Tag Archives: Humour

Antierra Manifesto -blog post #58

Thus do I begin the training of a slave girl to come to a place of self-awareness and understanding.  Small steps, all to be taken within the system.  Step outside, even once and your chances of being flogged to death are almost one hundred percent sure.  You can bend rules as long as you are willing and able to unbend them immediately, but woe to you if you break them.

[end blog post #57]
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[begin blog post #58]

That night Tiki is angry.  Not at me, she knows nothing of my intercession to get her to work kitchen duty, but at the men. 

“Damn them, damn them, damn them!” she mutters in that hoarse whisper all females learn to speak in from the time they utter their first words.  “I be fighter, not gorok!  I train with weapon, not clean dirty bowl and sweep floor for dirty cooks.  Damn them!”  

A ‘gorok’ is a particular class of female worker slave who does the most menial type of kitchen work.  She doesn’t cook, or even serve.  She peels, grinds, husks and cleans, cleans, cleans, endlessly.  Her “shifts” have no set times.  She is up hours before anyone else, warming up ovens, washing utensils and cleaning counters and floors.  She sleeps, when permitted, during the middle hours of the day and of the night.  She is up late into the night cleaning, locked inside the kitchens with sensors ready to set off alarms if she walks outside her perimeter.  A slave of slaves.  There is usually a round the clock complement of eight of these goroks in our kitchens.

Because Tiki is my slave, she is allowed out of the kitchens at nightfall to spend the night with me.  I had hoped otherwise, but I can redeem this time, I think.  I fully enjoy her outburst.  There is fire in this one.  Not hate, not pride, just pure fire.  She has a dream, a vision, however short: to be the best fighter ever to grace the arena.  To beat my record.  I can tell.  Now to blend patience and humility into that fire so it can never be doused, whatever happens to the body of this woman. This one is going to develop into a true mind being, I can sense that already.  I have three years to prepare her to become a hero to the women of her world.  That’s sufficient when one has good material to work with.  It is my turn to do my hoarse communication.

“Come Tiki,”  she rolls between my legs and cuddles against my body.  “You be fine.  You no gorok.  You be fine fighter, best fighter.  Say you this every day.  Pick up broom, it ‘staff’ for you.  Sweep husks and peelings from floor like opponents in arena – just dust to Tiki.  Strong is Tiki.  Mongoose shaking cobra to death.”  She nudges deeper into me, her hair tickling my throat and begins unselfconsciously sucking her thumb.  I take her hand gently and pull the thumb out of her mouth and offer her my nipple instead.  She takes it greedily and smiles at me.  Haven’t I been here before?  Beware Antierra, the snakes aren’t all outside in the coarse grasses at the edge of the desert!  They be hissing from the very walls that contain you.

Wars aren’t won in a day.  They take planning, patience, courage and finally just the sheer gut of the fighters to win them.  Tiki does not take kindly to her new life.  From kitchen duty she is shifted to cleaning the straw in the cages and then to sweeping the yards and washing the blood on the flagstones where some of the women have been “punished” for certain infractions.  In this past week we were made to witness two “punishments” to the death, one of an older fighter whose owner cancelled his contract and condemned her to the next killing orgy.  She was put into a private killing orgy for the trainers, a bit of fun approved by the overseer.  She was led to the centre of the yard and  armed with nothing but a standard training staff, was viciously set upon by six trainers until they had managed to break several ribs and one arm.  When she could no longer defend herself they crushed her skull.  When she died they cheered and toasted their victory.  Old king Jestor would have been truly proud of these men.

The other, a trainee who had a nightmare and did not shut up in time when one of the women tried to awaken her, was flogged to death for breaking the rule of silence.  We watched, listened to her screams and pleas for mercy, her dying moans.  We heard the standard warning, returned to life as usual.  What I would give, had I anything to give, to enter the auto-medic and be given the heart of an android, or better, a heart of stone.  To not feel.  To not have to endure this suffering planet.

It is the way of it… and I cannot help feeling.  To cry?  To curse?  I glance at the bloody, pulpy mess hanging from that steel torture pole I know intimately.  I wonder why it is not I who is hanging there.  I imagine the life that was there, that is no more.  I sat next to her yesterday at morning meal and she smiled sadly at me under her eyelashes.  Well, maybe it is me there because I realize I cannot curse.  If I cannot curse, then I have incarnated all of it.  Each time another dies, I die two deaths: hers and mine.  Malefactus is a neuro-inductor and I am attached to its probes all the time.  

