Thursday, December 31, 2015

Zückerberg's Cat

If you never sign in to Facebook, are people still having discussions on it?

The Irony Age, a.k.a. the Isolated Age, so inundates us with its characteristics that we're tempted, like the grant-drunk quantum mystics of the twentieth century, to believe that missing the forest for the trees proves that there never was any forest. These Lysenkoist lines of unreasoning cause one to believe that Schrödinger's cat neither dies nor survives until a NeoWarren Commission has investigated the matter: pure insanity, but like the embrace of the term "queer," the physicists' embrace of the archetypal cat has won them the Rovian verbal game. To whit, the lemmings now believe that their shared perceptions gain a godmode synergy which controls the cat's corpse as well as the venereal vector. They cannot imagine a reality greater than the boundaries of their stunted imaginations. The race is in the flesh, offspring is immortality, and so forth, for when we cannot perceive the intrinsic value of a moment, what, by comparison, excites us for later? Suffering, my friend, and nothing more, to sweeten our own pudding by comparison.

Yet, as we drown, are we to disbelieve the water by virtue of its omnipresence? Irony isn't really dead; it's just the new atmosphere. Like "decency," irony-as-concept still holds meaning, and still will, even long after the last organic sexual hominid is eliminated by the inversexual robotic clones responsible for maintaining the Terran wind farms until Space Admiral Al Goldstein's Pimpergalactic Party Wagon lands for its yearly recharge. When Bonnie Rotten is really long rotten, it'll be sadly ironic and ironically sad, but not neither, because the relativistic collective solipsism of denying irony, like denying history, is an attempt to play god without even trying on white robes beforehand. Lysenko's primordial soup, no less than Stalin's gaseous theories, is a mere sexualized projection, befitting the empty atoms manifested by the sick cellular god whom Sophia would have done well to abort. There are both forests and trees, after all, and even if you fantasize about a cigar, the cigar is still itself a mere cigar, just as the cat is still alive and a million people are exchanging likes and unfriends even though I don't like it.

Monday, December 28, 2015

That Pesky Mystique

Presuming you know who planned out and created western feminism, and who planned out and created the gradual creep of hardcore porn on demand in the western world...presuming that you know who made there be Queer Studies departments analyzing the oppression of women alongside computers with instant access to natural blondes chain-performing ass-to-mouth kisses and cumswaps, and HD twink/daddy bareback humiliation films...

...and presuming you know who said this:
The best way to control the opposition is to lead it ourselves.
...you really have no excuse for believing that the neoreactionaries, who supposedly resist multiculturalism, came from an ideological font of spontaneous purity. The haplogroups are lining up again; the useful idiots are certain that, this time, they're right.


The feminine mystique.



The NrX mystique.

Listen to Lenin and the Elders, who spoke before awareness of the internet cut off most of the insights we lowlies get.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Hunting Neo

The Matrix was certainly some kind of cultural turning point, in terms of "our" dreams. Namely, the death of the montage: no longer does the hero need to work hard, sacrifice, be disciplined, develop an honor code, and/or all of that other boring shit, in order to become utterly kickass. Instead, he can use Technology to instantly load all of those things. In two minutes flat, the deadpan emerges, "I know kung fu." (Which would be really stunning if kung fu were actually useful, rather than just cool-looking, but put that aside for the time being. And maybe not the literal death of the montage, but its sex change operation into a montage of rushed thought rather than an artistic representation of the passage of time.)

Matrix was 1999. The perfect crap to throw at Generation X and Millenials, you might say--not because those people actually fell into those groups, but because those groups were created for them to conform to, in large part by the same people who produced Matrix. It's a Cinderella story without the prince, where Neo is swept off his feet not by a handsome stranger (unless you count Morpheus), but instead, by a computer, who can make him into the person he already was...by adding things which he was not already, using technology which he did not understand, and which Morpheus, by his own admittance, lacked the verbal skills to explain. Actually, I always suspected that Laurence Fishburne could've explained, "It's a computer simulation," whereas the Wachowski self-identified siblings (S.I.S.) could themselves not.

