteria dresses better than he does. This guy dresses others? He couldn't dress a corpse into a body bag. He'd put ribbons on it and festoon it with argyle diamond designs with yellow and orange chiffon crepe around  the dead cock  in case anyone wanted to gaze, in happy delightful fantasy, at it's dead-but-stiff loveliness and wonder how things might have been on a moonlit walk had not tragedy struck. "Oh dear!… a dead penis! But at least it's decorative!" I mean, really: George?…judging clothes?  Tropical curare'-oozing Amazon frogs dripping poison from their skins and  toxicity from their pores  are more muted and subtle in their fashion color-tones than George is in his tree-shredder assortment of loony bin Crap Coordinates

   

   And, really, no socks? On an adult male? On national tv? No socks? Really? And not even barefoot at that?…. why no!…..and get this!…not only no socks - but with fucking shoes on!  Holy Shit! I mean; this isn't creativity; this is a cry for fucking help with a megaphone. 

   Does that barbarian third world heathen throwback to Navajo Hell know even what socks fucking are? How fucking disgusting is it someone on national television is wearing shoes with no socks? Is this supposed to signify a brilliant germinating creative rebellion emanating from somewhere inside his head that we are all supposed to be respectful of? He looks like a fucking hobo-jungle rider-of-the-fucking-rails. He looks like a fucking Oakie that was inbred to a Down syndrome macaque during an especially rough section of route 66 while escaping the Dust Bowl. His dad's semen must have suffered head injuries on its way to the chromosome-damaged egg during the bumpy  buckboard ride out of Tulsa. For God's sake, make it stop!

   

   Thank you.

   Sincerely, JJ Solari

The War On Drugs Explained

  The war on drugs, that democrats and republicans agree is a sensible thing, is not a sensible thing. Because the outcome of the war can be seen logically. You don't even need to be in the war to see the outcome. The drug side will win. You see, the drug side has its own financing: the product that it sells. The other side - I don't have a name for it - the anti-drug side, I guess, has no product. It has taxes. Therefor the drug side can fight the war forever. The anti drug side can only fight until its tax supply is exhausted. Tax supplies always get exhausted. Product money never runs out as long as people keep buying the product. People buy drugs voluntarily. People pay taxes at gunpoint. Which side has the momentum here. Here's a hint, it's the drug side. And the winner of the war on drugs? It's drugs! Ok, class is over. Thank you. Fuck you.

Disney Buys Lucas: Episode 17, The Solaris Of History

   My grandfather on the Italian side, Benedetto, "summoned" me when I was 6 to come see him on the North Side of Boston. My mother, who hated Italians - hated everyone who was not Irish actually - knew enough not to antagonize the Italian side of the family, at least not to their faces. They didnt care what you said behind their backs if it did not affect business. Business was all that mattered. Anything else was stuff that didn't matter. Badmouthing, gossip and lying didnt matter unless it affected business. Then it mattered.

   Benedetto was in the "importing" business. The "shore story" as L Ron Hubbard would call his version of things for his shipboard zombies to tell the people and authorities their reason for coming ashore, and an expression I have adopted (I have adopted many Scientology terms because they are more exact as far as I am concerned) - the shore story is that he imported silken bolts to be used as lining for suits. This he actually did. My father would always say when and if Adolph Menjou's name was mentioned "He's wearing our silks." I think I heard this two hundred million times. So he did actually import silk.
   I believe silk comes from China. Or the Golden Triangle. Or someplace Asian.

   Unlike the Irish side of my family, the Italians were all rich. Except for my father. He was a gambler on horses. That a human being would place a bet based on the predictability of a horse's behavior....it's the definition of mind boggling. You only have to be around a horse for five minutes to know that they are on a wavelength that even other animals regard as stupid.
   And he could not keep a secret, that was another little problem. He was kept at a distance from the rest of the Italians.
   My father basically "didn't get it." He was not a loose cannon so much as he was a loose beanbag chair; not too dangerous and if you have to you can stop the beanbag chair with your bare hands.

   Benedetto lived in an actual house. That housed only one family. Him and his wife. Who was my father's stepmother. His real mother died when my father was five. People often died around my father for some reason. My father was the youngest of 7. So he was the one who basically had a different mother, from all the others, basically speaking, one not his own. I think it had a bad effect on him, when his mother died I think he stayed back mentally and emotionally to the times when she was alive. He actually had "mother" tattooed on his arm in the Coast Guard.

   He was on board the American Coast Guard ship the Paulding  when it sailed over and sunk the US submarine S-4, killing all on board.
   Did I mention people died around my father? If he had killed as many Germans as he killed Americans he would have a handful of Medals of Honor.
    All the sons and the one daughter lived in those things you see in English movies, long connected buildings that are red brick industrial age apartments with stairs and strangers going up and down them, or the New England version of duplexes that are big houses with more than one family living in them. But                       Benedetto lived in his own house with a yard and a decorative metal fence that was higher than the sidewalk because the house was built on stacked dirt, a make-believe hill. Benedetto was a bit of an imperious fellow. Unlike my other grandfather Thomas Byrne. Tom was a reader and the quiet, ever-ready type, watchful of others but slow to make their aquaintances, kept his own council and led the family in the rosary in the evenings. If Benedetto read at all it was the at-the-time version of Global Conquest Magazine. If he prayed it was to himself, and while he too was watchful of others it was to be able to keep tabs on them if the time ever came they owed him money. He kept his own council and he would keep yours too if you couldn't and then take a cut for his services.

   I was sent up the front walkway alone. My father did not like Benedetto. Very likely it was the other way around too

   I had heard that I was the first "irishman" to approach the door without being shot at. Which was even more remarkable since I was worse than an irishman I was a halfbreed Irish wop.

