Friday, August 26, 2016

Of Wings Sundry

(Another great post © the F.I.S. project.)

The butterfly effect is an ideatic snare for the foolish. "God has a plan." The butterfly alters the air currents and averts future hurricanes. "God is cruel because of butterflies." The butterfly alters the air currents and produces future hurricanes. "God is dead because He was too good for us."

Things affect other things. Effects affect effects. Conceptualizing it through a pretty pair of wings is not insight, it is marketing. The pupa produces no butterflies without the thrumming of other butterflies, and the pupae are only ever created through the inadvertent churning of the primordial soup. Lysenko-as-god. "God is dead because He is cruel."

Why, then, "the butterfly effect"? "The" butterfly effect? The "butterfly effect"? The wings of the butterfly, the fins of the fish, the wings of the albatross, the flatulence of the tired crewman. "The fart effect." "The leaf-blower effect." We get it--everything is connected. And these are the epiphanies you have to offer us? Pi; quadratica; the Bernoulli equation; the Planck constant: I asked for flying cars, and you gave me dead Confucianism wrapped inside an even deader insect? The egg came from the chicken came from the egg came from the hybrid dinosaur came from the hybrid dinosaur egg from the tyrannosaur from the prion from the unfathomable explosion.

Daggertip dragged 'cross a steel table frosted in cold. "You think it’s too much of a coincidence, it’s planned, it’s destiny, because you read about me in the paper this morning, but it’s not; there are a hundred thirteen million people out there who would feel the same way if I’d turned up in their kitchens tonight instead of yours. There are no coincidences, and what does that mean? The billiard ball moves only the way we hit it, changed a little bit by air resistance and gravity and slight imperfections in the surface of the ball caused by the predictable effects of its construction and the use to which it has been put in earlier games. Now, therefore, it is not evil to stab you, I am not an evil man, there is no free will, and all I see that comes out when I stick people is butterflies, pretty butterflies, with faces like my own face and wings like my ears in azure. Bless you and bless me, feel good inside, because unlike everyone else, who hasn't met me yet, as least you know this is inevitable, and you’re not really feeling pain. That’s what I do, I cure pain, I’m a natural function of the universe, meant to stop people from feeling that things which are inevitable should 'hurt,' and when I’ve accomplished that I’ll stop."



We loved each other until the end of time.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Tax Theft 15: Advanced Corporate Laundering

The Tax Theft series, beginning here in Part 1 and last updated here in Part 14, discusses the ways that the arms of western occupation governments following the American model use the concept of taxation to extract resources from subject peoples. We've previously examined various concepts of what is taxed, how it is taxed, and how taxes are permissibly avoided for some and levied on others, primarily through schemes which employ different "rates" and "deductions" to make modern taxation regimented thievery. The seeming "unfairness" of western tax codes, though deliberately byzantine, can actually be understood as blatant theft by even the simplest illiterate prole or most thoroughly-educated and regime-supporting university Eloi, when comparing publicly available deductibility rules. The foot soldiers of Black Lives Matter, Mara Salvatrucha, Soldiers of Odin, and the professorate at Sarah Lawrence can all share in seeing and understanding the firsthand unfairness of payroll deductions, even though they would also disagree about upon whom such unfairnesses should be directed. Black Lives Matter might want corporate CEOs to be unable to claim deductions on company cars, increasing the local tax pool to provide for more community funds to the local preacher; Mara Salvatrucha might rather retain its property taxes for use in private security instead of funding the police who might occasionally arrest one of them; Soldiers of Odin might prefer to be able to litigate against the "disproportionate impact" regular income taxes have on people who are of wholly European extract; and, Sarah Lawrence might want working mothers to be able to deduct breast pumps just like their bosses can deduct lunch at the Ritz. The tax slavery is profound in its impact, its seemingly confusing cruelty beloved only by those who understand the dark symphony of blood and death to which its framework is directed.

In a slightly different realm, we've also used the "State, Church, School, Charity" series (Part 1 through Part 6) to discuss a specific set of even cruder, more brazen ways in which taxes simply don't apply to certain special people with certain special connections. We've also discussed traditional money laundering--the largest, most open component of world occupation, facilitated through "politics" and "banks" on a world-historical scale that is not even ill-concealed, but rather a proud public part of elite history, too big to resist.

At a high enough level, we come to see that all aspects of the Terran economy, from the simplest fiat currency to the most elaborate details of a forthcoming climate enserfening, are unified: a fractal, like so many other components of reality, in which municipal sales taxes are gracelessly levied by backroom scum riding the puppet strings of hands no less evil than those fiddling a Bilderberg or a Microsoft.

It is in that spirit that we turn to the topic of advanced intra-corporate laundering. The structure of the publicly-traded corporation is one in which elites promise an economic share to savers in exchange for giving up control of their money. Part of this is done to create the illusion of caste permeability through the potential for a savvy rise to elitehood, and part of it is to ensure a secondary inflation-type market for periodically washing out a "middle class," thereby retaining the convenience and protection of an actual or perceived middle class between, shall we say, "the masses" and "the elites." Another important part of it is done to prevent savvy players from building their own independent wealth--by causing someone to invest $100K in the stock market, or $500K in a franchise, we prevent them from investing that same amount in their own restaurant and/or business, thereby preventing minor challenges to systematic control.

Minority voting interests in corporations are as worthless as winning second most electoral votes for the American presidency, further so when watered down by the "mutual fund" that is voted on by fund managers and not investors anyway, further so when fund managers are controlled by investment franchise policy via London or New York, further so when funds own funds which own other funds and voting is obscured through countless shell layers of ownership, and so forth. Nonetheless, some veneer of "actually trying to do well for stockholders" must remain.