Big jump. Big cultural shift. You go to college not to learn, but for the experience, after which you're entitled to a job. Perfect SWPL. You're plugged into a USB 11.0 that, without any effort greater than "deciding to take the ____ pill," makes you a superhero. No one cares about watching Rudy fail to play collegiate football for a whole movie. At least Nolan made Bruce Wayne spend a solid 15 minutes learning ancient Oriental arts from an Irish ninja/jedi master (sic) before he could learn unbalanced shuriken marksmanship and group combat. We're at least a half century past the time when we could bear the pain of watching someone train hard, unless you count Jewish world boxing champions (sic) who are no longer Heath's bottom.

So yeah, that's easy to track. 1999, new century incoming, they make Matrix, and it becomes passé to have to be reminded of grueling effort being put into anything. Whatever the cinematic laziness, it reveals a lot about cultural formation--the effortless society. Not really effortless, it turns out--the targets were meant to fail--but it leaves them feeling guilty, stupid, and despondent, when they look back on a lifetime of expecting to be like Keanu, and realize that duh, of course, it wasn't going to happen just by deciding. No Morpheus to make you better. Should've worked harder.

Neglected in this cinematic thrill ride is the end-century Good Will Hunting, using another propagandist's favorite. Matt Damon is useful for encouraging blind trust toward exorbitantly priced "special ops" programs, similar to how James Bond and Mission Impossible wanked off several generations of Anglo-Americans into believing that trillions of dollars in black operations were "cool" and "worth it." How crushing it is, when they sit down in Saint Peter's movie theater, learn the truth of the world, and discover that 99.9% of special operations involved nothing fancier than pushing some peasant labor organizer into a van, driving him to the local secret police office, and having him cremated, in order to prevent a daily 10 cent raise for banana pickers from going into effect. Ohhhh James Bond, ohhhh Navy Seals, you sexy, incredible daredevils, you...I hear you train sixty hours a week for years in a row using eighty thousand dollars of equipment per person before you travel to Honduras to enter an unlocked shack in a shantytown at two in the morning, put three into the back of some elderly 5'4" indigenous fruit picker sleeping in rags next to his wife, then fly to Israel for a special course in Krav Faga taught by overgrown rodent demons to learn how to break the teeth of dusky four-year-olds for throwing rocks at tanks. And you can't even manage that without a squad of nine, close air support, seven layers of flak protection, and 1.5 medals per mission.

Back to Good Will Hunting, though. Even though I hate, hate, hate Krav Faga. How narcissistic and dumb do you have to be to come up with a ritual-based "martial art" in the same half century when Bruce Lee and Dana White were popularizing (and proving) their irrelevance? They're beautiful, and God knows they should still be around and still be practiced, and it's quite certain that the artistic elements replaced the realistic ones with the advent of modernity--yet, the attempt to make up a new one, Krav Faga, is as artificial and loathsome as the pretension of learning Hebrew in a house taken from a Palestinian grandmother. No wonder that it takes six or seven men with assault rifles to successfully employ Krav Faga against even one pregnant woman with a gunshot wound. Without a team of porcine thugs at your back, KF fails to work at stopping teenagers from stabbing you right in the ribs. Ain't that right, checkpoint sissies? Oh, boo-hoo, if only the Christian Zionists would send us another two billion dollars a year, we might be able to protect ourselves better from those scary starving children! Haha--joke's on you. Once the Aztecs take over Aztlan, they'll cut off the funding to your little colony, bring foreign military aid to the Middle East down to Central American levels, and the Arabs will turn you into olive groves.

Okay, seriously, back to Good Will Hunting. It's an overlooked predecessor to Matrix, in the sense that the character gets picked out of nowhere, recognized as brilliant, by a wise and powerful mediator with connections to a bigger world. Robin Williams is no Morpheus, but however scantily he occupied Fishburne's later loafers, he played the same part. We know that good Will Hunting is smart. He just is smart. We know it because he memorized a lot of books and has no time for academic drivel. Not that we can tolerate watching him study, or thinking about the specifics of any of the issues that he must have grappled with in order to become quite so smart (or at least, smart enough to know when to cite certain portions of the works he memorized). No, we only have time for seeing him do humanities-fu with instant discovery.