   I was greeted by his maid. She was hot. But was pretending not to be. I don't know who the fuck she thought she was foolin' it was pretty obvious she wasn't hired because she kicked all the other maids' asses in Boston when it came to cleaning toilets.
   Benedetto was standing in the center of a richly, and mahogany-color-filled, room, on a wooden floor that shone like the butt of a new Winchester soaked in olive oil.
   The "maid" let me in and left, closing the two doors that accessed the room. Benedetto was in a real nice suit.
He wasn't smiling.
   "I ordered your bitch Southey-raised Mick mother not to have any more children after your brother was born. You are the pile of shit result of her defiance."
   That was the day I learned what "temper" was and that I had one.
   I had been throwing things since birth. I'm still at it.There was a small solid silver puti on a table that I spotted quickly looking around the room through the red, glowing haze that mysteriously coated my field of vision which i later learned was "hate." I walked quickly over and grabbed it and hurled it at his face. He had a look of surprise that was immediately hidden by his hands trying to stanch blood from his lip and some dislodged teeth. Later I would be lost in thought and amazement by my act but at the moment i wandered around looking for more puti, hoping the first one might be part of a set. I estimated I would need about 10 or 15 to kill the fucker or at least get him to the ground where I could impale him with something like I might do with a sharp stick to a writhing rabid dog. Not that I knew what a rabid dog was at that age but I knew what stabbing was, all the Irish men in the family were chefs.
   He was shocked but not afraid and he charged forward and grabbed me and said "Enough."
Then he let me go. Then he stared, daubing his lip with a handkerchief from his pants. "We are even," he said. "I will not speak so of your mother again."
   I was strangely immediately calm.
   There was a chair next to his clean desk and he said "Sit down," motioning at it. He went around the desk and sat in a large red leather chair that I could smell.
   We looked at each other.
   "I was ordered to bring you here."
   I didnt respond to this, I wasn't actually interested in chatting with him.
   "I have six sons and a daughter. I told them never to have children. One of them defied me and had a daughter. She will die childless. She could copulate with everyone in New England and she will not conceive. Your father I don't think knows what defiance is. He bred himself your brother. I informed your charming and beautiful mother not to have more children. She likely would have complied even without my tender guidance, unless I miss my guess. I clearly underestimated her contumacious spirit. That means rebellious.
   "You are the product of defiance, pure and simple, and probably a lot of Irish whiskey consumed quickly. In a sense I am responsible for you being here at all. In other words I blundered. I am more your father than your father is, in a sense. He was just the middleman. A pawn in my blundering missteps."
   Thanks to my bitch Mick charming and delightful mother, as she had been referred to by the same man in two minutes... I was reading authentic books at age 4. She knew I clearly had the aptitude. And she liked having someone she could drill and order around who didn't seem to mind, at least when it came to reading. Most of the other things she ordered me around about I had a problem with. So, what I am saying is, I was not bewildered or confused by his words, it was all familiar vocabulary and understandable sentences, I was just annoyed, I wanted out of there, because he just was not fun to be around. He was basically an asshole fucking pain in the ass to be around.
   He continued relentlessly on:
   "I have been informed, for reasons I have not been told, to mentor you in the family business that most of the family doesn't even know exists. It bothers me to know that, based on your behavior so far, you will very likely be easy to teach. Because that means we will have many meetings, you won't be bounced out by the people arranging this. You will probably enjoy them more than I will, these sessions. Do not inform anyone including your own parents and brother and cousins and aunts and uncles and dogs and cats and any additional steaming, blood-soaked newborn vermin that get born into your wolfpack den of feral predatory cattle about what I talked about here. I will not be telling them about your having cracked or removed two of my teeth."
   This seemed astoundingly fair! And maybe would be even interesting!
   I said, with a keen enthusiasm that we had a deal.
   He said "Already you are talking deals. No wonder you were sent here."
   He then pulled a cord coming from the ceiling. The hot maid came in.
   "Show this out."
   "I'm not coming back here you dont stop talking to me like I was your nigger," i said exasperated, screw his schooling, though I would miss seeing the hot maid.
   He laughed.
   "Sure." He chuckled some more. "Whatever you say."
   The hot maid showed me out.
   My father was sitting in the 35 Chevy at the end of the property.
   "Did you see the maid?" was the first thing he asked with a kind of partially restrained fiery enthusiasm. I said I did. He didn't ask about Benedetto. But I bet he would have loved hearing about his two cracked teeth. But I never mentioned it. Never had to really, he never inquired about the meeting.
   I told my dad I saw her underwear, which was a total lie. He almost swallowed his tongue with shock as his brain conjured up a scenario that would cover and illustrate this remark. He drove us home in a kind of silence I would not experience again until I stood at the center of the Panamint Valley dry lake on a winter afternoon just west of Death Valley when I was 17 after having been left there by a black Cadillac limousine that when it drove away took all the sound of the earth with it until it became lost in the far blur of the high hills of sameness and silence and the world was a beautiful emptyness of warm, sunlit, lifeless quiet and quiet and an endlessness of more quiet.
   My dad was that quiet when I mentioned seeing the hot maid's underwear. That's how quiet he was.
 
   

Solari

From the Catholic Encyclopedia

(SOLARIO)

A family of Milanese artists, closely connected with the cathedral and with the Certosa near Pavia.

(1) Guiniforte Solari

Born 1429; died 1481. He was the son of Giovanni (born c. 1400; died 1480), superintendent of the building of the cathedral and of the Certosa. Guiniforte was one of the architects of the Certosa (1465), was employed on the Ospedale Maggiore, and was also one of the architects of the fortified castle of the Sforza family and of several of the churches of Milan. His son PIETRO ANTONIO (d. 1493) worked also for a time on the cathedral; there is proof that in 1476 he was still there. Later he was called to Moscow where he was employed on the rebuilding of the Kremlin.

(2) Andrea Solari

Painter, b. at Milan about 1465; d. 1515. From 1490 he was a pupil of Giovanni Bellini at Venice and his early works recall this painter, as for example a Madonna with Saints, painted in 1495 for the Church of San Pietro at Murano and now in the Brera at Milan. After his return to Milan he copied the style of Leonardo da Vinci so closely that he was considered the latter's best pupil. He is very like Leonardo, especially in the treatment of the heads, plastic modelling, and colouring. A beautiful Descent from the Cross, painted in 1503, is still in existence. About this date he also painted many portraits and in this way came into connexion with Cardinal Charles d'Amboise, for whom he painted a number of pictures during the years 1507-9 at Gaillon in Normandy. These works are now in galleries in England. During the second half of his working period he changed his style to a brighter tone and his works are easily recognized by the clear, luminous colours and the manner in which they flow into and blend with one another. The School of Leonardo, however, is always perceptible. Among other paintings belonging to this time is a Madonna with a Child lying on a cushion to whom she offers the breast; the figures are surrounded by a beautiful landscape. This picture is in the Louvre and the same gallery has another of his works, a Salome receiving from the executioner the head of John the Baptist, with the delicate face turned away from the object. The Poldi-Pezzoli Gallery of Milan contains a large number of his works; among these are: "Repose on the Flight to Egypt" (1515), one of the best pictures of Leonardo's school; "St. Catherine"; "St. Anthony", "The Crowning with Thorns". His last and most important work is the "Assumption of the Blessed Virgin:, at the Certosa near Pavia, which, however, he was not able to complete.

(3) Andrea's brother Cristoforo Solari (called "Il Gobbo")

Sculptor and architect, b. at Milan before 1475; d. in 1527. In 1490 he went with Andrea to Venice where some sculptures executed by him are still in existence. In 1498 he returned to Milan and entered the service of Ludovico Sforza at whose order he executed his chief work, the tomb of Ludovico's wife. The figures of Beatrice d'Este and Ludovico upon the tomb belong in their massive severity, individuality of treatment, and technical excellencies to the best works of the early Renaissance in Lombardy. The monument was erected in the Church of Maria delle Grazie, but was unfortunately destroyed at a later era; in 1821 the two statues were taken to the Certosa near Pavia. Besides there, a number of statues in the cathedral of Milan are ascribed to him: four doctors of the church, Adam and Eve, Sebastian, Christ bound to the pillar. They are marked by a less vigorous naturalism, the influence of a stay at Rome, whither he went after the overthrow of the Sforza family. From 1503 he was again in Milan, where he took charge of the construction of the cathedral. He also designed the great cupola of Santa Maria della Passione at Milan.

