Bitter occidental visions of midnight sun….

Ffolkes,
Puppies…. everybody likes puppies, right? So why did I get all the funny looks when I served some for dinner the other night? Tell me, what’s the big deal? How come all the women rushed to the bathroom to spew, and all the men started yelling at me? I don’t understand…. if everybody likes them, what’s the problem? No mint sauce?…. Are they supposed to be baked instead of grilled? What?…..

Okay, okay, there’s no call for hissing and booing. It’s just a joke….. and damn funny, too!  Bet you were surprised, eh? I generally don’t use puppies for humor’s sake, especially not in such a film noir sense. It’s too hard to get anyone to laugh, at least not until they’ve said “Awwww”.  But, I thought it was worth a shot, and I was right….. at least, I think so….. Besides, I wouldn’t want to destroy any illusions about the classy way I run this blog….. high class, that’s me….yup. It says so right here on the label…..

Rather than continue in this vein, I think we’ll open up a different one…. I get the feeling this one could end up somewhere I don’t want to go. Instead, let’s Pearl, okay? Okay!…..
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Fundamentalism:  an effective form of mirth control. — Smart Bee

Smart Bee is almost always right on the money, and this one is one you could take to the bank. Have you ever noticed this? It seems that in order to be ordained as a fundamentalist minister, one must lose or destroy their sense of humor. This lack of funny bone is one of the primary characteristics by which one may recognize this fortunately rare beastie; it is often accompanied by a very strong sense of hypocrisy, and a sense of entitlement all out of proportion with Reality….. and they get all upset and frothing at the mouth when someone (like me…) points out their hypocrisy, especially if the proof is obvious.

“I see little divinity about them or you.  You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of hanging your enemies.  Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense!” — George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950), The Devil’s Disciple

This hypocritical nature is shared with the fundies by politicians, bankers, and lawyers. Of course, the fundies dress differently than the latter three categories, who all dress the same, in power suits with white shirt and power ties.  You can differentiate one from another by the type of accessories they wear.  Politicians usually have an American flag pin on their lapel. Bankers, of course, have a diamond stick pin for their ties.  And the lawyers will usually add a vest to the suit, or wear the scales of injustice on their lapel…… Although each claims they are different from the other, all of them are adept at lying with great facility…..

“The men the American people admire most extravagantly are the most daring liars; the men they detest most violently are those who try to tell them the truth.” — H.L. Mencken

This insight is quite powerful, and very true to Reality. This characteristic of the American voting public has always fascinated me, in the same way that a poisonous snake is fascinating to study…. they’re beautiful, but very dangerous to one’s health. I suppose the public’s calm, even resigned, acceptance of the lies they hear, from the beloved ruling class, and from the priestly hierarchies, is a natural outgrowth of the hypocrisy inherent in each of them individually. In other words, because they’ve chosen to believe in a certain set of lies, i.e. Christianity, they are only too willing to accept being lied to by their ruling class. It’s kind of pathetic, if you ask me….

“Instead of striving to be like Jesus most Christians would rather presume that Jesus was just like them.” — Callan Williams

I guess the most ironic part of all this is the absolute cluelessness of those who choose this path. They really have no idea how insane their beliefs have become; they refuse to look at any evidence that doesn’t agree with what they have chosen to believe, other than those (often erroneous or irrelevant) passages from the Bible that they will toss out with such finality. It cracks me up when someone quotes the Bible; they act as if merely referring to that book denies the truth of any other source, like once they have referenced scripture, no other answer is acceptable…. when in fact, what they’ve quoted often has no relation to reality at all.  And the colors they turn when this is proven to them are fascinating…..

“I don’t mind being screwed, but the government thinks I’m a nymph.” — Smart Bee

Okay, I’ll stop harassing the poor churchies now. I know it’s dishonorable to have a battle of wits with people who are unarmed, but some days I just can’t help it. I look at all the damage that churches have perpetrated on society, and my blood boils, my brain ignites, and my fingers start typing accusatory dross and ironic drivel, without conscious volition. Besides, they certainly have it coming, and they’ve had lots of practice, at deflecting accusations, and at outright lying about their motivation. So, fuck ‘em, as we like to say downtown…. they’ve been doing it to me, and us, for a long time; now it’s my turn….

Man, n.:  An animal so lost in rapturous contemplation of what he thinks he is as to overlook what he indubitably ought to be.  His chief occupation is extermination of other animals and his own species, which, however, multiplies with such insistent rapidity as to infest the whole habitable earth and Canada. — Ambrose Bierce, “The Devil’s Dictionary”
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A Dialogue Of Self And Soul

i{My Soul} I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
‘Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul

i{My Self}. The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady’s dress and round
The wooden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn

i{My Soul.} Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And intellect is wandering
To this and that and t’other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

i{My self.} Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery –
Heart’s purple — and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier’s right
A charter to commit the crime once more.

i{My Soul.} Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows

i{Is} from the i{Ought,} or i{knower} from the i{Known — }
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue’s a stone.

i{My Self.} A living man is blind and drinks his drop.
What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;
The finished man among his enemies? –
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what’s the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?
I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man’s ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.
I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

William Butler Yeats

I could probably write a nice, wordy piece dissecting this poem, but, for the sake of both of us, I won’t. I’ll just say that I can see why Yeats is a member of the top 20 poets of all time, in every list of that nature ever made…. He’s got game….
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_
_  / \                           o
/ \ | |                       o           o             o
| | | |                            o               o
| | | |   _                    o    o                 o       o
| \_| |  / \                 o                     o    o
\__  |  | |             o                           o
| |  | |            ______   ~~~~              _____
| |__/ |          / ___–\\ ~~~             __/_____\__
|  ___/          / \–\\  \\   \ ___       <__  x x  __\
| |             / /\\  \\       ))  \         (  ”  )
| |    — —–(—->>(@)–(@)——-\———-< >———–
| |   //       | | //__________  /    \    ____)   (___      \\
| |  //      __|_|  ( ——— )      //// ______ /////\     \\
//       |    (  \ ______  /      <<<< <>—–<<<<< /      \\
//       (     )                      / /         \` \__     \\
//————————————————————-\\

“Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas … with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.” — H. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Ya gotta love ASCII art…. each piece created is another example of just how silly the human mind can be when over-used, or suffering caffeine withdrawal…. throw in Hunter Thompson, and you’ve got a hit!…. Enjoy….
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All things considered, I like it. So, I’m going to leave it alone, for better or worse. Y’all take care out there, and May the Metaphorse be with you…..


Sometimes I sits and thinks,
and sometimes
I just sits.

gigoid

Dozer

Kowabunga!