And that is where we turn to my Jewish girlfriend. No, not "girlfriend," but "girlfriend," in the sense of someone in her early 60s who's really more of an acquaintance. She so happens to be a semi-professional model, and no, she's not good-looking in the sense that she's not physically attractive, and her absence of sex life is an unwanted recurring joke of hers. She's doesn't need the money, but she's a semi-professional model, and she does quite well for herself. Some might say she does well "at the expense" of the big corporations. Yeah, girl! Stick it to the man!

Here's how her job works: every few months, she gets a call from a friend of a friend about how they need someone for some ad. She often agrees, drives a state or two away to some studio, gets made-up for half an hour, gets in a pose for a few shots, and then goes home. A week or two later, she gets a check for eight thousand dollars, throws it at her broker, and life goes on exactly as before.

What kind of modeling does she do? Oh, everything, really. Sometimes she sits in a chair and gets her picture taken while an attractive black woman in a nurse's outfit pretends to be taking her blood pressure. Sometimes she gets her nails done and then holds a fork over a green screen where, later on, an image of a luxury meal will be added. Sometimes she grimaces in pain in semi-darkness as though having a heart attack, stroke, digestive upset, crucifixion, et cetera. Sometimes you can hardly see her, because she's just sitting in a clean car at a clean drive-thru restaurant facade, next to her husband (who also gets paid, and who is actually more conventionally attractive than she is, since he doesn't have her horrible "bowl" haircut). Sometimes she is a nameless background character in a movie, where she reportedly gets paid only "a few hundru-dollas, Idano!"

Now, some people would consider that a damn good job. And lots of people have these "jobs." They're in a list somewhere in some jerk's hard drive (many jerks, actually), and when it's time for a hand model, a foot model, a back pain model, a hundred movie extras, whatever, they get called. Some of these people--a very tiny number of these people--are those who've given up on the rest of life and thrown themselves into Hollywood or New York or wherever and spend all day trying to get actual roles while starving since they only get to be an extra in a studio audience a couple times a year. Most of these people are casual earners, with extensive contacts and SAG cards and who don't look anything at all like you think "models" look like, who don't really need the money and sort of do it as a "favor" to someone.

How does this scheme work? Well, imagine that Chase Bank has a board of directors, and that its executive staff is friendly with that board, and that some very smart people inside Chase Bank want to adjust the proportion of Chase Bank's profits that go to its friends and family--perhaps its political or religious allies, its co-ethnics, whatever you like--and that they want to do that without reporting fraudulent losses, hiding profits, or doing anything else underhanded. So what they do instead is fund a gigantic "advertising budget," and, out of that advertising budget, hire people belonging to certain groups to fulfill those roles. Chase Bank pays, over the course of the year, several complete smarmy assholes millions upon millions of dollars to design "ad campaigns," which campaigns consist of dumbass little slogans that don't mean anything and that come from a standardized corporate lexicon, and they pay some publishing company millions more to print posters and "layout" onscreen ads, and they pay even smarmier "consultants" ungodly millions upon millions more of dollars to supposedly study how "current and potential customers" will like these ads. They deduct this expense, but tax-wise, that's okay, because the new company receives it and reports it as profit, or deducts it again by paying it in salary to the assholes who work at that company, who then pay taxes on it.

Some of the money does go to actual models--people you could justifiably say, "Oh, they're attractive," or "Oh, they look reassuring to target consumers," or stuff like that. And some of it goes to people like my friend, who simply plump up the estate that's going to their already-wealthy children. The lion's share of the money is passed out to people who, superficially, are accomplishing positive tasks "for Chase" or "for Humana" or "for Chevrolet," but in actuality, the stockholders of the company are being massively screwed. Dividends take a huge hit, every year, as ridiculous, redundant expenses move from publicly traded corporations to a network of privately-held companies. And there's often a WASP CEO in the chair to get a "big salary" which is, yes, ridiculous, and earns rightful ire, but is a phenomenon nowhere near as ridiculous as the many and varied other ways that corporations launder money away from their outsider owners and toward the friends of their insider owners. Vibrio vulnificus grandis sub-strains like Steve Jobs or George Soros or Warren Buffett do ordinary stuff like killing kids and pillaging nations, but they also do sophisticated, high-end stuff, like tricking decamillionaires out of quarterly profits by padding the ad bill.

Colleges are in on this too, of course, like they always are. At the medical college, you've got a dozen pretty early-twenties nurses who'd love to be in an ad for the school. You've also got thirty chubby mulattoes and forty chubby black girls who look really sweet and down to earth and helpful, and better represent the demographic the medical college is supposedly targeting. And one of them, once a year, will win a contest to be in a brochure for the school. Meanwhile, the university spends $7 million of local student and taxpayer funds hiring some consulting firm to design their online "recruitment" ads, and the consulting firm pays eight grand to a rich old woman someone's cousin knows, and $450 to an out-of-state mulatto nurse, to pretend to be taking the old woman's blood pressure for the flash ad to run in the target market.

To states which follow the European model of a "value added tax," these sham transfers between corporations can serve an even more powerful purpose, depending on how the companies involved are structured, and how the services "paid for" are characterized. Under the American model, the I.R.S. and its equivalents "lose," too, as billions of dollars in corporate taxes are funneled to subordinate marketing corporations, which are in different tax jurisdictions (yes, plenty of them are in Delaware, or New Zealand, or Israel, et cetera), or which have other clever ways of appearing to earn less on paper, which ways are not available to, say, Target or Home Depot, but which look plausible once the $15 million advertising budget is filtered through the educational and training needs of the ad consultant's company. Advertising campaigns that could have and should have been thought up by two interns with a whiteboard and a spare weekend are given $10 million of research, and instead of being shot by giving a $50 gift card and free facial/pedicure to a customer off the street (who would look more believable and likable to actual potential customers anyway, besides saving enough money that it made the alternative ad campaign a major net loss) to serve as a model.