(4) Antonio Solari

Born in 1382; died 1445. He is called IL ZINGARO (the gypsy), a nickname probably given him either because his father was apparently a Bohemian blacksmith who had emigrated to Venice, or from the wandering life he himself led until he settled permanently in Naples. He is said to have worked at his father's trade until his love for the beautiful daughter of an artist led him to turn to art. As at Naples he was very soon able to win the favour of Queen Joanna, it was not long before he became the most important painter of the capital. He founded a school which produced a number of masters of moderate ability. His most important work, which is also the best production of Neapolitan painting at that period, is a series of twenty frescoes in the court of a monastery near San Severino which show traces of the influence of the schools of Venice and Ferrara. They represent the life of St. Benedict and contain a large number of lifelike figures in dignified and graceful positions. His "Carrying of the Cross" in the Church of San Domenico Maggiore and a "Madonna" in the museum at Naples show nobility of conception combined with a vigorous realism.

(5) Santino Solari

Architect and sculpture, b. at Como, Upper Italy; d. 1646. He is best known for his share in the construction of the cathedral at Salzburg; he ornamented the palace and the gardens of the Bishop of Salzburg with statues.

ALOE, Le pitture dello Zingaro nel chiostro di S. Severino in Napoli, dinotanti i fatti dellai vita di S. Benedetto (Naples, 1836); MOSCHIMI, Memorie della vita di Antonio Solari, detto il Zingaro, pittori Veneziano (Venice, 1828); FRIZZONI, Il Sodoma Guadenzio Ferari, Andrea Solari illustrati in tre opere in Milano recentemente recuperate in Arch. stor. arte, IV (Rome, 1891); VENTURI, Eine umbekammte marmorgruppe von Cristoforo Solari in Mitth. Inst. osterr. gesch., V (Innsbruck, 1884), 295-302.

BEDA KLEINSCHMIDT

The NRA, Or Tits On A Duck

     THE NRA WORKING FOR YOU 24 HOURS A DAY FOREVER


   The NRA has made a pretty good living for its executive officers and legal shylocks by claiming to be halting the erosion of something called the Second Amendment. However the second amendment became obsolete when the gatling gun was invented and when it was declared illegal to have a fully armed operational tank in your possession sometime during WW1 and has progressed to the illegality of an F-16 fully armed on your property.
   What you ARE allowed to have - if you are not a felon, which you can become if you are so declared one by someone in authority who doesn't want you to own a firearm -  are Muslim-level "assault" firearms which spend more of their lives being removed and scampered off with from dead bodies than being in use actually defending someone from assault; pistols; shotguns with no effective range outside the bathroom of the house; and rifles, which, after all the stores get looted during the brief chaotic breakdown of the myths holding everything together, and while everyone is expending their supplies of particular specific ammunition, only the federal army of untrained monsters will have access to a common, single caliber, ammunition pile.
 
   The NRA prides itself on being "THE DEFENDER OF YOUR RIGHT TO OWN A FIREARM." Well, that's nice, just try and use your firearm somewhere or move it from one place to another or get bullets for it or even keep it up your ass in your house without a lock on it.
   The NRA also prides itself on reminding you that the second amendment "guarantees" you something. I forget what it guarantees you but whatever it is that it guarantees you it doesnt really guarantee you it, whatever it is it guarantees you of. Do you have your Simple Logic hat on?....... ok, then, here we go, and listen carefully: because if the second amendment guaranteed you something the NRA would not exist. It wouldn't need to. But it does exist. That can only mean the second amendment is fucking up its guaranteeing job somehow.
   So, therefore - you can take your logic hat off now - so, therefore, the second amendment doesnt really guarantee anything, or do anything else with anything, because the NRA does in fact exist.
   So what does the NRA do? Beats the fuck outta me, Sparky. They claim to be holding-back government from keeping you from doing something you might want to do.
   And how is that working out for ya.
   If the government needed that much holding back you would think at some time someone in the NRA would say "Maybe there is something wrong with government itself if it needs all this constant holding-back shit, and all the effort and time taken away from my porn."
   And in fact the NRA hasn't held anything back. It can't. The Second Amendment doesn't protect the NRA's right, or your right, to bear arms otherwise the NRA wouldn't be defending the second amendment 24 hours a day year after fucking year and decade after fucking decade like it claims it is doing.
   None of the amendments actually protect anything except the government's claim to do whatever it wants.
   The bill of "rights," in fact, if you put your logic hat back on, if you haven't thrown it out because it doesn't work, the bill of rights in fact protects Washington DC. Not you. It does this in a very clever, almost beautifully beguiling way, almost Luciferian in its beauty and deceit and perversion of what it is claiming to be doing: it does this by making the assumption for you to believe that its job is "to work for you in partnership against the government." However, why would the bill of rights actually do this, for what reason and by what mechanism; I mean -  it's part of the government. Oh dear. I guess in 250 years nobody has noticed this. And if they have noticed it it's kind of just swept under the rug. Like looking behind the curtain and seeing Oz. You blink a few times and then quickly close the curtain and run back over to the flaming celestially wondrous head of fire and continue talking to it and asking it for stuff and continue assuming its smarter than you are even though it is all a pompously presented trick.
   The same people that created the government created the bill of rights. So why would the bill of rights work against the government. It would be a bunch of guys creating something at odds with itself. Why wouldn't they just stay in bed? Well, in fact, the Floundering Fathers did in fact know this, they had no intention of "creating a nation of free people." They wanted to create a nation of enslaved heathens. They knew a "bill of rights" "guaranteeing" that the very monster they were installing from out of thin air and into our lives would somehow appear to be under control would win-over the hearts and minds of the recently Actually Free Americans who fought-off their English Masters and were now the only unsullied, unenslaved, ungoverned, totally happy people in recorded human history.
   You are supposed to believe that the bill of rights and the government it is allegedly holding the reins on are mortal enemies, with the bill of rights having the only key to the Power Steroids and which it uses only when it needs to wield its mighty power steroids against its mortal enemy The Government.
   In fact, the bill of rights is just a part of the same Constitution that everything else in the Constitution is a part of: the omnipotent government.
   The Constitution sets-up the government - an entity that both by definition and by cultural voodoo 10 million years old holds "power" -  and I am supposed to believe that the Bill of Rights restrains this power with a stronger power-sphere, like the hidden cache of "health" in a video game, is that what I am supposed to buy into? Why wouldn't the "power" that the bill of rights is supposed to restrain just ignore the bill of rights? It has the power too, after all. In fact it got its power dose first. The second power player - the bill of rights - didnt come along until as an after thought: the after thought being "Ya know, boys, those farmers who just beat the living piss out of the British Throne might not take to this new arrangement we are cooking up for them unless we throw in a real enticement for this bait-and-switch con we are creating here: nome sane?"
   And apparently they did know what he was saying.
  And what power does the bill of rights actually have? Is the bill of rights a second government? I will answer that: no, it isn't. The bill of rights isnt anything. It's a con. Just like the Constitution is a con. The Constitution is merely a simple, old fashioned, every day, decree. The Constitution is an edict. An edict and decree is always boiled down to "someone you don't know and never met ordering you around on your own property and regarding your own stuff and your own life." That's all the Constitution is. An edict. A long list of rules and regulations you personally never agreed to. It's a paper king. It's a compositional emperor. It's a Caesar in essay form. It's tyranny by committee. It's nothing new or wondrous or "revolutionary." It's the same old shit in a brand new disguise. It's African tribal collectivism written out on paper instead of handed down via drum patterns and marks on an ancestral carved stone. And when you decree a bill of rights to the decree of the constitution you just have twice the doubletalk and twice the bullshit. That is all you have. But humans love bullshit. Look at Adam and Eve, who fucked us into existence, look at how they responded to their first dose of bullshit: right out the gate they jumped at the chance to soak in it.
   Getting a "red-blooded American" to see this, by the way, is harder than getting a Scientologist to see that he isn't a god waiting to step into his natural omnipotence which is being (until auditing) held in mighty chains by Lothar or Dr. Sylvanna or Xenu, and which only Elron has the formula for extrication-from at 5000 dollars an hour of endless hours of brainwashing. And, let me help you, here, getting a Scientologist to open his eyes to the fool he is being made of... is absolutely impossible.
   Similarly the NRA is telling you that it's its job to get this screaming, thrashing destructive leviathan of fire-breathing Hell called the district of columbia to obey it.
   The NRA, like the leviathan it is trying to tame, is lying.
   But try and get Joe Redneck to see this. You might as well try and get Joe Redneck to quit fuckin' his sister.