Under the wan light of Albaral coming through the openings in the high black stone walls Tiki and I talk in our cage as we nestle against each other enjoying the mutual warmth of our bodies.  Menial labour brings anger and shame from Tiki.  She is afraid they want to demote her to the rank of goronda, the general purpose female worker drone.  “Damn them!” – her favourite expression towards men in general.  That fire is burning dangerously bright.  The wick needs trimming or the flame will smoke up the glass and obscure the vision. 

I study my feelings for her as a hawk watches his prey moving unawares, feeding peacefully in the grasses below his perch.  I must let her take all of me she needs yet refuse to ever let her possess any of me.  I know how to do this, I know I can do it, but do I have the willpower?  How does an older woman not lose herself in those black pools of sadness that pass for eyes in such children who have never experienced childhood?  Creatures destined to die before they experience adulthood?  What does that make them?

I try my best logic on her.  “Tiki, listen me.  I good fighter, yes?”

“Yes sir, you best fighter.  All women say you best.”

“You trust me, Tiki?”

She replies with a hoarse grunt.  “Huh?”

“Trust.  Believe me.  You think me true to you?”

“Oh yes!  You say, I believe.”

This is extremely dangerous ground.  Who in their right mind wants to be believed by someone who will put her life at stake for what you tell her?  I speak slowly, pitching my voice so she can get every word, every inflection – the tone of voice to them being much more meaningful than the words used to convey it. 

“Good you believe.  But careful you be not believe everything I say.”  She tries to speak and I put my hand on her mouth.  “Wait, I finish, I explain.  I know things you not know.  Things good for me.  Maybe not good for you.  You, me, different.  You listen – I say – you try.  If work for you, is good for you, yes?  If not work for you, is not good for you.  I not know if good for you.  I guess.  I have vision.  Like you but is my vision.  You have vision to be best fighter.  Good vision.  I have different vision.  To be best woman; to be good woman.  I not good woman Tiki.  Good fighter only.  But man can be good fighter too, better than best woman.  But man cannot be good woman.  I have what called “exclusive” vision – be special. 

“You woman now.  What you want be?  I not understand you.”

“I want be more than what I be, Tiki.  Better.  In good ways, not evil ways.  I tired of killing.  Tired of blood and screams.  Tired all over.  Old now Tiki, very, very old.  But cannot go yet, cannot leave, cannot die.  I first find me, better me.  Good woman me.  I first do something good for another person.  If you not understand, no matter.  You remember I say this and put my words in your head.  They grow there.  Ideas.  You say to me woman thinks is stupid.  Is not stupid Tiki.  I think always.  Think, think.  I watch men, learn.  Design new weapons, train in new way for women to fight so live longer; so you live longer.  I stay here, not die because I want help women be stronger, live longer.  Is nothing else for me.”  

[end blog post #58]

Should the U.S. build the wall?

I am working at keeping politics down to a dull roar on here but once in a while something comes by that merits re-posting.  The following came via email and there was no authorship given, so I’m posting as “anonymous”.  Also I’ve just upgraded this site to paid, so I thought I should give that a bit of a ride. If it gets rid of the ads it will be worth it.  I HATE ads!

Now on that wall thing,  physicians try to reach a consensus:

The Allergists were in favour of scratching it, but the Dermatologists advised not to make any rash moves.

The Gastroenterologist’s had sort of a gut feeling about it, but the Neurologists thought Trump had a lot of nerve.

Meanwhile, Obstetricians felt certain everyone was labouring under a misconception, while the Ophthalmologists considered the idea shortsighted.

Pathologists yelled, “Over my dead body!” while the Pediatricians said, “Oh, grow up!”

The Psychiatrists thought the whole idea was madness, while the Radiologists could see right through it.

Surgeons decided to wash their hands of the whole thing and the Internists claimed it would indeed be a bitter pill to swallow.

The Plastic Surgeons opined that this proposal would “put a whole new face on the matter.”

The Podiatrists thought it was a step forward, but the Urologists were pissed off at the whole idea.

Anesthesiologists thought the concept was a gas, and those lofty Cardiologists didn’t have the heart to say no.

In the end, the Proctologists won out, leaving the entire decision up to the assholes in Washington!