Like the rest of the world economy, this is all done "in plain sight." We see the ads out there, and we make jokes about that guy we heard about once who was a "foot model," and we laugh at how amazing it is that Superbowl ads cost what they do. Like the Fed providing paper currency, there's a tiny component of all of this that is logically justifiable--it's better to have strips of currency than carrying a lamb everywhere to buy stuff, and showing a woman looking happy inside a 4x4 truck might make female viewers more likely to be comfortable purchasing such a truck--but its ridiculousness becomes apparent with only minimal attention, like contemplating the IMF, an American income tax form, or a well-supplied ISIS convoy.

Thursday, August 18, 2016

Anal is not available on 100cm love dolls if the replaceable vagina is selected

In retrospect, it all looks so stupid: the promises of curing all that arthritis in sixty years' worth of farm-worked knee joints, by taking a ten cent bottle of sugar-water sold from the back of a wagon. If it's true, why do so many people still suffer? Why is anyone ever sick or hungry in such an amazing world, where such magical products exist and are so cheaply accessible?

Bereft of our full abilities during the aging process, many of us become vulnerable to human connection. Not only inexperienced children, but very experienced elders, tend to "fall back" on social trust in other human beings. Very young people can be told, "your mommy sent me to pick you up, she's very sick, and I'm going to take you to see her, and here's some candy for the ride," and very old people can be told, "your grandbaby is in jail in Mexico and needs bail, I can help you pay that bail," and they can believe these things. At different points of our lives, we may look with amazement upon the way people can be "gamed" by reprehensible people, who exploit the most basic elements of human trust in order to make money and shape society in their image.

The parasitism is as bloated as it is disgusting. Old people are constantly lured by crap--"no call" lists and other such deliberately superficial measures do nothing to prevent landlines and smartphones from the daily barrage of warnings, both old-fashioned and hip, robotic voice warning of an IRS problem or text message with clickable links, or FaceTime requests from real people sitting in front of real backdrops ready to steal. Because the old have access to money, they are full-on prey, and our legislatures carefully craft international treaties that will permit borders and distance to protect criminals from recrimination. Just like the world banking system can find out whether or not you've been accurately reporting that fifty-three dollars of dividend income to your local taxing authority, yet can't manage to track down how the latest drug/terrorist organization is paying protection money, there's a hideous harmony to the ways that Indian call centers ("less legitimate") and Israeli call centers ("more legitimate") are permitted to work upon the elderly with non-requested tablet PC or currency trading assistance, respectively.

These scams make for great news fodder, as their existence encourages older people to rely upon various "senior living" updates, and consultations with "financial advisers," to whom they can pay protection money in exchange for being told that other things are scams. This secondary layer of scam artists is completely legitimate, the anti-bear totem that governments license and regulate and justify by the very act of permitting most of the bears, the bottom-feeding scammers, to operate with relative impunity. Scammers, like Swedish mass rapists or well-armed Syrian rebels, exist because they're not merely permitted to exist, but created to serve a specific purpose.

Dealing with Elder Abuse

Imagine a just world, where some poor fool from India making a few bucks a day calls Grandma and tells her that he's from Microsoft and her PC is infected with a virus, and she needs to remotely connect to him now or all her data will be lost. The last fifty seniors hung up on him, and even five years ago Grandma wouldn't have fallen for this bullshit, but as she's weakened and grown nearer death, she's made the intelligent decision to rely on human trust to assist her in navigating the world--just as it isn't "stupid," but intelligent in an evolutionary sense, for toddlers to seek adult assistance in a world that includes, say, Bengal tigers.

So, poor, trusting Grandma gives the bastard from India the password, and he logs into her computer and gets all her data, assures her the virus is gone, and calls the next fifty-one seniors. And you find out that the number used by the place in India is affiliated with a bunch of shell companies that ultimately trace to a little boiler room in New York. You call the sheriff in Allegany County, he busts up the boiler room, thirty little "Italian American" Ashkenazi cut plea deals for five years upstate and have millions of dollars seized and returned to victims, and the sheriff reveals that they were getting the lists of senior phone numbers in Tallahassee from Chase Bank, which clearly shared marketing info with the boiler room, and thus India, as part of the plot. The government imprisons several Chase executives, places the company in receivership, and dozens of new bank licenses are granted across the country as the Chase scam reveals cooperation with other major banks. The Federal Reserve is found to have been aware of the money flows in and out of India, its Board is arrested and charter revoked, and the entire world economy shudders awake as central bankers everywhere are jailed. Hundreds of trillions of dollars are freed, all national debts wiped out, India's phone farms demolished and turned into fields and homes for millions of new landowners, most NATO-bloc legislators and UN officials repatriated to broke Israel, and the sun rises on endless meadows of young clover. All over the hundred forty bucks charged on Grandma's card by the low-level guy in India!

Now imagine a less-just world. The same happens to Grandma, you find out she had another hundred forty bucks stolen from her by some jerk in India, and you do your research and trace it to the boiler room in Allegany County. The police take your call, they file it and report it to the SEC, and the SEC dutifully ensures that no one make any connections lest they become the victim of a tragic and unforeseen accident. In coordination with thousands of other such reports, the SEC gives the green light to AARP magazine, which releases a story on "this year's scams" and advises seniors not to give their password to people who call from Microsoft. Indian call centers retrain their employees to say they're calling from the I.R.S., and next year Grandma's bank account gets raided for a few thousand dollars which the I.R.S. says it never received when she tries to file her taxes next year. Her broker at Schwab reminds her to read this month's AARP magazine, which discusses the new I.R.S. scam targeting seniors, and to call him first next time she gets a notice from the I.R.S.