How Twinkies Came About

 
   The twin package of Twinkies was inspired by the meaty twat of H. Arnold Schreiber's wife Barbara in a clothed cameltoe configuration. He said "If i could market that pussy I would make a million dollars." He said he then dreamed of two penis-like semen-filled simplistic pastry cocks fucking his wife's cameltoe. When he woke up he said something like eureka and the penis, cum, twat amalgam was created. That was when America was the land of opportunity before the many governments now controlling Americans made America into the land of third world Mexican Catholics and third world Persian Muslims in a combat to be the first to eradicate materialism and progress from the USA.

A Dilemma In Hawaii

   In Hawaii there are so many people producing their own power with solar cells that the government power companies are thinking about making solar panels illegal. This is not how it is being reported. What is being reported is that the government power companies are "concerned" that the private output will exceed government output and "will endanger everyone." That is not how they are putting that either. They are saying something involving a very complex array of doubletalk that sounds like perfect sense if you dont actually pick it apart. Which I won't waste my time doing.
   So here is the dilemma: how does a government that cannot produce enough power profitably and has to operate by edict rather than by performance, how does it outlaw competition that it itself encouraged in order to prevent rioting when it would become unable to deliver power due to increased demand?
   This will be a government First. I can't imagine how they will play this to make it sound like government is necessary and private enterprise is dangerous.

How I Know All Sports Are Rigged

 I come to conclusions in ways different from the way other people do. Other people come to conclusions by using their cocks and their stomachs: "I'm horny and want to fuck the cat so therefore there is no God." "I want a gallon of ice cream to eat immediately so therefore Keeping Up With The Kardashians is a good show." This is how other people think and reason and figure things out. I don't use that method all of the time. Oh I use it some of the time but not all of the time. Sometimes I will simply observe what is there and proclaim it bogus or legitimate, accurate or inaccurate, right or wrong, stupid or smart, nice tits or no.
 

If you meander through the huge casinos of any major hotel in Las Vegas at some point you will come to a large room, usually very large indeed, with a hundred big-screen tv sets all over one of the walls. This room will have church-like seating and will be in dim lighting with individual small lamps for each visitor sitting in there and a counter in front of them for them to write and make notes and generally make fools of themselves under the guise of "figuring things out."
   This room is called "the sports book." That is the name of the room. The sports book. "Hey let's leave the slots and check out the sports book!" "Ok!" and off you go, off to the sports book.
   On the tv screens that you have to look up at so that everyone can easily see them is a live broadcast of every fucking sporting event taking place on Mother Fucking Earth at that very moment all over the goddamn mother fucking globe.
  You can bet on the outcome of these games.
   I do not play games of chance or make Rules of Probability wagers. I don't "gamble," in other words. I will make a "real world" wager: will it rain on the day I want to get a tan?....I bet you five bucks it does. That sort of thing. It's rare but it happens.
   The average schmuck idiot, he goes into the fuckin' sports book thinkin' that because of his intimate understanding of the nature of sports and his innate inventory of athletic parameters and his whirlwind flowing invigorating inspiring majesty in the science of movement....he can predict and foretell and proclaim before it happens the outcome of a sporting event.
   This idiot is totally kidding himself. Because a simple "mental experiment" as my fellow genius Einstein called them, will tell even a faggot "what sex am I?" mongoloid named Barack that sports are rigged.
   Here is the experiment, see if you can follow along, not everyone can do this:
   ...what if you were to stroll by the sportsbook one day after having lost all your money at the roulette wheel and you looked over at the banks of tv screens illuminating the cathedral-like inner arena of prayer and you saw that the only thing on the sports book was the posted-odds on whatever election was being held that day anywhere on the earth, with moving images of people lined up to cast their vote for this fuckhead or that fuckhead or for whatever array of reetards was running for the whatever office he was running for in order to take someone else's stuff legally and against their will, and you saw that the local election of cow-fucker in Hindufuckland was on the screen and next to it the head boyfucker mayor of Ejaculate Missouri was on the screen next to it, with the American Presidential election next to that and the election of the sheriff of Assfuck Arkansas was next to that, why, you would screech to a fucking halt faster than a whore halting the lifting of her skirt upon learning that her john was going to pay her in Summers Eve-flavored Tictacs. You would screech to a rug-burning stop and gasp "Why are there odds being made on elections?....that would imply that elections are rigged and corruptible and they are not, they are holy and sacrosanct and proclaimed by God and Jesus to be At One with Heaven. This has to be stopped! This is making elections banal and suspect!"
   In other words you would be immediately wondering - and wondering very hard - if elections were just a global con designed to entice the foolish to wager on them, and which the results of which could be altered under the right circumstances once in a while to accomodate a very large bet by a very influential person on a very longshot candidate.
   In fact everyone who ambled past the sportsbook and saw this new arrangement would become completely fixated on finding out just what in the hell is going on here?? Are elections suddenly gambling fodder with bookies calling the shots rather than Divinely Instituted Declarations of The Peoples' Wisdom??
   Or in other words, in case you are completely lost, elections should be included in the sportsbook because they are rigged - but they are not included. And the reason they are not is because elections would immediately come under suspicion if they did appear in the sportsbook. And nobody in politics wants that. Because on some level everyone knows professional sports are fixed. But it's just sports, so who cares. It's not something so majestic and holy as an election. Which are not fit fodder for the sportsbook. Elections are religious ceremonies wherein magic and miracles and signs and wonders happen daily. Sports are just sports.

   So that's how I know elections are rigged. I mean sports.