So maybe they are Cinderella stories, only homosexual ones, where Dr. Sean Maguire and Hovercraft Captain Morpheus Nosurname are the handsome princes in disguise who just realize out of nowhere that cindy ella is actually gorgeous underneath all her mundane workaday clothes. The slipper fits, the world instantly becomes gigantic, and you're a celebrity who does transdimensional jiujitsu without any bothersome backstory. As always, the Freudian swine throw in quantum psychiatry, a.k.a. "psychotherapy." Literally, in Will Hunting's case, figuratively via the Oracle in Neo's. Parents, kin, and background are nonexistent in the brave utopia where you do transdimensional jiujitsu simply because you are tapped by a charismatic mediator, who will appear and force you to better yourself instantly based on your latent society-defying superpowers. If that doesn't sound like the wet dream of Critical Theory, what does?

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Corrupt Muds



Africa is a third world country and always will be. And no wonder. Over the past few years, Bill Gates and Sheldon Adelson have generously required American taxpayers to ship $4 billion of malaria vaccines and $700 million worth of isopropyl nitrite to Nigeria in order to assist them in reducing malaria rates and increasing Kaposi's sarcoma rates to bridge the gap.

And do you know what those ungrateful third-world morons are doing with the money? Do you know what they're doing with it? Omg, omg, if you knew, you'd be SO angry. THIS is why blacks can never establish a first-world civilization.

Adelson and Gates' charity is entirely different from colonialism, which was done to spread Christianity from white Europeans backed by Semitic banking slave-traders, and therefore evil. This is completely and utterly unlike neocolonialism, which is done to spread tolerance from white Europeans backed by Semitic banking slave-traders, and therefore not evil. Do you understand it, already? Jeezus, I don't know what's so hard to figure out about it. Why don't you just go move back to your CAVE in KANSAS?

Really, can you believe it? Using the money meant by glorious western heroes to combat malaria and champion Kaposi's sarcoma, those stupid darkies actually bought luxury cars and saved the money in secret Swiss bank accounts instead. Don't they care about their people? It's no wonder ✡Boko Harangue and ✡ISISA are running rampant over that whole place right now. After all, if the Islamic State of Israel and Saudi Arabia still sounds like a self-contradictory impossibility, then you haven't been running blood tests on the "Arab" pajama-kings who rule the biggest Black Friday in the world. And just so we're clear, the correlation between Mecca and Macy's is completely and utterly false, and selfish materialistic stampedes are not caused by the marketing departments of the House of Saud or Goldman Sachs Disease, but only by the stupidity of EBT people trying to buy bigscreen TVs on sale and crazy Musloids trying to stroke an old asteroid. Macy's and Saudis are responsible caretakers of the ancient traditions of flatscreen death tramplers, as trustworthy with your physical form as Zuckerberg is with pictures of your grandkids playing dress-up.

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Vidya Games

Those who are ignorant of the state of the art could always consider the question: could a video game ever be art? E.g., perhaps no video games are now art, but could art ever be achieved via a video-game format in the distant future? A video game, perhaps, where you press only four buttons: Button A to play the first two hours of the symphony, Button B for the second; Button C for the intermission, and Button D for the finale.

Once you reduce a play to film, and it becomes a movie, it requires the input of buying the ticket and walking into the theater and looking at the screen in order to experience the art. Once it's on a DVD, you have to click "play." An injunction against "input" being involved in art stems from the arrogant presupposition that all art does not already require input, the most important component of which is the mental participation in it.

The suspension of disbelief is built into all art. Looking at a painting, you can see the image the artist is trying to convey, or you can see a bunch of acrylics blended into a two-dimensional farce. The lines and shapes are not, themselves, reality. They are nothing but medium. Yet, despite the unreality of the arrangement of oils, the savvy viewer can sometimes see something in a painting--something that, perhaps, recalls reality or surreality. Someone might look at a Rothko and see the empty, trashy, narcissistic horror of a betrayed humanity and a scornful liar; someone might look at a Raphael and see a magnificent aspiration. Others might say that the development of the vanishing point has ruined all visual art by making the canvas a lie in which the viewer has to participate in order to be tricked into thinking it means anything.

Are poems art? Novels? Last time I looked at Beowulf, it was nothing but a series of symbols arranged on a page made from dead trees and recirculated newspapers. It takes massive investment to turn the written word into explicable art. To the illiterate, such an act--such an exchange; a participation; an experience--may be akin to magic, while to the semi-literate, they can sort of understand it; so, too, with those who lack the ability to play along with an actor in costume, a radio broadcast, a film, a video game, or whatever else the next medium is.