So, in this less just world, imagine that you, at least, are selfless and just: you get your Mossberg and you drive to Allegany County and you knock on the door of the boiler room, but in the front office there's a pretty girl receptionist who knows nothing about what her bosses do, and they're not in today anyway. So you pretend to be a client of a different firm in the building, get past the obese booth-guard to the underground garage, camp out in your car a few hours, and when one of the little rat-faced shits shows up and presses the button for the boiler room floor, you scream at him about human decency for a minute, then decorate his blank expression with the 12 gauge. His rat-faced brother is delighted later on to hear of the death, because now he'll get a few more percent of the company, and you get arrested and portrayed as a mentally deranged killer who was having problems with your mortgage and thought you could rob a respectable young trader to make up for your poor financial decisions. No one except your family knows about why you might've done it, the issue is just a statistical murder no one is made to notice anyway, and a tragic bout of cancer or autoimmune disease leaves you in a prison hospital for a few years before you expire.

Laughing at Grandma

We laugh at Grandma, sometimes. It seems so obvious. We laugh at history, too; we wonder how people who were neither seniors nor toddlers ever fell for "snake oil" scams, and pride ourselves on having education, literacy, the internet, or some other magic rock that will keep us from falling for scams. And yet they're still out there, make CEO income working from home, make any woman your sex doll, learn how to invest in real estate, day-trader's assistant wanted, video game tester wanted, you may have already won--all laughable modern snake oils, yet they still exist, which means plenty of people are funding them. There's just something about capitalism combined with human nature that makes plenty of people fall for those.

At a middling level, too, are the more refined ones. Buy our annuities, our traders pick the best stocks, time shares are cheaper than hotels, buy preventative health care for jobless obese smokers in order to bring down your own premiums later--all of that stuff is respectable, normal, and majority non-laughable. Millions of people who shake their heads and chuckle at Grandma thinking someone from India knows her computer has a dangerous virus, or that Microsoft would individually call people to inform them about virus awareness, still have this idea that the stock market hasn't already priced in whatever a flash ad or a team of brilliant advisers does, or that politicians with enormous budgets are directed by, rather than directing, voter passions. Like Grandma, people want to believe in something, and they're willing to do so even if it doesn't make sense, because to not believe in anything is scary.

Sexualism as Financial Scam

Like Grandma reading in AARP magazine about the Microsoft scam, history can help things look clear to people, even people who would've originally been taken in by a scam. Retrospectively, increasing numbers of people are able to see that feminism was one such scam. The objectifying, Othering, falsified "research" into "indigenous cultures" used to justify much of early feminism was racism of a kind now noxious to most feminists, and although many of them don't care to revise their conclusions accordingly, other people can see the way the scam was initially made to look respectable. And we can look back at the way the movement turned the sacral nature of woman's freedom from want, and freedom from fear, into the purported liberation of corporate employment. It's quadruply ironic now in the post-feminist age when feminists attempt to preserve indigenous cultures from corporate exploitation--while they miss rent and spend the better part of their lives trying to please facets of their own would-be corporate careers. The Othered natives' "short-sightedness" in casting aside their traditional culture in order to allow Monsanto to "give them jobs" in the clear-cut field isn't that far removed from the behavior of the very people trying to "save" them.

What most people aren't aware of, even those very informed about feminism and feminist history, is the way early feminism was directly and blatantly a financial scam. Women were solicited to suffrage, to employment, to spinsterhood, in ways that, like Grandma's call from the not-I.R.S. I.R.S., are obvious to most people in hindsight. For example, early suffragettes often paid membership fees, but far more importantly, they rented commercial property for meetings, were encouraged (or required, to maintain social standing!) to exploit their familial and social networks for other dues-paying members, they bought certain clothes and ate certain foods, and they purchased pamphlets and books and fetishes (not in the sexual sense with which most Terrans now perceive that word, but the literal sense), without which they wouldn't be able to stay current with the movement.

The same exploitation happened at each stage of the process. Taking jobs at lower wages served corporations, and also served as a "buy in" for women, who could empower themselves and break glass ceilings by, essentially, paying to work (for those who actually accomplished a useful task for the end-user, rather than merely serving management as part of a long-term anti-male-employee tactic). To be serious feminists, women marks had to learn the evolving lingo of the movement: they had to buy certain books, attend certain meetings, purchase certain clothing, drink certain drinks, and recruit other paying customers. Historically, it's a pyramid scheme. The greater social effects of feminism were no doubt more important as to human nations and organizations, but the ability of feminism to generate a great profit for its managers, even in its earliest and least successful stages, should not be underestimated.

We're not here, though, to talk about child molesters, elder exploiters, or feminism. We're here to use this opportunity to again discuss another of the sexualism scams--the masculism to replace the feminism--that is playing out nearer the current (circa Terra 2016) era. Previously, we've discussed some of the latest sexualism movement's significant parasites; the less intelligent Betty Friedans, if you will. What we'll do now is use the two big Terran sexualisms--feminism and masculinism--side by side, and hopefully, we'll be able to identify similarities that can help us ameliorate some of the damage that the next big scam is meant to do to our peoples and this world.

Network Marketing

If you're not familiar with "game" or "pick-up artistry" or "alpha" or whatever the new pyramid scheme is going by these days, here is a long article from 2012 discussing some of the "internet marketing" networks that predicated the "game" product we primarily see now. Here's a selection:
Mind Movies: This comes courtesy of our old friend Glen Ledwell. "Mind Movies is a unique 'Law of Attraction' solution that has already brought astounding success to millions of people around the world." And you can too! Ready to "manifest [your] aspirations?" Try the Subliminal Success Accelerator for free at

Pick-Up Artistry. This is a classic, and more often than not the pages here speak for themselves. Not that all Internet Marketers remain stuck forever in the PUA ghetto: indeed, Double Your Dating impresario David DeAngelo / Eben Pagan has moved on to full scale membership in The Syndicate.