Hating Negroes For The Color Of Their Skin

   People - and I mean all of them - do not hate "negroes" for the color of their skin. People hate negroes because negroes are worthless, looting, brain dead, trouble-makers. It has nothing to do with skin color.
   I don't know who the guy is that starts all these false-concept slogans that are designed to warp and pervert and twist the real meaning of something into something different and manages to get everyone not to notice. But this fucker is totally incapable of ducking from me. I can spot that mother fucker on the backside of the moon when I am in a shitter in a salt mine in Borneo at midnight with the lights out. And when he first stated "We must not hate people for the color of their skin" I said back to him "It has nothing to do with skin color, fucknuts. It has to do with the asshole inside of the black skin that's the problem. Not the skin. And that asshole inside the skin is someone everyone hates. It's not just "needing something to do" that is generating the hate, shithead. The hate is there for a reason."
   That's what I said.
    Now then, Hindu Indians are blacker than most American negroes but nobody starts calling the real estate agent when Jabara Haral moves into the neighborhood. Because there is no reason to. Under Jabara Haral's black skin is a normal human being who is a part of Earth Civilization. If you hand him a flower he doesn't look at you with a blank stare wondering why it isn't a 20 dollar bill instead or your entire life savings. No, Mr. Haral will politely take the flower and sniff it gently and say thank you. He won't yell "WATTS YO' PROBLEM, MUVVA FUKKA, I SED HAND ME YO' WALLIT, NOT CHYO' JIVE-ASS, ROSE GAWDEN, PIECE OF SHIT, POSEY-ASS NOSE GAY!!" Or something equally as abrupt and befuddled and demanding and lacking the vocabulary
   So it ain't skin color that is the problem. It's soul color. It's adaptability color. It's intelligence color. It's attitude color. It's niceness color. It's "not part of humanity" color. Even the fucking Arabs can - and do - put up a skyscraper once in a while. Even a fucking Mexican will once in a while graduate from architecture school and design a wondrous piece of art hundreds of people can live or work in. A black as pitch Burmese jungle sub-ape can apply to and gain entrance in Cal Tech and come out with a revolutionary paper on physics and subatomic particles and change the course of software history. There is not a jap or a nip or a chink or a gook or a slope or a flipper on the planet who will not bow to you in gratitude and politeness if you walk up to him and ask him the time of day> He will be happy to see you and interact with you. At no time will he scream "WHUT DA FUKSSIT TO YA, WHITEY! GIT CHO FUKKIN ASS OUTA MY FACE YOU HONKEY DEBBIL PEESUH SHIT BEHFOE AH FUCK YO' ASS UP!!" It just would not occur to a slant-eye yellow man to respond in that way. You would have to kill most his family, half of his cows, cut off one of his balls, set fire to the foreskin of his pecker and confiscate all of his porn for him to get as mad at you as a nigger will for asking him the time of day. A zipperhead will bow, bow again, bow three more times, wave you inside, beg your forgiveness for no reason, offer you tea, have his favorite daughter wait upon you, and if he's an Eskimo will plead for you to fuck his wife just for asking him the time of day.
   Niggers will do none of these things. And it ain't because they have black skin. It's because they have no understanding of human existence. They don't get it. And if they do it's because of some tear in the fabric of space and time and they just think they are not negroes, for some reason; really good hypnosis, or something. But if you were to sit these raritiesof Nature down and explain to them that they are really some other category of human called "negro," and you show them how to light someone else's car on fire or how to enter a Vietnamese liquor store while shooting a Glock sideways -  they would immediately revert to their natural state and you would never see them act white or Japanese or even Apache again.
   None of this happens because of the color of their skin. It happens because of the absence of their humanity.
   I am not saying they are inhuman. I am saying they are nonhuman.
   Now I know that they can produce young from breeding a negro with a non negro. In science this makes them homo sapiens, just like us. You can also breed a Canadian wolf to a Brooklyn Jew's Pekenese yap dog and you'll get something. But who knows what the fuck it is and what the fuck it will be good for. There's dogs, and then there's dogs people want to have around.
   Same fuckin' thing with  people.
   So we dont hate people for the color of their skin. We hate people 'cause they are stupid, prehistoric, African Subcontinent veldt-scavengers with no understanding of responsibility or of right and wrong who stare at the sun because they think it is alive and who are convinced that being as rhythmical as parrots makes them fine additions to the neighborhood.

Observation Of The Day

   "Jew" and "Mexican" are the only formal and proper names of group-identification that are also insults. Something to think and wonder about, perhaps, if you re either a Jew or a Mexican.
   Now, of course, it's true that every group has a slang version of its name that is intended as an insult. Italians for example are called wops and guinies and dagos and greaseballs when someone wants to insult an Italian or wants to belittle them. Germans are krauts, although this is not exactly insulting, the English are limeys, the Swedes don't have an insulting name for them, African-derived negroes are niggers, and it all goes on and on and on forever, with everyone. But only Jews and Mexicans - while they both have  a huge fuckin' shitload of alternative calling cards, all of them insulting - Jews and Mexicans are the only groups that also have their formal official and proper designation included in the Insult Pile of names and references.
   If you call out "Hey, you!....Norwegian!! Come here!" - the Norwegian will come over and say "Yes? May I help you?"
   If you call out "You! Argentinian!! Step over here!" the Argentinian will say "Me? Sure. How may I help you."
   If you see a Mexican or a Jew and you say "Hey! Jew! Step over here!" well; and, oh my; there will be quite a commotion on the sidewalk on that day I assure you from the Jew - well, maybe not from the Jew, they tend to run and hide when trouble comes - but certainly from the Jew Defenders who will likely be there in small numbers, and they will say "Use some manners, sir!" or if you call out to a Mexican "You, there! You! Mexican! Step over here!" well, my fren, you are going to likely be talking to a man with a small stolen pocket knife at your throat in a very short time.
   Even the common nigger is free from this strange onus. Historically the lowest rung of the Family of Man ladder, even the Negro has as his formal polite and proper designation a name that is not an insult. You can say "negro" all day long and well into the night and never have anyone, negro or otherwise, get upset about it. But just walk around in a store saying "Jew" over and over. Or "Mexican." You are going to have some problems in a moment or two from somebody about it. And they may not even be Jews or Mexicans, that's the really weird part.
   Try it! Don't just take my word for it. Walk down the aisle of the supermarket saying in a loud voice "Moroccan!!" "Romanian!" "Ethiopian!"
   Only silence will greet you.
   Now try it saying "Jew!" "Mexican!"
   A very different story mon ami. A very different story indeed.
   Now, you have to wonder "Are the Jews and the Mexicans cognizant of this?... are they aware that their formal term of address is also the worst thing you can call them?"
   This I do not know. Talk about a Masters Thesis just waiting to be written, this is it.
   Stay hate-filled my friend.

One Good Cop

   Turns out there's one good cop.

http://news.yahoo.com/police-officer-quits-comments-obama-122123286.html

Ballets And Ballys

 
   One o' these groups o' women work in ballets. The other group o' women works at Ballys. Both groups do the same thing: they dance on stage to music.
  The women groups involved in ballets are considered very proper and refined ladies even though they spend most of the time during the dances they do spreading their inner thighs as far apart from each other as possible to reveal a thin strip of costuming running along the surface of their cunt slit.
   The other group of women, the one from Ballys, spend most of their dance time with their legs together and their hands on their hips.
   In ballet it's usually someone else's hands on their hips,and its always a man.
   The women at Ballys dance with other women and no men.
   The women in ballets dance with men whose cocks and balls are bulging past their elastic tights, their buttocks muscles flexing and relaxing a million times to the plain sight of the audience - which has no age restrictions - and standing close to the women in the cuntstrips with their cocks and balls usually in physical contact with the woman's ass or twat or upper thigh. Often the man will lift the ballet woman from the back, his hands on her hips, lifting her upwards and then letting her slide down his upraised hands, her tits gliding under his palms and fingers on the way down. This is a common maneuver in ballet.
   At Ballys the women wear high heels which, when they walk in them, causes the women to move in a sultry, attractive way that accentuates their erotic natural physicalness.
   In ballet the women wear shoes with blocks in front of the toes, which, when they walk or step in a normal way makes them look like erratic clowns trying to appear as though wearing large corks in front of their feet is dainty and petite. It is considered ignorant to laugh when this happens.
   At Balleys no man ever comes close to one of the women, assuming there even are any men on stage. If they are on stage they are usually dressed in full tuxedos and off by themselves merely looking at the women and never feeling their tits and asses. No one under 18 is allowed to see the Ballys women dance.
   The women in ballet are considered virtuous goddessess of the dance and of society.
   The women at Balleys are considered trolloping slattern tawdry whores unworthy even of the name slut, and unfit company for anyone with a shred of self respect.
   Welcome to planet Earth.