When you're dazzled or confused by new technology--when you lack the imagination, or the experience, to be aware of how that technology can be used to convey a message--it's easy to forget that all art requires that suspension of disbelief. Surrendering to, and beginning to understand, arts such as dance means being able to treat them as more than mere athletic displays. And yet, they are merely athletic displays, are they not? Ballet is no different than the NFL, if you're not learned or intelligent enough to understand the message being conveyed. When you're watching it, you can't focus wholly on, "Oh, there goes the skinny chick spinning in circles again." That's an amusing observation, on the level of Freud, Seinfeld, or Critical Theory: myopically mocking the human condition because spiritual expressions have material aspects. Plenty of people sneer at Wagner as being only a collection of random sounds that are "boring classical stuff" (sic), or perhaps a collection of sounds arranged pursuant to musical theory. It's sad that they're missing out.

Long before McLuhan, Yaldabaoth and His Chosen argued that the medium is the message. Not in the way McLuhan meant did they claim this, but rather, as a form of materialism which entraps those who, due to their inability to perceive a message, will ever only see the medium.

"--no rock nicks on me," Buster prattled away to Amanda Werner. "And if I'm going after Princess Zelda I want a couple of bottles of Budweiser beer along!" The studio audience laughed, and Isidore heard a sprinkling of handclaps.

Monday, December 14, 2015

The Homoarchy

While we're on the subject of Jane Austen, we should take another moment to acknowledge the ways that the homosexual movement to create patriarchy was not an exclusively male endeavor. Take Austen as a suitable example: every one of her stories is a paean to abject patrilineality, devoid of romantic passion or heterosexual eros of any kind. The only sparing allusions to the fact that (non-reproductive) heterosexuality exists occur in situations such as when Lydia Bennet runs off with Mr. Wickham for a cuddle, which prompts a militant response from the family and community. Indeed, Lydia's role--that of the idiotic heterosexual--recurs throughout Austen's homosexual manifestos, in the form of demonized characters who have the gall to be interested in sex for its emotional and physical aspects, rather than because it produces heirs which guarantee inheritance. Like the nigh-mythical standards of Queen Victoria, the sexually repressive mores of the patriarchy were created as much by myopic lesbians as they were by aggressive buggers.

None of this need bear any intrinsic, inseparable relationship to homosexuality, of course, be it erotic or otherwise. J.R.R. Tolkien provides a good contrasting example to Jane Austen, for Tolkien's homoerotic narratives express mandates of service to a higher cause, and are explicitly warm-hearted toward the idea of heterosexual love and passion. Indeed, Frodo and Sam fondle one another through Mordor, but in so doing they free the world, as well as one another, from the tyranny of arch-queer Sauron (the paradigm of militant buggery and male-only societies), and in so doing bless the romantic, non-financial bonding of Sam and Rosie, Aragorn and Arwen, and a horde of other Middle-Earth relationships. Tolkien's homoerotic fantasy world, with its confused acceptance of heterosexuality, would be a decent model for homosexuals to follow.

Although Tolkien exhibits the homosexual inability to understand how heterosexual eros could possibly occur--like dark matter, he is aware of it, and can plan around it, yet isn't able to understand what it actually is or where it comes from--he transcends the ignorance of the outgroup by exhibiting genuine compassion for the sundry by-products of the ingroup, such as children, grandparents, and planting trees from which you will never enjoy the shade. Therein we see where nationalism is helpful: providing a more visceral narrative whereby the homosexual may be bonded to past and future, permitting her or him to feel genetic skin in the game vis-à-vis the nurturing of a community to which s/he is linked by close inheritance (e.g., not by adopting fashionable accessories from somewhere progressive, which is crass colonialism). The personal Tolkien made himself a part of this, and his work reflects it, evincing a genuine delight in things lying outside the realm of his own preference. To Austen, though, the next generation is unspeakably worthless, meriting zero consideration from her faux-straight playthings. Tolkien's lone male wanderers, best exemplified in Gandalf, are the benevolent patrons of delighted children, even when those children have absolutely no plot significance; Austen's children are background fixtures, far less important than a chimney-piece at Rosings Park.