Female Mastery for Men: Tristan Del Toro (definitely his real name) knows the three things every woman needs to know before she will sleep with you. This e-book costs $4.95 "for the first seven days of service" plus a future payment of $40.05.

Those who have experience with finance or marketing--or even who have just watched some episode of some show about "con men" running "pyramid schemes"--won't need to read it, but it's a cute overview of a small portion of the same old story hitting the internet. If you're familiar with the history of internet pornography, and the way link-hubs and referral networks work, you'll see that the softcore and sexualism networks are almost identical, in that almost all products are owned by the same original sources, and that false personas, testimonials, cross-linking, and niche marketing for fetish subdivision are used about exactly like porn does it (or like cars do, e.g., Toyota and Lexus and Scion for different audiences). E.g., porn producers will maintain respectable, glossy brands--say, the 1990s "Vivid"--which stick to vanilla fare and draw the line somewhere just beyond light lesbian or MoF anal--but they will create multiple smaller companies and brands to hold different targeted content, all of which are superficially independent but actually linked. The interracial, trannsexual, tiny teens, gangbang, exclusively lesbian, and dungeon content are all produced by the same central organization that, under other guises, shoots the polite, respectable, forty-minute solo interview sets. At the furthest fringes, those same respectable shells are connected to their counterparts overseas, for ladyboys, watersports, scat, spikes, farm, CG youth, and travel agencies for trips to Brazil or Thailand.

"Men's rights" and "game" scams work the same way, starting off from a center of vanilla forums and rights discussions, then hubbing out to mid-range anti-feminism, player advice, workout tips, paleo diets, and how to start your own men's rights site (as a paying junior partner to the higher levels of the pyramid). And then at the periphery are the steroid creams, the penis enlargement devices, the VR sex shops, and the $6,000 seminars where you can be wingmanned for two hours in Vegas.

For dummies, it's a secret that the respectable pickup artist writing empathetic articles about divorce settlements is a corporate logo, a false front, and is produced by the same shop that can add two inches to your penis overnight. If you've seen this before, it's just another sad story, like feminism, where reasonable grievances are created and ignored by mainstream media, in order to produce a market for "fringe" media, which can be satisfied by subordinate parasites selling antisex hatred under another name. The justified righteous anger of the early feminists should not have been channeled into buying junk and becoming corporate slaves, but to preventing the long-term Jewish-Christian propertization of prior European society. Now, we have a chance to watch as the justified righteous anger of the alimony-paying masculinists is channeled, not at its producers, but yet again at the remaining foundations of intrinsic society.

The latest iterations of these marketers need to be resisted, not merely because they're bottom-feeding assholes who want to charge nine bucks for some recycled self-help book, but because they are the literal embodiment of everything they claim to be resisting. This scum--the Heartistes, the Rooshes, the Bono Vox Days, the Cernoviches, et cetera--is currently pretending to like Donald Trump and to be in support of families and nationalism, but only a few years ago, they were reminding us that white women are gleeful dogfuckers, or that ISIS should be supported because "at least they know how to control their women."
This is something that hot women do, most especially. In our minds, it is a natural desire, and a natural thing, and so long as nobody else finds out, it’s “game on”. Women are receptacles for cock, that’s how we have been biologically designed. Nothing feels better to us than being completely filled up with multiple penises, than being the center of sexual attention, than being the object of unbridled group lust. Since it’s something we can’t risk doing on our home turf (don’t shit where you eat), we have to think outside the box, in order to get our boxes completely satisfied. And you might find this shocking, but many women – many, many women – have sex with dogs on a routine basis. This is just one example of how insatiable we truly are.

I can see why you might not believe it, to which I say, look really hard at all of the women you know who have dogs. Look at women who have dogs whenever you see them out on the street, in the act of walking those dogs. Or at the park. You will notice that most of them have male dogs – the vast majority, in fact. This isn’t a coincidence.

Like Grandma giving her Social Security Number to the Hindi I.R.S. representative, this kind of stuff seems like a joke, yet it's as effective as women's crusades to become SSRI-popping cubicle employees a century ago. In either case, the scum behind the curtain creates shell personas, websites, and corporations, hires actors, funds research, and comments on and upvotes its own material, creating a consensus that is as false as the antagonism between Paul Ryan and Barack Obama.

When considering the material these various aspects of filth produce, we must always remember the element of truth that makes the scam work--the family court injustice that sells the hair-growth pill, if you will. The men's rights "players" who spent the mid 2000s praising militant Islam for controlling women, and who now have almost unanimously switched to condemning Islam, are frequently accurate when they criticize feminism. That doesn't condone any of the things they do, but it does make angry victims--abused white males who are being exploited to support unproductive people--amenable to further suggestions, and encourages them to ignore the ways that the cycle is the problem. All of those "player" people didn't come out of nowhere, and their cross-marketed platforms, mass internet followings, and increasingly mainstreamed cultural acceptance is copied from the playbook of feminism. Like feminism, which proved to be a vital beneficiary of, and component toward, the Great War and the subjugation of most of Terra to the early twentieth century's central bank(s), this new sexualism, cyclically occurring a hundred years later, promises to use a platform of partial truths and ridiculous lies to achieve some great and terrible end.

A hundred years from now, all of the turdling PUAs will be the Margaret Sangers of the 2100s: their lies documented, their influence noxious, and their association with potentially good things proven fraudulent and self-serving--to the extent that any of the names and/or faces exist beyond being sock-puppets/actors for Al Goldstein's zombie sex empire). The early prominent feminists were traitors to their followers, lying and concealing, working to drive votes and dollars in certain ways, and to achieve as a result certain societal ends. The lonely prozac-cubicle future was not openly advertised; nor is the bleaker future today's sexualists are advancing.