Disney Buys Lucas Episode 17 - The Mouseketeer Graveyard

   This picture that someone sent to me came with the question "Is this the Mouseketeer Graveyard you were telling me about once?" I asked them "Where did you get that." I asked it in a way that there was not a question mark at the end. They said "Is this where Mouseketeer Andy was buried?" I said how did you know about Mouseketeer Andy. I asked it in the same way as the previous question. They said I told them. I said I never spoke about Mouseketeer Andy at any time to any one. They said "See? So you know who Mouseketeer Andy is." I said sure, I never said I didn't. I just said I never spoke of him to anyone. And I added "...and it's ' who Mouseketeer Andy was': not is: I don't think he's still alive. Assuming he ever was." They said "What?" I said "Let's get back to this picture. Why did you send me this." They said "So you have seen this place?" I said "This looks like a movie-still. What movie is this."
   They hung up. As is often the case, when I get more interested in the interviewer than the interviewer is interested in me - the interview ends! The reason for this is because the life of the kind of person who becomes a soul-collapsed journalist - which is all of them - does not warrant examination. And all journalists know this.
   Talking to a journalists is, i tell you this most sincerely, like talking to a soul who has cast himself into hell and knows it but is too lazy to crawl back out, preferring instead to just lay in the shit dripping eternally out from his own ass due to the widening of the anus from the Pounding Cocks Of Weak Decisions having bored a whopping tunnel between his asscheeks within which a Saturn Five could be comfortably housed sideways.
   What I would have said to the journalist-caller, however, had he not left the Interview Venue was that I did have to admit I was slightly pressed suddenly forward and abruptly into the seatbelts when I first saw it; "it" being the picture he sent.
   It was like when you read something that comes at you out of nowhere in an H.P.  Lovecraft story and you go, somewhere in the back room of some cranial memory locker, you go "Jesus Pants-Shitting Christ, why is this sounding fucking familiar??" Except in the case of this picture I knew why it was familiar. It was in fact very much like what Mouseketeer Andy had told me about the "Mouseketeer graveyard." He said he saw it, and his description of it was so vivid that when I saw the movie-still it kind of jolted me into thinking that was really it when in fact it was merely a pretty vivid duplication of the picture that Andy had already installed into my head from his description.
   I was the only one besides Mouseketeer Andy - and the people who made him that way - who knew who Mouseketeer Andy was. Mouseketeer Andy lived in the array - a rather elaborate array - of flood-control conduits that traverse the underside of the streets and houses and stores of the San Fernando Valley. They empty into the Los Angeles "River," which  is a concrete pathway, sometimes walled, sometimes sloped, that oozes past Griffith Park on the North and East sides. During rainstorms however it doesnt ooze, it flies, it swoops, it courses like a 50 mile-per-hour monster 20 feet deep and  50 yards wide in a sluice constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers that rushes everything that falls into it to its death in a crashing-into wrecking-yard-debris fast-paced journey into sure-fire oblivion within ten trillion tons of dissolved mud from the San Gabriel Mountains.
   Much of this network greets other portions of the network in large square arenas of underground concrete, harboring large strange wheels that open and close iron grates and doors and causeways, like a railroad yard for water. And things in the water that, until the rains, never were in water. Like washing machines, gardening rakes, couches, buried bodies, unburied bodies: a potpourri of disgust and all the other things that Mexicans keep in their "yards" and dump into the millions of  curbstone inlets into the underground world of filthy water highways and where it runs off the desert filled with Mexican clothes and car parts once belonging to cars that quit running shortly after the Mexicans stole them.
   Andy was in fact Mexican so it was completely appropriate and wondrously ironic that he too should end-up in the sewer system. I am speaking generically now, saying sewer system, since the flood control maze and labyrinth and network is not a sewer system at all but a rain-disposal system.
   I am not sure that the Disney heirarchs, or anyone else in Burbank, actually,  knew Andy was so close to them. According to Andy, during those times that he would actually endeavor to speak, since he preferred to just breathe in and out and stare, he would bitterly - if gurgling can carry emotion - he would never say if anyone knew he was living there, he would mostly only bitterly gurgle, simply, that he was  "the damned."