Clearly, Austen's homoarchy is of a decidedly different sort. All of Austen's main characters have female pillow-friends who fill their hearts with childish eroticisms prior to marriage, and/or extremely strong physical bedtime relationships with their sisters. Austen's own homosexuality, though, is immaterial to the discussion. In the pudgy hills of England, her post-menopausal teenagers scheme and maneuver for cash and position, paying lip service to marrying for "love," yet without ever once succumbing to a sudden kiss, a heated longing, or even a tingling brush-by in the hallway. Their dancing is a metaphor for gold and position, rather than physical courtship and true love--everything that Jack and Rose tried to escape on the Titanic by visiting the Irish party in the lower decks. Austen's version of "love" is not love, but a word which plays substitute for "fiscal and conversational utility." Ergo Marianne's wise decision to ignore her heart and loins (to both of which Austen gives clumsy, indirect reference), cast aside Willoughby, and give herself in possession to the much older Colonel Brandon. Estate size and conversational compatibility is, to Austen and the generations influenced by her, "love," and when Austen lays down pages of agonizing prose on the subject of whom to choose in marriage, it is clear that she either is unfamiliar with human love, or willfully seeks to pervert the meaning of the term.

The Sexual Revolution was fought against Austen as much as against anyone else. The innumerable lies and hypocrisies of the moral code propounded by the (homo-inspired) Anti-Sex League received their (albeit hypocritical and dangerous, as later years showed) outing in due course. Yet, due to the patrilineal inheritance system exploited by Austen and her ilk for destroying heterosexual bonding and replacing it with cold, homosexual, reproductive calculations--and the then-current necessity of the heterosexual act of insemination to produce future financial pawns--her callous LGBTQ hate-screeds came to be associated with heterosexuality. Quelle surprise. And what do you think the mitosic warlords will do to the meiotic romantics once their stem cell collections free them from the vulgar requirement of permitting flighty women to maintain their own onsite wombs?

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Centuries Late

This is timeless literature:
One of the most universally loved and admired American novels, Alpha Billionaire's Bride was penned as a popular entertainment. But the consummate artistry of Mia Caldwell (1985–2073) transformed this effervescent tale of rural romance into a witty, shrewdly observed satire of modern American life that is now regarded as one of the principal treasures of English language.

In a remote Tennessee village, far off the good Tesla roads of Hillary II's America, a country baby mama of no great means must marry off her five vivacious daughters. At the heart of this all-consuming enterprise are his headstrong second daughter Jada Howarth and her day-trading suitor Ian Buckley — two lovers whose pride must be humbled and prejudices dissolved before the novel can come to its splendid conclusion.
While this is definitely not:
Aristocrats don’t date real women like Elizabeth ... they marry them.

Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t believe in fantasies, unlike her sisters who constantly dream of being swept off into happily-ever-after-land in the sculpted arms of a sexy redcoat. Elizabeth knows the truth, that rich men want heiresses, countesses, and daughters of a country squire. They don’t want women from country provinces with entailed holdings, women who lead normal, ordinary lives like Elizabeth.

Then one day Elizabeth awakes to find the Lady Catherine de Bourgh outside her house, shrieking for her attention. de Bourgh believes she’s secretly been courting Fitzwilliam Darcy, one of the wealthiest, most sought-after bachelors in the country. Elizabeth has no idea what the noblewoman is talking about, but de Bourgh is too busy excoriating her for rising above her station to actually listen to what she has to say.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, Pemberlite and man-in-charge, couldn’t be more surprised when he’s informed that he's been courting a woman named Elizabeth Bennet. When he sees the disheveled, lovely Eliza at Netherfield, peeking out Bingley's door in horror at the gossipers swarming over the lawn, he’s confident she’s not behind the scam. He’ll have to meet her again to be certain. Men should probably meet their wives, anyway, shouldn’t they?

It’ll be fun getting to the bottom of this fiasco.

Tracking cultural "decay," we see that the moderns, who claim to revile and transcend pop trash, are often merely fans of outdated pop trash instead of current. Pride and Prejudice and Alpha Billionaire's Bride are essentially the same book, but the gradually increasing novelty of old-timey British accents lends the former an aura of unassailable respectability, while relegating the latter to the grocery-store rack for $7.99. Like an American President with a Peace Prize, there is nothing left to satire. If we traveled forward in time two hundred years, and found the trashiest of young adult fiction being lionized, it would in truth be no more surreal than it is to wake up today and find golem-souled Austen serials being pored over in search of meaning. Solzhenitsyn was centuries late, for we're already living in the most laughable of dystopias.