Of Rules and Rulers

[Thoughts from   ~burning woman~  by Sha’Tara]

“Beam me up Scotty, there’s no intelligent life down here.”  (Attributed to captain Jim Kirk of Star Trek – a line presumably invented as a joke, never actually used in the series.)

There is a kind of madness that began by a seeping in, then turned into a flood pouring out of the entire echelon of non-productive bureaucratic hierarchical groupings in every mega-institution on planet Earth, be it church, government, military, banking or corporate.

These non-productive types of exponential inferior intelligence (the truth of this easily determined by their performance) keep themselves as controllers and in power, not by coming up with useful ideas but by browbeating the generally smarter but brain-lazy makers and doers.  The controllers know they are too stupid to rise above what they are and too lazy, incompetent and incapable to perform any sort of useful labour so they must control the work force (or the followers of some religion or the patriots or the investors or the fans) to keep them from discovering they are more intelligent and certainly more useful than their superiors.  If you cannot rise above the level of your own incompetence you must keep everybody else below yours — by whatever means.

Here’s a classic way they have always used to control others.  They invent rules and by using these rules they can implement endless changes to systems, not to improve the systems, anybody can see that is not happening, but to force everybody else to remain on a level below theirs.  There has probably never been a time when this was more obvious that the present moment.

Let me describe how the bureaucrats go about creating new rules.  Since they are incapable of coming up with anything new, their “new” will always be based on something old, re-packaged and re-marketed to seem original.  Another “trade” deal; a different kind of Monopoly money; a change in interest rates; how about a carbon tax? A green fee?

At the corporation where I worked I called their creations “the thirteen and a half inch ruler.”  Like everybody else they were operating under the standard twelve inch ruler.  But why be the same as everybody else when you can be longer?  So they put their mini brains together and came up with a real winner: a thirteen and a half inch ruler.  A ruler a whole inch and a half longer than anyone else’s.  Fantastic.  Now each time their employees go out to measure, they are automatically ahead of the competition by 1-1/2 inches.

Of course we (that would be those of us who do the actual measuring) immediately encountered a problem with the new rule:  Was it now a thirteen and a half inch ruler, so marked?  Or was it a twelve inch ruler with the inches stretched out one and one half inch over the length of the new ruler? 

We asked for clarifications.  As to be expected they had no answer except for the usual: we’ll get back to you on that, carry on.  The “carry on” part was not debatable.

The above should be hilarious.  But when one realizes how true that is, it sobers one very quickly.  Think: the thirteen and a half inch ruler brains are the rulers of this planet.  They are the mushroom cloud; we’re at ground zero.  That is why all of us numb-nuts believe ourselves indebted to the thirteen and a half inch ruler brains to the tune of $184,000,000,000,000 or broken down, $86,000 for every man, woman and child on this world.

At this point though I’d have to say that the 13-1/2″ ruler brains are actually the smart ones. A tiny minority of ignorant pea-brains holds an entire world in hock to themselves just by claiming their right to an incestuously exponential lion’s share of everything.  For this inanely and insanely illegitimate claim the rest of the regular (12″) ruler brains are willing to kill other people’s children, or watch their own starve to death while debating which 13-1/2″ ruler brain should be their next leader.  

“Beam me up Scotty, you dropped me on the wrong planet!”

 

Political Satire, but, What if, or ‘Why not?’

[thoughts from    ~burning woman~    by Sha’Tara]

The creature I am about to describe here has earned itself many sobriquets over the recent years, months, even days and some are getting quite exotic. A few: (borrowed from  https://wolfessblog.wordpress.com/2018/12/12/to-the-end-of-the-loud-illiterate-pretender/

prictator, orangubrat, trumptard, dolt45, trumpussy, and my favourites, presidunce and Agolf Twitler. This set me to thinking about a fitting end to its presiduncy.

In a normal country (don’t worry, there aren’t any of these on this planet) the creature mentioned above, and I have to assume ya-all know by now what that is, wouldn’t be jailed, that’s too normal. Try to imagine the damage it could cause in a real people jail. I know that people in America seem quite unconcerned about the treatment of prisoners in the nation’s endless jail but there has to be a limit as to what helpless prisoners are exposed to.

No, definitely not a jail. It would be put in a zoo designed especially just for it.

The layout of the main retention area would be shaped like the oval office, naturally, we want it to believe it is still in its natural habitat after all.

McDooDoo and KFC would get the contracts to keep the creature fed.