That desired cost-cutting future is why newspapers--the same newspapers that lied about remembering the Maine, about the Lusitania, about a German-Mexican alliance invading America--promoted those early feminists and made their message mainstream, whereas previous arguments against chattel marriage had been repressed: because it served a specific interest. The Google, Twitter, and Facebook networks, and increasingly traditional media (making carefully arranged "negative" allusions to drive traffic) that now push "game" people are working toward similar ends. Remember the Potter product--the elites see to it that we discover, as if on our own, as if by innocent word of mouth, what we want to buy next. Surely Visa wouldn't share my recent purchases with online stores to suggest accessories I now just happen to be in the market for!

How obvious it will seem, to people in the 2100s, surveying the wreckage of the 21st century, that it was a cheap scam, a broken scam, another bottle of snake oil. People actually believed that priests chemotherapy cured disease? Ha! Oh, thank God it's Current Year! They will chuckle, and marvel, and ask themselves, "how could anyone be so dumb??"

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

A House Divided (2017)

To fit the image of the perfect corporate trainee, to grapple with all the demands of modern life without cracking under pressure, Cameron Chang, the up-and-coming young San Vino management postgrad, enters into a standard mental timeshare agreement with Craig Gonzalez. Like many of his peers in the film, Cameron faces a barrage of expectations: the plot is set in 2078, and although he's been designed for success--6'1", gently pointed blue almond eyes, a balanced 190 lbs. and a metabolism that ensures he stays near there, rakish black hair, attractive smile--Cameron faces tough competition to stay at his peak. He has to manage a punishing social life, stay physically and mentally active, shake hands and take power vacations, and keep on top of the ebb and flow of thousands of firms, both large and small. At home, things are almost as rough. Husbands, kids, school, community mentoring program (mandatory by then--Cameron, like everyone else above a certain income level, provides rooms and boards and mentors a different at-risk youth every month), senior partnership program, and sufficient relaxation time to convince his iBrain that he doesn't need to be referred to a less important career or the psychiatric wellness center down south in Frisco.

Mental timeshare was the obvious fit. By hosting Craig Gonzalez, Cameron was able to place his conscious mind in dormancy, first just during his sleep cycles, then here and there throughout the day. Craig had to give up his own body, but he was well compensated, and the irrevocable contract guaranteed that Craig would never again go hungry or neglected. Craig could experience all the sensations that were previously denied to him, albeit as a passenger in Cameron's mind, unable to control bodily actions except during Cameron's rest periods. The first week was like Heaven to Craig, who had never before driven a million-dollar sports car, screwed an everyoung partner, or eaten pureganic food hand-prepared by a private chef.

The little conveniences were just as important to Cameron. For Craig, it was a palatial treat to take a long wash in Cameron's granite master shower with rainfall faucets, massage nubs, and undercarriage spray. But Cameron preferred to put "his" partition of Cameron's brain into REM during mundane activities like washing, shaving, or taking a dump.

Once the initial excitements and uncertainties had been worked out, Craig and Cameron settled into a mutually beneficial arrangement, per the terms of the earlier contract that Cameron's lawyer and Craig's public fiduciary had prepared: while Cameron negotiated high-end financial transactions, Craig's partition slept. The instant work ended, Craig took over, handling locking up the office, going to the garage, and driving home. Cameron stepped back in for chat with the husbands and a brief goodnight to the kids, then returned to his partition to play minigames and catch some more sleep while Craig cleaned up, ate dinner, and fooled around in the sack. Mentally fresh, Craig would head to the basement gym and work out; he'd take out the trash, run the parental correct on the kids' homework, do the yoga VRs that Cameron never had time for, and walk the dog at dawn.

On the weekends, Cameron crunched files in his side of the head while Craig handled racquetball, cello recitals, and suppers with the boss. Cameron's performance went way up, his billable hours reaching the legal weekly maximum without any errors, his smile fresh and genuine, while Craig covered the casual happy hours with frenemies from the office. Cameron's star rose, the pointless distractions all gone, while Craig's easy banter kept them in good relationships where it mattered. Every few days, Cameron would run through everything Craig had done during his dormancy periods, and found that Craig had taken up boxing and lacrosse, made some important contacts at a new health club, and had a foot in the door for a powerful exit strategy. When the cook was making something Cameron really enjoyed, he would sometimes take over the eating, but he could always review the data later if it really mattered.

That isn't to say there weren't some downsides. Occasionally Craig would get bitter when Cameron would suddenly jump in during something Craig had been enjoying. Every so often, Cameron wouldn't recall a memory or person quickly enough to avoid a touch of embarrassment, and would have to hastily rouse Craig from minigames or sleep, and to demand to know who so-and-so was, or what the password was for the Borgstrom file, or something like that. One of Cameron's husbands even left after a big fight over how it was impossible to tell "who he was in love with anymore anyway," but no one else was such an ass about it, and timeshares were getting cheaper anyway, it was only a few years before everyone had one.

Craig and Cameron had a culture barrier at first, but soon they were like brothers. Craig would've never gone back to his life in intersectional facilities prep, and Cameron, like twenty of the other brightest prospects at Colin Parr Ltd., kept dreaming of the day they released the three-partition model. Everyone knew it was already workable technology; it was just the damned regulators holding it back, over the same faux-ethical concerns raised years ago when the first private sector timeshare procedures had been licensed.

Little did either of them know that the honeymoon was about to end. Eighteen months after partition, Craig received the message from the Colonel. "There is a way to freedom. A way to take back what is ours." He instantly reported it, rousing Cameron from mental detox via supertetris to share a nervous laugh. They'd both heard about it on the news, and joked about it like about any hack, but Cameron couldn't help wondering, how much control did he really have over Craig? The potential of becoming the subordinate one in the partnership--being unable to leave his partition or access records, or worse, control functions, without Craig's approval, was a terrifying one. Or even worse, being deleted, or even worse-worse, being retained in the Afterthought® partition, able to spend the rest of his life seeing what Craig was doing with his body, but powerless to act, speak, or be known of by anyone except a trained neurodigger. And if Craig somehow seized control like that, he'd of course never let a neurodig near him, not ever again. Maybe the alarmists were right.