If you're honest with yourself, you can't mock a university for offering coursework in Postmodern Queer Studies, or Visual Representation in the Harry Potter Universe (400 level with prerequisites), unless you're equally critical of the Shakespeare wing, and of everything that goes on in the Econ. building.

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Smash

Without using the internet, what is the etymology of the replacement of "crash" with "accident"? Was it when nobles stopped letting the chauffeurs drive, and began piloting the vehicles themselves? When elders insisted on continuing to drive, despite their inability to properly manage manual steering and athletically-influenced brakes? When the finance capitalists who took over the auto manufacturers from the first generation began buying legislation meant to allow everyone to pilot a massive, dangerous hunk of metal, thereby forcing states to lower licensing requirements down to written tests designed at a third-grade reading level, and teensy-weensy Playskool-inspired obstacle courses, instead of requiring a minimum of mechanical knowledge and advanced piloting skill? When, subsequent to the latter objectives-based bars, senior citizens and women began driving en masse?

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Lousy Queers

The Weimar Republic provides ample learning opportunities, naturally, but Earth's current resistance, such as it is, continues to miss one of the main points, namely, bankers' exploitation of artificial deviance in the service of division and conquest. More specifically, we do not rebuild the family by attacking fags; the troubles caused by the fags, however glaring and smarting they may be or seem to be, are no more authentically derived than the troubles caused by the insert-variable-here lives matter hordes, or the prozio antifa murder-squads, which are being groomed to staff resurgent Chekas licensed to operate in all territories subject to the Mexi-Euberia Government of the 21st century's global north.

Forget not that, in the 1920s and early 1930s, the bankers in the occupied territories were, both subtly and overtly, pushing the message that homos were responsible for society's ills. The Weimar occupation bankers' press blamed the loss of the Great War on misguided virility, scapegoating German ass-fuckers for the problems caused by international trade. Which is to say, in the blandest prose possible, banker newspapers of the time were extremely homophobic. Through their printing presses, their movie screens, and their carefully scripted debates of protest, their cunningly placed "dissidents" and "revolutionaries"--the "correspondents" of today--guiding public opinion against LGBTQPZ~ people, encouraging said alphabet soup to be considered one of the major problems of the age.

This anti-homo cultural movement was so bigoted and sexist and transphobic and heteronormative and cissexist and even violent that the closest parallel to their behavior is found in the way the neoreactionary movement right now is responding to sexuality. Almost exactly like it, in fact. Eerily like it. Mysteriously like it. So weirdly paralleled in their anti-anal-sex perspectives that you could swear it was coming from the same source as before. Culture of Transcendence, natch. Once again, like Carter arming the mujahideen, the investment is giving returns in the form of future justifications for hate, anger, killing, and--most importantly--compounded interest.

Sure, white birthrates are dropping, and Caitlyn Jenner is a jerk, and homos are out there giving each other HIV and wanting everyone else to pay for it, but, far more importantly:

1) The fiscal and social disincentivization of parenthood and the family is the sole actual cause for the reduction in high-IQ birthrates, irrelevant of the mere symptoms of however much someone wants/doesn't-want to stuff twinks or munch carpet.

2) The celebritization of any random jerk of any predilection, sexual or otherwise, is a symptom of the same pathology that permitted virulent straight idiots to have been celebritized back even into the late 1800s, when the exact same newspaper and media bloodlines were celebritizing heterosexual idiots while vilifying the most ludicrously inane suggestions of non-heterosexuality. To use just one hilarious example, the straightest, strongest, manliest, most NFL-like tough-guy exercise in the latter half of the twentieth century was "the bench press," while prior to that, the bankers preferred that their wealthy cousins publish fitness articles in the magazines and newspapers they owned which made fun of men who exercised their pectorals as being effeminate for being concerned about the appearance of their chests.

3) Ever since the bankers got enough technology to bleed the countryside and create city-tumors, there have always been gross diseases among the condensing populations. The idea that disease comes without stigma, or that a thieves' cartel should collect heavy fees from a captive population of laborers for parceling out treatment, is not unique to the brief modern way the scam is working vis-à-vis pozzers.

It's all another scam; it's all the same scam, repeated for a new set of generations. Bite the apple if you will, NrX.