It would be given a sturdy fake cell phone with tones on the buttons and a slobber-proof light-up screen so it could tweet at night.

It would be given stacks of monopoly money to fondle and some tough rubbery human-like dolls, child size and adult, with various coloration of non-white skin-like coverings so it could thrash them about when in a rage. It would also be given an over-sized golf driver to smash up the figures.  Part of the entertainment at this stage would be to hear its wild screams of, “Terrorist!  Rapist! Murderer! Fake refugee! Liar, Thief!”

There would, of course, be a large mud bath where it could go to cool off from the blistering sun where it would repeat some simple mantras like: “Climate change is fake news, fake news, fake news!!!!!” “MAGA, MAGA, MAGA, MAGA!!!!!” “Coal, coal, coal, oh so beautiful coal!!!!!” “Biggly, biggly, biggly, want more food!!!!!”

Near the visitor fence there would be a fake computer stand with a fake Mensa testing board that would ding loudly each time the creature pressed the very large, orange, *1000 POINTS!* button, at which in predictable Pavlovian response it would run to a small trap door where the big mac, large fries, Coke and fried chicken would appear to be ravenously gulped down .

Of the containment fencing, the south fence would be turned into a solid cement wall with these words engraved in it: “Mexico on the Other Side.” To drive the creature crazy (and for the additional entertainment value) there would be a hole in the wall just big enough to allow a human to crawl through and nothing available to plug the hole.

To keep the creature totally happy, if not deliriously so, there would be a full-sized mirror with the words in fake gold on top: PRESIDUNCE AGOLF TWITLER

With enough funding from amused patrons, the rest of the creature’s tribe could hopefully be housed in there also… 

I enjoy dreaming of great endings to otherwise pathetic dramas.

In Honour of the Great Pumpkin

[totally off the wall, by Sha’Tara]

Forget everything you know… or think you know, and follow, follow, follow… the Great Pumpkin as SheHeIt rises out of the pumpkin patch and rolls merrily down the street, spewing out GMO candies for all the obese little boys and girls. The Great Pumpkin, akin to all gods, likes to see those over whom he rules and drools, resemble herhimitself.

Ideas from quotes found wherever and other sources too numerous to enumerate. Some of them could even have evolved from my own vale of imagining-making. Let’s not be sickly sweet truthful or honest.

Choices, choices: I do not know what, or how, to decide my next move. But am I asking you for help or direction? No, so relax while I digress.

Sometimes, out of the blue and for no particular reason, I smile. Please do not interrupt me when I am thus so rarely occupied.

Out there, in the far distant distance, behind some trees and a small muddy river, hidden by rising clumps of blackberries and red elderberry bushes a cow mooed. Not just once, but many times. No one answered. I’m assuming that’s OK with the cow. I’m assuming it didn’t expect any answer. I didn’t answer: my bullshit analyzer and mooing translator was dead; I’d forgot to put it on the charger when last at the barn. I also realized I wasn’t up to the embarrassment if I mooed the wrong message and called up a load of bullshit.

This shady suburban area collects cats and squirrels. Squirrels are destructive rodents, I do not like them. Cats are rodent killers, but do I like that better? I’ll leave that answer blank, the STTTPCTDA* might take exception to whatever answer I give. Honestly I think it’s a trick question.

The advantage of self-empowerment over self-delusion is, you don’t have to ponder rhetorical questions: they ponder themselves into senselessness. (I thought I’d throw that in while the lid was open.)

There’s a giant box store just out of town. It’s full of stuff it’s convinced people they can’t live without. House sparrows make their homes in the rafters and girders. I like that. If the business of selling crap isn’t too loud (or noisy if you prefer), you can even hear them chirp in those heavenly highs. Brave little guys, living up there in their chosen heaven, inhaling all those fumes from Chinese plastic wrap. Box Store House Sparrows are known to have short life-spans. It’s in the Threatened Species book, no, not last years’, the new one published last month.  They sell copies at the box store.

They have a freeway out here. It isn’t free and it’s over fifty years old. It’s obsolete – two lanes each way when three would barely accommodate commuter and long weekend traffic. Doesn’t matter, weekenders have lemming brains. (Sorry, lemmings and I hope the STTTPCTDA doesn’t read this part.) Necessary or not, tell them it’s a long weekend and they have to be on that freeway with all the claptrap of an imploding middle class of two-day tourism to rented cabins and over-crowded campsites on unwashed lakes. Do they care that they’ll be wasting ten or more hours of their lives commuting to those places and back? Of course not. Caring implies intelligence; please don’t spoil the weekend.