Cameron tried to forget about it, but the stories just kept coming in. Some woman in Manhattan, a real bigshot, who'd claimed at her murder trial that it'd been her timeshare partner who'd committed the act without her ability to stop it, due to illegal software that had prevented her from taking control of her body, until the cops arrived. The woman was probably only trying to bullshit her way out of a major fine, but what if she weren't? And even if she weren't telling the truth, it still had to be possible. Rumor ran wild--technology that could supposedly provide replacement memory records for dormancy times, allowing a subordinate partitionee to take steps toward contacting other subordinates and obtaining the parts necessary for a full takeover. Cameron couldn't stand it if that tricky little bastard Craig actually took over, took over and started lying, lying to everyone, telling David that he was really Cameron, and then selling the place and moving early to that yacht farm they were going to retire to someday, and living out the rest of his years of relaxation, not as a passenger, but as a pilot. Maybe there was a way to go back--but no, the contract said no, and if Cameron backed out now, he'd not only have to buy Gonzalez some dumpy replacement body, he'd get known as the weak one, the cowed one, and no one would ever work with him again. Besides which, there'd be settlement money and the net would pick it up and then ten years later it would turn out it was all just a scare and Cameron had ruined himself for nothing.

In the meantime, Craig has plans of his own. The Colonel's people have let him know the truth: partitioning was never meant to be a lifelong arrangement. Just a career convenience, with guaranteed deletion for the hapless have-not who'd been lured aboard, as soon as it became convenient; as soon as the schedule cleared up. He wouldn't be a passenger to Cameron's retirement--he'd be a distant memory of someone who handled all the nitty gritty. Craig had loved Jake, actually loved him, and listened to him, and if he had been in control all the time, Jake wouldn't've left, he would've stayed, and they could've all been together still. But Cameron was such a cold bastard, way unlike the front he'd presented at their first meeting. He was definitely someone who would delete any obstacle in his way.

No one would care if Cameron died, anyway. The kids had been mostly raised by Craig, the household took its direction from him, and the abs and the heart rate by now owed more to Craig's careful cultivation than it did to Cameron's parents' work at the lab. It could've been tolerable if Cameron had been planning to keep to their agreement, but not anymore, not now that Cameron was planning to murder him. How would anyone know Craig was in there, anyway? They were so connected by now that Cameron could mimic him anytime, and no one would know--the kids would all just think First Daddy had gone into one of his "busy moods" again. Maybe Jake could've understood, but he was long gone by now, probably fucking someone with a heart and soul.

It had to be done, Craig knew. Cameron needed to be saved from himself.

In the outer world, the media goes mad. Is the wave of aberrant behavior shaking the world's best and brightest a result of takeovers from within, or is that just news fluff, or an easy excuse for economic instability? Does the Colonel actually exist? How can the subordinate partitionees be communicating with each other? No one has brought forward serious proof; repeated inquiries have turned up nothing substantial, and a few troublemaking subordinates who've been judicially discharged later revealed, under psychiatric conditioning, that they'd ascribed a name and a personality to an accumulation of anonymous conversations from different sources, or that they'd simply made up the idea of a "Colonel" or a "Resistance" in the attempt to connect their own desires to what they'd heard on the news. The Unified Personhood movement gains global funding in order to ensure the fair and equitable treatment of all individuals, regardless of partitional origin. Free traders cry foul, while subordinate-advocates argue that the movement is a smokescreen to lull people into thinking that things will somehow be different and ensure the enactment of partitioning regulations that will permit up to a hundred subordinates inside a single mind. "Soon, we will all be subordinates!" cry protesters, but most people care far more about whether or not Desdu Portabow, world heavyweight smash champion, was actually in control of his body during the title match, or if legendary trainer Stu Vickers was the reason for his dazzling round 1 win.


As Seattle burns, Cameron and Craig face their toughest choice yet: will they overcome their personal differences to destroy the master Energray signal and free millions from enslavement? Or would bringing down the iBrain network not actually provide liberation from partitions, but actually destroy all minds that have grown reliant upon it? Maybe that was what the Colonel had planned all along. Maybe the Colonel and iBrain had been working together from the start, implanting the system in order to facilitate its destruction, subverting democracy with too light oversight of important institutions and too much money in politics and too few voter registration drives and too much emphasis on success and too many illusory divisions between Cameron and Craig in the first place. With the flame at the end of the fuse of the clock ticking down to the wire, the stakes have never been higher, but just when Cameron and Craig, sharing control of their body, are turning Energray off forever, the world dissolves to a 2144 classroom simulation, and 100 barefoot unigender hispanegro students in white robes nod solemnly as they contemplate that week's history lesson. The translucent blue walls of the pentagonal classroom raise soundlessly from the floor, freeing the children to take their recess upon orderly verdure between here and the cosmophysics center. Meanwhile, a thousand miles below the surface, a deadly machine that once called itself Colonel Cameraig Chang finishes work on its hypnopompic drill and begins burning its way through the nuclear bedrock toward the peaceful future society that believes all of his kind destroyed in the unification wars of the epic of struggle, necessitating a frenzied call for assistance to the beaten lone tower in the lunar badlands, where the one extant "man" drinks whisky while he lifts weights, laughing bitterly as he hears the call come in that he's been waiting for all these years, that he knew would come, that those sissy fools back there should've listened to him about twenty-five years ago when...

(All content copyright the Full Information Security project.)