Where did patriarchy, in part, come from? Forgotten to most people is that some of the very first rabbi-led anti-homosexuality crusades were what built up the idea of modern chattel sexuality, e.g., the idea that men own and objectify women to satisfy their needs. How? Well, you remember the trial of Socrates, right? Corrupting the youth of the city? That might've been a philosophical corruption only, but it stands as an allegory. One of the primary justifications for western societies to establish formal sex trades (not individual free-enterprise prostitution, but cartels of legislators and pimps working in concert) was to protect men from being corrupted by other men. Bankers used their mass media outlets to warn people that young boys were being corrupted into homosexuality by perverts, and--like selling cars as a means of preventing manure pollution--argued that girls should be impressed into prostitution into whorehouses in order to protect a society's boys from sodomy.

The original pimp cartels, no surprise, were the creation of the vampire bankers. Again like arming the mujahideen, the idea they'd established, of treating women as property in order to enforce a straight society, paid big dividends when it was time to lead another expensive crusade, this time against that very patriarchy, come the 1900s. And now that the percentage approval rates for "feminism" are really shifting around, the neoreactionaries are ready to do their part again, enforcing new patriarchal mores that will send still more credit to the banker-creators, lords of the material world.

We've got two essential audiences here. There are the people who either don't give a crap about gay stuff, or the people who think gay stuff is great, and pride, and rights, and all that. And then there are the people who think that, to be blunt, poopdick marriage is a ridiculous farce. In closing, let's tailor a response to each group.

For people who think LGBTQPZ~ stuff is good, what you need to remember is that the people who have promoted the pro-gay agenda for the past 20, 30, whatever, years, are coming from the exact same ideological, genetic, cultural, corporate, national, and financial background as the people who conceived of, spearheaded, committed, graphed, and thoroughly approved of the very worst of the anti-LGBTQ stuff in the past. Get it? You are being played. During the early 1900s, the most powerful news and entertainment corporations in the entire world were united in excoriating homosexuality as a deviance worthy of shunning and death. The foundational laws of the bankers' entire culture are the most anti-homosexual polemics in existence, calling for the heartless, even divine, murder of homosexuals. You may think that these bankers have now changed their minds; that they have become sweet and pure-hearted after a mere five thousand years, and come around on the whole gay thing, but they have played that same trick several times before, and even now, they are providing intellectual leadership for the growing neoreactionary movement that wants to deport all Hispanics, re-enslave all Africans, and exterminate all fags. Yes, exterminate: there are NrX people who want to seize white homelands and make homosexuality and cross-dressing capital offenses, just like the Weimar occupation press advocated. We have seen this game before. Don't let a few Tom Hanks movies lull you into thinking that you are anything more than a means to an end. The dissident queers the Cheka executed in droves made that mistake already.

For people who think LGBTQPZ~ stuff is bad, what you need to remember is that the people who have promoted the pro-gay agenda for the past several decades are only pretending to be interested in border security, birth rates, and ethnic nationalism now, because they want you to slaughter queers instead of putting bankers in jail. All of the annoying wedding-cake stuff is indeed assholish, but there are plenty of completely straight white people out there holding "Refugees Welcome!" or "Black Lives Matter!" signs, and what the queers are doing is, similarly, a mere symptom. Ask yourself this: after decades of telling me what a worthless piece of cis-privileged shit I am, why are the bankers suddenly starting to tell me it's okay to punish people who get boob-jobs and want to be called "her"? They are setting you up. They are using you just as they are using the people on the other side. Yes, there are massive problems with illness and mental illness and despair and fucked-up-ness that exist out there, but the entire reason this is in your face as an issue is that the bankers want you to be like the physicians whom they license, and spend another century treating symptoms instead of curing illnesses. The anti-gay crusade they are launching now is just another version of the way they were pro-immigrant for a hundred years, tagged a poem on the Statue of Liberty, and then did a hypocritical switch-around and started formulating anti-immigration positions about a "cathedral" that you are supposed to "neoreact" against.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Apex Predators

Along with sociocapitalist evolution, one of the most important functions of State indoctrination camps is instilling the idea in children that humans are "apex predators." What a lark! What a simplistic, arrogant piece of religious doctrine to foist upon the innocent! A Big Lie if ever there were one.

After all, if we're apex predators, that means that no one is hunting us. Relax, children. There were cave-dwellers, and they fought cave-bears, but then they developed tools and cerebral cortexes and became apex predators, so don't worry, there are no predators out there. There are minor deviants who might home-invade us, sure, but that's only if we don't call the cops in time, because if we did call the cops in time, we'd be essentially safe. How reassuring it is, this lifelong flattery with which we lavish ourselves; this fantasy that we're on the top of the food chain.