Feel free to browse, she said with a commercial smile. Was she telling me how I should feel? How presumptuous. I left the store, crossed the street, walked over the raised railway track and stared at the sea. The fog was lifting. I wondered what it would be like to feel free? Neither the fog nor the pale sun had any answer.  I was on my own here.

You can’t “feel” free said the Darwinist scientist. Freedom doesn’t exist; it’s a mental concept, and the mind only exists as brain, so you are mindless, he said. And I thought, what does that make you, you insipid idiot? I didn’t say it out loud though I itched to do it.  Sometimes I think it’s good to be proprietary, or do I mean simply proper?

Here’s a short list of the types I don’t like. My “like” or “don’t like” aren’t arbitrary. I spent an entire lifetime (up to now, that is) deciding which professions I liked and didn’t like. Here it is, in “don’t like” order: doctors, lawyers (liars), judges, every sort of academic twat, psychiatrists (shrinks), counselors, preachers (without exceptions, should have put them in with the lawyers), bankers (in with the lawyers you go, now!) politicians (without exceptions also – in you go, into the lawyer tank!), lobbyists, evolution-pushing Darwinists, professional entertainers, sports figures, military types (any military type), commentators, TV anchor people drones and talking heads, CEO’s (disliking those who don’t even know they’ll become one- I can always tell, there’s a smell about them), gods, born-again Jesus peddlers and newspaper editors.  OK, don’t go away mad… just go away.

Did I miss anyone important, impotent? As I said, it’s a short list, a very sort list. Don’t feel bad if your profession is mentioned, I don’t know you and that means you remain redeemable, even if you are a god or a gynecologist. People have been known to come back from the dead. Even if they didn’t remember being dead that takes nothing from their accomplishment.

I digress, I know, but I love digressing. You can dress casually when digressing and society doesn’t go into lock-down or fakebook global panic.

Imagine, if you will, a wide sandy beach. The tide is almost completely out; the sea sparkles out there a half a mile away, blue-grey, shining it’s brightest.
Imagine if you will a lone individual walking towards what is about to become a returning tide, purposefully striding away from the safety of the shore.

Imagine if you will that same individual of no discernible gender or vintage, walking naked and unafraid to the open sea, a silhouette of dreams.

Watch carefully as the individual’s stature shrinks steadily with each naked footstep in the wet sands; as the distance separating the individual from the returning tide diminishes, as the water wraps itself hungrily around the feet, ankles, calves, thighs and finally wraps itself entirely around the body, picking it up and casually floating it back towards the shore. 
Imagine… I don’t have to, I’ve done that, many, many times. I can’t explain how wonderful it felt then and still does now.

That’s digressing. Wonderful, isn’t it?

I wrapped up the job, he said as he sat down beside me. (“He” being Dave). We were in a restaurant where we had planned to meet. So far, so good. I wondered, as I’m wont to do when I’m not digressing and trying hard to be in the moment, what you do with a wrapped up job. Do you put it on a shelf? Do you mail it back to yourself, or send it to someone you like, or someone you dislike? Your boss? The customer? Is it like a birthday present? A Christmas present? I wondered what colour of ribbon he used and if he affixed a bow? The bow is always a nice touch, especially if the job was well done. I’ll ask the cook.

Speaking of presents, would you like a job already wrapped? If yes, I’ll need your address, of course. How much does it cost to mail a job? If no, then it doesn’t matter, does it. Of course if you say yes, I’ll have to ask Dave what he did with the wrapped up job. How much insurance do you put on the package? Is it valued in weight or in time? So many questions, so little time.

The waitress came to our table. She looked harassed and haggard. Both. I wondered if she ate there and thought I’d ask Dave if we could go somewhere else to eat. He was ogling the waitress, below her harassed and haggard looks and down her tip-expectant cleavage. Dave isn’t big on discernment. (Take that as an opinion backed by some serious observation.) She had on a short black skirt and heels, both well below the haggard and harassed looks, both also tip-expectant recent purchases. New to the beat, hm.