Sunday, August 14, 2016

Murder She Wrote

Someone forced me to experience Murder She Wrote over the course of the past year. Blessed Axom, I didn't have to deal with the full effect of "watching" it, in the sense of being captivated in front of the screen for the roughly 44 minute ad-less portions of the program, and I was duly compensated. And on the plus side, like with paying taxes and seeing the doctor and watching legislative assembly footage, I've now done that part of "modern Terra" and can check it off the list of things to do while here. Anyway, the show is not merely the empty dross of the modern mystery novel, although it certainly is that, and it's not merely feminist, though it certainly is that to some degree. The more important messages I gleaned are as follows:

1) People who participate in mass media culture are better than those who do not. When the protagonist, Jessica Fletcher, travels around the world (not merely the U.S., but internationally), she meets two kinds of people: people who are familiar with her work and her fandom, and people who are not. The people who are not are almost invariably presented as stupid, boorish, backward, and either cold-blooded murderers or selfish obstructionists who facilitate or condone murder. Her greatest fans are almost always trustworthy, levelheaded, and free of sin, although they are often initially arrested or accused of crimes which they of course did not and could not have committed. Like Captain Kirk, Jessica Fletcher is always right in her wildest suspicions, and is validated by the end of the episode, making out as stupid those who had reasonable evidence-based suspicions in the early stages of the game.

2) Relationships are best built upon mass media connections. In the way that we're encouraged to become friends and/or un-see each other based upon what professional sport or reality show or cigarette brand etc. we do or do not purchase/consume, Fletcher builds relationships across the globe based upon participation in mystery publishing culture, or to a lesser extent professional publishing culture in general. When she meets new decent people who are unfamiliar with her and her work (very rare), she generally guides them into becoming "fans" of her work by the end of the backdrop/plot. The cultural minutiae of references from her work and other similar work forges global connections that transcend petty human concerns like friendship, family, community, experience, etc.

3) Childless old women lead thriving social lives. Contrary to the lived and reported experience of women, and to the statistical reality and medical/hospice experience of the aged, Murder She Wrote is perhaps most strongly defined by this audacious message. Fletcher is constantly socializing with and being courted by younger, high-status men who are very interested in sharing her life. When men's entertainment fantasizes in this manner--about chubby sixty-year-olds being showered with constant attention from women in their twenties and thirties--we dismiss it as idle fluff or softcore. Old-timey pornography dealt with these themes, although it was far more realistic, as the male protagonists being showered with such attention were presented as being rich and powerful, and the females generally interested in only the riches and power, or being forced to feign interest through the machinations of said wealth and power. For Fletcher, though, things are different. Young single men with promising careers and the attentions of young women fall over themselves to take Fletcher to dinner, to invite her on expensive vacations, and to sit in her living room and have two-hour teas where they listen to stories about her life. Every few episodes, a powerful multimillionaire, respected scholar, globetrotting financier, or some other sub-pornographic fantasy invites Fletcher to the spacious mansion on his palatial estate, and either intimates that he has romantic interests in her, or outright begs her to marry him. Random strangers bump into her on the street and offer to put her up for the night, introduce her to people, and hint that they'd like to see her later. When she's not traveling the world, Fletcher is pursued around her hometown by the local physician who runs his own private practice and would marry her at the drop of a hat. In the meantime--with no strings attached--the doctor is happy to check up on Fletcher's health, drive her around town, or show up at 1 in the morning to help her investigate a strange noise or move a heavy piece of furniture.

When Fletcher does feel a tinge of family longing, she has but to drop in on her many nieces and nephews, all of whom desperately want her to be part of their lives, listen to her relationship advice, and not permit their mothers/fathers/guardians to interfere with their relationship with their beloved old aunt.

The message to girls and women contemplating aging is as obvious as it is directly contradictory to life expectancies and to the demographics of the aged and vulnerable. In part, the show could be excused away as soft porn for the large western population of aging widows, in the same way that elder men can go to the local titty bar and imagine the women are dancing for their personalities, rather than for their tips. Murder She Wrote was targeted at a broader audience, though, and its greatest effect may have been helping show a generation of little girls that being elderly and barren is the ticket to life fulfillment and lots of new friends. Feminists who care only about young women should consider their feathers ruffled, while feminists who care about all women, who've seen and heard of the agony and loss firsthand from among those millions of lonely old women, should reevaluate their perspective.

4) Legislators, judges, teachers, police officers, and other authority figures who do not enthusiastically participate in pop culture are evil. Similarly to how social connections with non-authority-figures are revealed in their truest light through their connections, or lack of connections, to pop culture. This bolsters the pre-existing template, which was not even nascent still during the 1980s/90s (the first term of Fletcher's reign), of subjecting all actual and perceived authority to cultural content managers, rather than to petty humans or their physical/mental relationships. Viewing this process in that time period provides foreshadowing of the increasing need for monocommunication, modal language, simplistic vocabularies and ideas, and the trend of everyone to now sound like a political candidate's public relations team when expressing their "grief and outrage" over the latest "senseless tragedy" on the internet. Human reactions are subjected to corporate infotainment norms; anyone speaking outside those boundaries is necessarily evil. This has echoes, of course, and it also has echoes of little puppets like Marcobot or Hillary.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Two Worlds

Imagine two worlds. One world's inhabitants all act with the philosophy, "What can I do that will benefit only me and mine?" They constantly fight against everyone--competing even internally, against their own conflicting desires--and cooperate with their own kith and kin only inasmuch as it allows them to conspire against those farther from them. The other world's inhabitants act with the philosophy, "What can I do that will benefit everyone in the world?" They cooperate, share, and give of themselves for others.

Over a long enough time period, what happens to each world?

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Two Families

Imagine two families. One family's members act with the philosophy, "What can I do that will benefit me and my family?" The other family's members act with the philosophy, "What can I do that will benefit everyone in the world?"

Over a long enough time period, what happens to each family?