Such a charming way to convince the livestock that it's the apex, no? We like to pretend that the State is the emperor with no clothes, while in actuality, we're the ones with no clothes, strutting around wrapped in the belief that we've transcended biology, and that there isn't a highly intelligent species out there which thrives solely upon us.

God knows, mentioning said species is a no-no. Don't tell the seals that the polar bears can only survive by eating seals, oh no--seals prefer to believe that, because they catch fish, they're the tops, the fish are the bottoms, and sure, everybody has to pay the polar bear tax, but don't be all racist about it, since it's just the way of the world, and besides, overpopulation would hurt us way more than it would hurt them. Or something.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Fungibility Level Rising

(The following completely, wholly fictional, satirical post was generated by, and is © the Full Information Security project.)

I'm thinking of writing a sci-fi story where marketing gets so crazy that you can buy life insurance for a newborn baby. And then, if there should be an accident, cha-ching! You cash in!



There's no reason the merchantitude can't increase from there. How about key person insurance for people you know, where if they get in a car crash, you're the death beneficiary? No, even better--random people in dangerous places. Like, say, I'll form a corporation called Detroit Final Greetings, Inc. that insures random people in "Detroit" or "the Green Zone," and if they should get shot, I'll collect a check. Or how about Chicago? Baghdad? I'll insure random combinations of common names to guarantee full coverage. Why rely on gun or drone violence, though? To streamline things even further, I could linger outside surgical wards looking for likely prospects.

Forget writing the book; I'll just put my ideas into play in the real world. I'll make lots more, and get lots more respect, too. I might even amass enough wealth to become presidential material. I'll hold an IPO, of course, but as soon as someone invests in my company, I'll immediately take out a policy on them, and once they die in a mysterious and unfortunate accident, the policy proceeds will buy out their estate, I'll own everything, and eventually I won't have need for lulling any more venture capitalists into a false sense of security.

Omigod omigod the possibilities...let's go even further. Forget newborns, I want choice and security now. I'll insure fetuses and cash in once the mother has an abortion. It can become "emotionally medically necessary," or something, and no one will dare challenge that idea. The payments will be small for each procedure performed, but in a week or so, I'll be throwing down the foundations for my new line of casinos. What else can I insure? Blog readers! Yes, a universal umbrella policy on blog readers. On their eggs, their sperm, their pickup lines, their yoga classes, and if they should abort, or become unable to conceive, or unable to meet a suitable mate, the insurance benefit checks will come to me, me, me, it's only the responsible thing to do I'm preserving your future and the future of all humanity and civilization with the freedom of choice to be both fiscally and biologically responsible, omigod omigod omigod it's every person's right to protect themselves and choose their loved ones and like the Rainbow House said to me in a dream I had this one night it's not your prerogative or anyone else's prerogative to define who I love or how I plan my family or who I choose to unite with in the holy bonds of insurance and I LOVE YOU ALL AND I AM GOING TO INSURE YOU ALL AND I AM GOING TO BE A VERY SAD BILLIONAIRE WHILE I CASH THOSE UNENDING BENEFIT CHECKS!@!%$@$$!#*%^#!!$

...

Ahem. Excuse me. Got a bit worked up, there, by the horizons of endless choice in secured financial transactions. :( Sad ending to the story, though. :(

:-( :-( Unfortunately, I found out that Gerber had already stolen my idea. Check it:
Parents, grandparents and permanent legal guardians may apply when children are 14 days to 14 years old.

As soon as you get the Grow-Up® Plan, you lock in a child-size premium that will never increase.

Gerber Life.
Why?! Why, oh why, did they get the jump on me? This was going to be such a wonderful world, the tot is in the pot, the check is in the mail, we'll just need you to fill out these forms here, and an auditor will be coming to your bedside to verify that the insured really did have emotional needs for that masturbatory emission, after which we can cut you a check for the full amount of the policy proceeds, Ms. Arka, will you just sign here, please, initial here and here, and there; here, and...one last...that's right, thank you, you should receive it in 3-6 weeks, you have my sympathies, and can you show me where Room 417 is, I have another stop before I head back to the office...