   I had to agree. Mouseketeer Andy looked like the Elephant Man made out of mucus. He had an odor pouring off him that was like salmon made out of burning sulphur that gave off steam instead of smoke. He was like a walking greenhouse of humidity mixed with the odor of a flesh-eating plant from a sunken hole in a peatmoss jungle in Burma during a heat wave in whatever their July is after the plant ate an Iraqi male Muslim that had himself just eaten a raw goat that had shit-out boiling yak bile from its ass all over itself on a haul-out beach of walruses in a Louisiana bayou sandbar reeking of rotting algae bubbling on the wet inner skin of a vulture's diseased cloaca. Andy smelled really really bad in other words.
   He didn't look so hot either. Even though he was hot. And by hot I mean as registered by a thermometer, not by Paris Hilton's aesthetical scale of deigned-worthy-to-jizz-upon-her-nipples hot. I mean hot. Andy was hot. His surface temperature was 120 degrees F. Add all that heat to the stink he would have been still naturally producing even if he was embedded in dry ice on the backside of Ganymede after the death of the sun and you have a real problem maintaining the will to live or even staying conscious during a social call upon Mouseketeer Andy.
   Andy killed anyone who stumbled upon him. He did it by telepathically incinerating their brain-mass while it was still inside their skulls. He probably could have incinerated their balls too while they were still inside their ballsacks but frying their brains seems to be his method of choice. Maybe it was his way of showing mercy and decorum. It might have been a Spanish sense of civility since his last name was Miramontes and not Icxtaxztekwtzicuatixquatl and he lacked that Aztec/Mayan savagery the Cartel Mexicans are so proud of. It was Andy's noble sense of spirit that harkened back to the race that built the Armada, not the race that harkened back to the jungle pyramids where adult males raped 9 year old boys and girls and then removed their beating hearts from their chests and ate them raw in front of the still living, still seeing, eyes of their jizz-covered, bleeding-from-the-ass, victims that caused him to fry their brains and not their balls, most likely. An eye-daubing, tear-drying touch of civility that coursed through his Corinthian Leather veins, or however R-r-r-r-reeecar-r-r-r-rdo Montalllllban might have referred to them.
   He didn't kill me, like he did everyone else, because we were both used in the same experiment only in my case things went the way they were supposed to. I am not at liberty to discuss what "things went the way they were supposed to" means. It involves things that are not contained within the celestial context of Sol-planet Earth. That does not mean they are magical or "wondrous." It just means it does not entail human cultural psychology, which is astoundingly fucked up. I like to call it "I had the implant removed." Which is my idea of a joke because I am fond of saying I am the only reverse paranoid on earth: I am convinced I don't have an implant and everyone else does. But that's just a joke. A more serious way to put it would be I had the control rods in my brain pulled out. I was deAdamized. This by no means means I am now a nice person. I am not. I am still a social psycho anxious for the fun of Armageddon and hoping I am riding one of the hydrogen bombs to earth onto whatever enclave of assholes I am assigned to descend upon, preferably a Muslim one. And if the Muslim enclave is only full of Muslim women and children, haha, it won't make no difference to me, I will gladly blow them into oblivion while laughing.
   No, I have not been made more holy. My personality has not been altered, I am still a mental patient. Only the lies I believed were removed. Not all the lies: just the ones I believed.
   Now, you might be saying why would such an incident turn Mouseketeer Andy into the ugly piece of  stench-radiating wreckage previously described.
   Because Mouseketeer Andy liked the lies that he believed. When his psyche and soul rebelled against having them removed his physicality took on the visible appearance of the lies.
   In other words, looking at Andy was actually scarier than you might have thought, based on the previous description I gave you: because you were not looking at his body: you were looking at his soul: not at him. Or maybe I should say you were looking at him. The real him.
   Somewhere someone with a pocket protector in his shirt is saying "If andy was made ugly losing his lies because he loved them, were you made beautiful losing your lies because you did not love them?"
  I like to think so. The mirror, however says "no, you still look like decrepit Grampaw Buford's bleeding hemorrhoids."
   So why was Andy visibly altered and I visibly wasn't? Even they don't know and they shitcanned that program immediately, although there were 5 or 6 Mouseketeers prior to the termination of the program who came out the other end the way that the program intended. I don't know who they are and don't care: you can't make pudding out of pus, is the way I see it: so they see things clearly, what's the point if they are still dull-as-dung dipshits and don't tell anyone.
   One of my own questions is, if that little project was something they got rid of immediately at the first sign of disaster, the rational, relatively alert man has to ask himself does this mean that in the main scheme of things this was just a minor undertaking?...a mere lab experiment by the apprentice freshmen assisting the tenured sorcerers? I have no idea. If they are doing bigger things they sure ain't doing it here on Earth as far as I can see.
   And Andy seems drastic enough for me.
   The problem with Andy is that he can't be killed, or at least no one has succeeded in killing him, because there have been attempts. I was there for one of them. Ten people in some sort of strange armor that hugged the body and had extruding arcing tendrils up and down the forearms and shoulders and upper arms, they advanced out of the darkness of a dozen different corridors and did not seem to give a shit that I was there. Someone audibly and calmly announced "Kill them."
   Andy altered his shape from more or less a bipedal pudding into a winged ten foot bat that really spread the stink around because his surface area had increased, even not-counting the huge new wtf wings.
   If the ten individuals behind what appeared to be faceplates had expressions I don't know what they were because Andy had stretched both legs forward and scooped five into one "foot" and five into the other "foot" like an eagle would catch two trout from the surface of a lake.
   He now also had talons. Ten on each "foot."
   The talons on both feet or whatever they were closed immediately and abruptly on the two cinched clumps of attackers and they all burst and popped in relative silence like tomatoes. Andy's head then changed from something from the Id creature of Forbidden Planet to the head of a baleen whale with an orifice instead of baleen and this black abyss of unholy stench simply and unceremoniously but with a lot of liquidy noise siphoned the former platoon that was now pulp into itself.
   I watched all this like I would watch my own death if I could watch it, with silent paralysis and my mouth and eyes becoming one central circle of disbelief.
   The ten people now gone and blood everywhere, always-transforming-Andy, standing at his new full height, leaned down at me and said, with new vocal chords that made his voice sound a little like a jet engine "It's not all sad introspection while sulking in the bodily appearance of a garden slug down here in the sewers."
   "No fucking shit," I managed to say. After a minute I said "You gonna look like Satan Unchained for long? I feel like I'm in the fucking Bible. How come you ain't killing me?"
   Be-Elzebub Miramontes looked down at me with very large illuminated orange eyes from some other dimension of events, some other dimension of denizens, some other dimension of life and said in a voice now like a struggling plugged toilet pipe in a large communal bathroom " Why would I kill you. We're both members of the Screen Actors Guild. Union brothers have to stick together. It's the laborer's code. All power to the people. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."
   I was glad he felt that way even though I am not a Democrat.
 

    "Who were those people. And why were they going to kill you. And me by default. And why do you look like Satan? And you smell a thousand times worse now that you're ten times bigger. Are you ever going to take a bath?"
   "Why don't you leave before I pull your arms and legs off and shorten the distance between your asshole and your mouth by eating your guts and then shitting them into the hole in your dick assuming you have one, cunt."
   Mousketeer Andy when he was 10 was not much of a diplomat. Now, at 50, and having the soul and appearance of Moloch, neither time nor computerized special effects had done anything for his manners. And, since he could actually make good on all those threats he made, and, since his speaking voice now sounded like a low frequency Theramin having a nervous breakdown at rumbling volume, I left.
   If he hadn'ta been a fuckin' Mexican I'm sure he woulda been a much nicer person.
   I also think he is the only Mouseketeer that if they hired ten more that look like him the Mickey Mouse Club being played on tv with that crew would give a whole new majestic meaning to the concept of "good ratings." People would kill to watch it. And nobody would ever make fun of them later on when they got fired, either. Nobody with any fuckin' sense at least.

 
 

This Is How You Know You're Retarded: When You Do This

http://music.yahoo.com/news/fiona-apple-cancels-south-american-tour-her-dying-200039537-rolling-stone.html

One Of My Stock Answers

   When people ask me if I am an atheist or if I believe in god I always say "I believe in a particular god." when they say who I say "Jesus, the executed Jew." It's not just "Jesus," it's always "Jesus, the executed Jew."
   This response has rarely produced any follow-up remarks. It's like as though it cuts wires inside the head.
   For a while I would say "Jesus, the executed blaspheming Jew bastard." I decided after a while this was too over the top. Once you start out on the road to creativity with a simple question it can get out of hand. "Jesus the executed, fucked-in-the-ass-by-roman-guards, buck naked on the cross in front of his mom, Jew bastard blaspheming rescuer of goats who fall in the ditch on the Sabbath...." I mean it never ends, it would go on for weeks if I let it. So "Jesus, the executed Jew" is what I have settled on. And it seems to be enough. No one ever says "Why is that. Why him." It's, like, question time is over when you say "Jesus, the executed Jew" to the question "do you believe in god."

   Once...ONCE...someone said to me, in all innocence "...why do you think he was god?" I said "Because he said he was. And so I said, 'oh, ok, fair enough.' It cut down on a lotta research. I didn't have to go searching the world for the wise man to tell me who is the real god or if there is one; here's a guy saying 'hey, i'm god' and has the dates since before and after his birth named after him, BC and AD. That works for me, I'll say 'ok, you're god, I'm good with that.' Do YOU have a problem with me having an executed Jew for a god?"  They usually say no. If they say anything. Fucking assholes. Ya know sometimes I just want to put a bullet from close range into peoples' foreheads and watch their eyes die so I can relive the memory over coffee.