I sighed, long and deep, with much feeling involved on my part. We were going to stay, order, and he was going to eat. I could hear his thoughts, ‘I’m not about to waste a perfectly delectable waitress.’ Of course he didn’t use the word ‘delectable’, that being way beyond his vocabularian expertise. It’s practically beyond mine!

With so little to do and Dave totally engrossed between steak and lust, I thought I should digress a little. Digression isn’t fattening and I didn’t think it would make me harassed or give me haggard looks. A good digression beats a good digestion any day of the week except maybe after Sunday brunch. It is well behaved, and totally reliable. Besides, I was wearing a turtleneck sweater and slacks. I felt safe from both harassment and haggardness.

Now just in case I come down with something and can’t answer when you ask, “Haggardness” used to be a small town in eastern Scotland. It had two golf courses but it played havoc with their tourist trade so they traded it to Australia, or so I’m told. I don’t, of course, believe everything I’m told, but this particular telling is intriguing, so I am partially believing it. I wonder what they got in exchange? Kangaroos, I’d bet. There are ten zoos in Glasgow, start looking!

… and finally, as I return from plagiarizing my own mind and a wonderfully satisfying digression… a reminder: “The owners of this country know the truth, said George Carlin: its called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.”

And closing with this one because if you don’t think about it, it has a Halloween touch:
“Trees talk to each other at night.
“All fish are named either Lorna or Jack.
“Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose.
“Tiny bears live in drain pipes.
“If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky.
“The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago.
“Everyone knows at least one secret language.
“When nobody is looking, I can fly.
“We are all held together by invisible threads.
“Books get lonely too.
“Sadness can be eaten.
“I will always be there.
— Raul Gutierrez, “Lies I’ve Told My 3 Year Old Recently,”

( STTTPCTDA: Society To Try To Prevent Cruelty To Dumb Animals)

What about Pastafarianism, then?

[thoughts from a bottle of wine, by Sha’Tara]

Well, all that writing and comments on religion, one side being those who ardently support the existence of God, one side being those who equally, ardently do not support the existence of God, was a lot of fun. It would be more fun if all of it wasn’t taken so darn seriously, but this is Earth, so I guess the proper expression here is: deal with it and get over it.

So… I think I have. I can’t be sure, but you will notice that at the very least, I’m thinking and that, again this being Earth, is no small feet… I mean feat. (I must have joined my earthworm at the glass of wine a bit soon, and stayed a bit too long, time will tell.) If that aside doesn’t make sense, either you did not read some of the comments, or, bless you, you had better things to do and then, yes, of course it does not make sense, it will not make sense and probably I can’t explain it either so it could make sense. Shall we move on, then?

Having thus overcome the terrible desire to engage, engage, engage, as if I were the captain of the Enterprise, and use up all my demagoguerite vocabulary on smoke and mirrors, I did some research about alternatives to, you know, Absolutely Certainty, and came up with the following. First, to avoid all errors, let’s start with a link. Links, as we all know, are the 21st Century’s Word of God. Links are The Truth. Without Links, no one is going anywhere and there is no salvation.

https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Pastafarianism

What is Pastafarianism?

It’s the great and almighty atheist religion which teaches how the world was created by the flying spaghetti monster who happened to be drunk which thus explains why bad things happen. Pastafarians follow the church of the flying spaghetti monster and when they go to heaven they will enjoy a beer volcano and a stripper factory (which makes me wonder what’s in it for the ladies but let’s not quibble about small matters, it’s only eternity after all), however in hell the beer is stale and the strippers have VD! In pastafarian terms agnostics are known as spagnostics and all prayers must end with RAmen. September 19th is the national “talk like a pirate” day and the religions founder Bobby Henderson has published a “Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster”.

What attracted me to Pastafarianism – not saying I’m going to join, I don’t own a colander to wear at special functions and a veil or burka (or burqa or burqah) would definitely be frowned upon – were the very words of the Flying Spaghetti Monster Itself, specifically the eight “I’d really rather you didn’t” non-commandments, as brought to us by Its Prophet, Bobby Henderson (No, not that Bobby Henderson, the other one!)

The Sacred Eight I’d Really Rather you Didn’ts:

1)I’d really rather you didn’t act like a sanctimonious holier-than-thou ass when describing my noodly goodness. If some people don’t believe in me, that’s okay. Really, I’m not that vain. Besides, this isn’t about them so don’t change the subject.

2)I’d really rather you didn’t use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don’t require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people.

