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.


  1. Suffering, my friend,....

    That was a good link back. Reminds me of my observation a couple decades back, that the richest people I knew were the unhappiest people I knew, despite their accomplishments and acquisitions and acquaintances and abundance of abodes, they weren't happy, unable to relax and enjoy themselves, always concerned about whether their bigness was large enough in comparison to whomever is the giant-est of all.

    1. The balm for that is to have them volunteer in the local underprivileged school district as lunchroom monitors for half a month. They'll emerge flush with the flighty happiness of relativity, ready to take a redeeming cruise up the fjords that cements their stranglehold on life's trophy cup.