The Blessing Of Ayn Rand's Atheism

   Christians, being a generally stupid lot, leaving their brains on the barbeque grates to sizzle in the grease whenever they open their Bibles and/or the doors to their churches, if they have heard of Ayn Rand at all, which most haven't, since Christians don't tend to read things that are not approved by Rome if they are Catholics and approved by granma if they are not, they know that she was a fervent atheist and made no secret of it and had nothing but disgust for people who believed in god regardless of what god it was, but mainly the God of Israel and Christianity. She was a Jew, incidentally, and it is not unusual to have revolutionary ideas in human history come from Jews.
   I myself do believe in God, if that's the proper way to put it, it's actually more than a belief, I read his book and learned what he did and see the results, so its not a "belief" actually, its having read the historical record and going "oh, ok, now for some porn!" That sort of thing. It's almost a nonchalance and casual thing, my "belief" in God. It's a particular, distinct, God and I also believe in Diane Sawyer, except that I don't like Diane Sawyer. But I believe they both exist because I have seen the evidence, so it's more than a belief it's just something I can very clearly and easily see having learned about God and Diane Sawyer.
   Ayn Rand was not that kind of person. She not only did not believe in the supernatural, she believed in nothing mystical, nothing religious, nothing involving any kind of deity, and in nothing born of superstition.
   It is for this reason that she was able to see government for what it actually is: a collection of assholes claiming to have magic powers.
   Up until Ayn Rand government was assumed to be either divine itself or divinely ordained. Why this is the mindset of Christians and Jews is a bit confusing since the Bible that they both put so much fucking stock in clearly proclaims human government to be a big pile of oppressive shit leading to slavery, death, poverty, war, disease, and universal misery without end. Hell on earth in other words. This can be found in the Book of Samuel, I think, when the Israelites demanded a king and God told them all the shitty things the king would do, since they all do exactly the same things. The people said we don't give a shit we want a king. So God said whatdafuck, ok, fuck you, go elect a king. So they did and Israel quickly collapsed into 3000 years of hell and disappearance and persecution. Now that Israel exists again - against all possible historic and natural odds - they will likely choose a king again and this one will likely be a doozie. Cause Jews don't fucking change.
   Ayn Rand, having been born in Soviet Russia after the commies took over and since this was like a herd of niggers taking over, since Marxism is basically Veldt Nigger Politics And Society Disguised As Western Philosophy, Marxism overnight reduced everyone to poverty and life-in-the-dirt - like African niggers -  and created a society of prisoners doing slave labor for the government officers, like a giant village of Watusis squatting in the shrubs and stickers and flies with no running water and no lights and no food and no future, Ayn Rand having been born into this prehistoric mess, she was already predisposed to having a non-religious attitude toward bureaucrats -  unlike Americans of today and Americans of the post-revolutionary period when the Floundering Fathers were climbing all over themselves to be the first to "write a piece of legislation" which is the dream of every bureaucrat, to create an edict forcing people to obey them. She - unlike the Floundering Fathers -  did not see government as a divine institution and a magical arena of miracles-by-decree. As a result she was able to put government rulers into the category they deserved to be in: 1 -  people who took other peoples' stuff; and, 2 - people who ordered people -  they never met and didn't know -  to obey them. This was what government - all government - was to her. Which, actually, is correct, she was correct in this assessment, that is all government really actually is.
   To everyone else on earth, before Ayn Rand, however, government was a magical sphere that shone above the citizenry of any and all countries, every country having its own magical shiny sphere, and every citizen of every country living and dying for the sake of the sphere, and obeying the sphere and giving the sphere all of their stuff and all of their devotion and all of their time and attention and eventually their lives, and passing these teachings down to their children in order to keep the next generation as fucked up as all the previous ones for 20,000,000 years of human history, starting with the lemur, which lives within a government called a "lemur pack."
   Because Ayn Rand's perfect 20/20 vision of what government actually is was so clear and so precise and so evident and so in-her-own-face she was compelled to inform others of what was deluding and deceiving them. Because she had a gift and a compulsion to "make stuff up" she imported all this knowledge into novels: make believe adventures with make believe people to make the make believe world of "magical government" more real.
   She could not have done this if she believed in god. Western Man's belief in God has resulted in a facility for superstition - which God disapproves of, incidentally. But Western Man, created in a large part by the Catholic Church, the most superstitious entity in human history, is more than excited about making anything and everything into a magical wonderland of dizzyfying magic! This has had its most lavish expression in the United States, where every citizen and illegal alien is subjected to 4 (four) magical governments of relentless edicts and punishments, Federal, State, County and Municipal. Americans cannot get enough government, they are soaking in them.
   Ayn Rand clearly saw that this was folly. And devoted her life to proving and demonstrating it. For her trouble in bringing about this intellectual and sociological revolution she is known as "that atheist woman."

How To Fuck The Atheist Scum

   There is only one way to defeat the fucking atheists who are trying to fuck with Christianity: and that is to do away with the public sector. It's the public spaces and public buildings and public arenas that the atheists rule, which is appropriate because the public sector is the fucked up sector where hell breaks loose and fucks things up 24 hours a day. If there was no public sector there would be no atheists coming out of the shitholes every ten seconds to shit on Christians. And you never hear of these fucks fucking with Islam. They don't have a problem with Islam because they know Islam's god is non existant;. It's only Christianity they have a problem with because they know Jesus is God and atheists are faggot asshole pieces of gay asshole shit. It's simple as as that, it's not mysterious or complex or hard to understand at all, ok, say after me, atheists are faggot asshole pieces of gay asshole shit. There ya go. Take your "A" on your report card and take it home and let your mother blow you for your reward.

The Wikipedia Mouseketeer List

   I see that I made the astoundingly erroneous Mouseketeer list in Wikipedia. Right above Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Whew. Ya know, you'd think they would call once in a while.

Mouseketeer roster

Listed alphabetically are all 35 Mouseketeers:^[5]

• Josh Ackerman (seasons 1-7)
• Christina Aguilera (seasons 6-7)
• Lindsey Alley (seasons 1-7)
• Rhona Bennett (seasons 4-7)
• Nita Booth (seasons 4-7)
• Mylin Brooks (seasons 3-5)
• Brandy Brown (seasons 1-3)
• Blain Carson (seasons 4-5)
• JC Chasez (seasons 4-7)
• Braden Danner (season 1)
• Tasha Danner (seasons 4-5)
• Nikki DeLoach (seasons 6-7)
• T.J Fantini (seasons 6-7)
• Albert Fields (seasons 1-3)
• Dale Godboldo (seasons 4-7)
• Ryan Gosling (seasons 6-7)
• Tiffini Hale (seasons 1-3, 7)
• Chasen Hampton (seasons 1-3, 7)
• Roque Herring (season 1-2)
• David Kater (season 1)
• Tony Lucca (seasons 4-7)
• Ricky Luna (seasons 3-7)
• Tate (Marque) Lynche (seasons 6-7)
• Deedee Magno (seasons 1-3)
• Jennifer McGill (seasons 1-7)
• Terra McNair (seasons 4-5)
• Ilana Miller (seasons 3-7)
• Jason Minor (seasons 3-5)
• Matt Morris (seasons 4-7)
• Kevin Osgood (seasons 2-5)
• Damon Pampolina (seasons 1-3)
• Keri Russell (seasons 4-6)
• Jj Solari (season 2)
• Britney Spears (seasons 6-7)
• Justin Timberlake (seasons 6-7)
• Marc Worden (seasons 3-7)