3)I’d really rather you didn’t judge people for the way they look, or how they dress, or the way they talk, or, well, just play nice, Okay? Oh, and get this into your thick heads: woman = person. man = person. Samey = Samey. One is not better than the other, unless we’re talking about fashion and I’m sorry, but I gave that to women and some guys who know the difference between teal and fuchsia.

4)I’d really rather you didn’t indulge in conduct that offends yourself, or your willing, consenting partner of legal age AND mental maturity. As for anyone who might object, I think the expression is go f*** yourself, unless they find that offensive in which case they can turn off the TV for once and go for a walk for a change.

5)I’d really rather you didn’t challenge the bigoted, misogynistic, hateful ideas of others on an empty stomach. Eat, then go after the b******s.

6)I’d really rather you didn’t build multi million-dollar churches/temples/mosques/shrines to my noodly goodness when the money could be better spent (take your pick):
Ending poverty
Curing diseases
Living in peace, loving with passion, and lowering the cost of cable. I might be a complex-carbohydrate omniscient being, but I enjoy the simple things in life. I ought to know. I AM the creator.

7)I’d really rather you didn’t go around telling people I talk to you. You’re not that interesting. Get over yourself. And I told you to love your fellow man, can’t you take a hint?

8)I’d really rather you didn’t do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are into, um, stuff that uses a lot of leather/lubricant/Las Vegas. If the other person is into it, however (pursuant to #4), then have at it, take pictures, and for the love of Mike, wear a CONDOM! Honestly, it’s a piece of rubber. If I didn’t want it to feel good when you did it I would have added spikes, or something.

In the words of the flying spaghetti monster himself, (and written by Bobby Henderson, the creator of Pastafarianism)

There you have it. The best news of all is, you don’t have to be Italian to be a pastafarian. Or at least I don’t think so, I’m deducing, à la Sherlock Holmes (Yes, that Sherlock Holmes)

What did you expect, it’s Canada Day here, or so I’m told, and we all take that very, very seriously here, or so I’m told. I might hang out some laundry today. I hope it isn’t mistaken for a foreign flag and someone sends the RCMP to investigate. Nah, this is Canada. What flag? We keep changing our minds about that, and the national anthem also… Not to worry, some day we’ll get it right, or left, or leave it and join a Word Federation or something so that we can have social justice, equality and happiness when meeting a stranger.  I’d like that, even better than Pastafarianism.

 

 

On an Amazing Lighter Note

thoughts from ~burning woman~

I just realized that everyone who is a “follower” of a WordPress blog is an amazing person. I am not making that up, it shows up whenever I click on a blog’s “Follow” button.

Everyone, you say? One hundred percent amazing person, no exceptions? That’s, like, a bit hard to swallow. Could it be one of those lies so common in the world of advertising no one recognizes for the bullshit they are intended to convey while dissimulating it?

I can truthfully say that I’ve never considered myself amazing. Exceptional, perhaps, under certain conditions, and not always in a favourable way, but never amazing. Which of course makes me desperate to define what it means to be amazing, whether it’s a subjective concept, or if it has a core value. I’m going to have to look that up, definitely.

[Some time later] So I looked it up. Views on “amazingness” vary considerably but generally it is recognized that an amazing person is one who is special in usually positive ways. Most common: selflessness, caring, loving, understanding, generous, yet doesn’t let anyone walk all over her. A kind of Jesus/Gandhi/Mother Teresa/Superman/Wonder Woman person.

In other words, an amazing person is one who comes across as amazing in his/her relationship to others. The impression I got from my Internet search was that an amazing person is primarily a selfless individual. Thus I would take that as the core value of an amazing person.

I think we’d all like to be known as an amazing person now but I have a nagging suspicion that being a WordPress blog follower isn’t how to define amazing. I think it’s another one of those convenient lies to try to make the “clicker” think better of her/himself than they should.

Why? Well in layman’s terms it’s called having smoke blown up one’s ass. I’ve never liked having that procedure done to me as it tells me the smoke blower believes I’m a mark.

Opinions welcome.

Disclaimer 1: it is not my intent to use this exposé as promoting another of my cockamamie concepts that could save billions of lives, civilization and perhaps the planet itself, if not the universe. “Amazing” will not become one of my change agent themes. Sorry to disappoint on that score but one has to draw the line somewhere, even if it is in the sand, and at low tide.

Disclaimer 2: please do not take seriously what I poke humorously!