7:59 YAAAAAAAY DOCTOR WHO TIME!!!

8:01 WTF I HAVE TO WATCH 15 MINUTES OF BULLSHIT AND ADS WHY SPACE WHY

Because I am sick of FaceBleugh.

What if democracy is just an illusion?
In their 1846 book The German Ideology, Marx and co-author Frederick Engels took a look at human history and made a plain but controversial observation. In any given historical period, the ideas that people generally think are the best and most important ideas are usually the ideas of the people in charge. If you have a lot of money and own a lot of property, then you have the power to propagandise your worldview and you have incentive to avoid appearing as if you're propagandising your worldview. Or, as Marx and Engels would put it: The ruling ideas of every epoch are the ideas of the ruling class.

Afghanistan: The dead just keep piling up.
Say what you want about Israel, at least it doesn't pretend to "respect" Palestinians.

I Don’t Want To See Their Faces; I Don’t Want To Hear Them Scream.
And there he sleeps. And you could bomb my house and blow up my car and take away a leg and an arm and I might take your compensation check and relocate and regroup and nurse my grievances in the barroom. But if you or you or you or anybody came in here and killed him, I don’t care if you’re Christian or Jew or Mohammedan or a pagan suckled in some creed outworn, if you hurt him accidentally or on purpose, under orders or because you snapped under the pressure of your third deployment. I’d just want to kill you. And I don’t doubt I might kill you slowly and abuse your damned corpse in some ugly way. You and the guy behind you and the army that comes after that. I’d open you up and I’d nail you to the porch floor.

Hello LiveJournal! 3 months of lung butter's done with, but still no job. Please send rent!

Among the traditions of the origin of the Gwyllion [there is] one which associates them with goats. Goats are in Wales held in peculiar esteem for their supposed occult intellectual powers. They are believed to be on very good terms with the Tylwyth Teg, and possessed of more knowledge than their appearance indicates. It is one of the peculiarities of the Tylwyth Teg that every Friday night they comb the goats' beards to make them decent for Sunday. Their association with the Gwyllion is related in the legend of Cadwaladr's goat: Cadwaladr owned a very handsome goat, named Jenny, of which he was extremely fond; and which seemed equally fond of him; but one day, as if the very diawi possessed her, she ran away into the hills, with Cadwaladr tearing after her, half mad with anger and affright. At last his Welsh blood got so hot, as the goat eluded him again and again, that he flung a stone at her, which knocked her over a precipice, and she fell bleating to her doom. Cadwaladr made his way to the foot of the crag; the goat was dying, but not dead, and licked his hand--which so affected the poor man that he burst into tears, and sitting on the ground took the goat's head on his arm. The moon rose, and still he sat there. Presently he found that the goat had become transformed to a beautiful young woman, whose brown eyes, as her head lay on his arm, looked into his in a very disturbing way. 'Ah, Cadwaladr,' said she, 'have I at last found you?' Now Cadwaladr had a wife at home, and was much discomfited by this singular circumstance; but when the goat--yn awr maiden--arose, and putting her black slipper on the end of a moonbeam, held out her hand to him, he put his hand in hers and went with her. As for the hand, though it looked so fair, it felt just like a hoof. They were soon on the top of the highest mountain in Wales, and surrounded by a vapoury company of goats with shadowy horns. These raised a most unearthly bleating about his ears. One, which seemed to be the king, had a voice that sounded above the din as the castle bells of Carmarthen used to do long ago above all the other bells in the town. This one rushed at Cadwaladr and butting him in the stomach sent him toppling over a crag as he had sent his poor nannygoat. When he came to himself, after his fall, the morning sun was shining on him and the birds were singing over his head. But he saw no more of either his goat or the fairy she had turned into, from that time to his death.

Where have I been? I went to Europe for a while; left with bronchitis, came back with the flu. Need to start looking for a new job again, my lovelies, and a new brain. I wish I could burrow in my bed until May.

A non-polluting globally distributed sustainable source of energy not owned or distributed by corporations or other private interests. So, something between turning wastewater into coffee (already perfected by my cafeteria), and cold fusion out of snot and fingernails (working on it every time I dig in my nose). Also, the ability to communicate with insects. Also, the ability to communicate with people.

That noted Communist rag, Forbes, is at it again.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/erikkain/2011/10/11/why-the-we-are-the-53-tumblr-matters-its-the-culture-war-stupid/

Conservative individualism – the sense that one’s success and failure is dictated solely in terms of an atomic struggle – sits at the heart of most of these tumblrs. In this view of the world, outside inputs have no bearing at all on individual output. Wall Street is just another independent force. Somehow the market crash of 2008, the housing bubble, the ability to get government loans or work for the military, these are all the work of individuals with no collective effort or commitment or external influence whatsoever.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/erikkain/2011/10/13/the-we-are-the-53-tumblr-is-heartbreaking/

The notion that this is the American dream, that men diagnosed with a horrible cancer should work 72 hours a week to support their families, is deeply tragic.

The military weighs in:

http://thinkprogress.org/yglesias/2011/10/11/340150/individualists-in-the-marine-corps/

I don’t want to be in the position of telling a veteran that I know his business better than he does, but that would be a mighty strange kind of military in which solidarity, teamwork, and the effective operation of a large public bureaucracy play no role.

http://www.tinyrevolution.com/mt/archives/003561.html

I look at that and it tells me that I've failed, you've failed, we've all failed, and because of that we're all going to die. These people not only won't fight the killer billionaires stomping on their windpipe, they'll brag about getting stomped on and ask for more.

PS: why do so many Americans pay no income tax? Babies! Those scum-sucking parasites.

God Bless the 53% and their plans for 300% employment. At least they're not whiners! All we need is positive thinking; and the economy will be back to growing like cancer.

kayıtsız şartsız teslimiyet

Originally posted by james_nicoll at Mississippi Personhood Amendment [...and some other people before him, I'm unclear where his contribution started]

When I first started? The hustle and bustle and all the new friends and flamewars and jameth making trouble in the neighbourhood!
These days? It's like cruising down an empty highway at rush-hour because all the traffic is going the other way (i.e. Dreckwimpth, Fecesbook and Feeble+)... Cruise control and have a nap. I've still got enough people to visit, and hope to start writing myself again.

I do miss all the hubbub, though!

I don't think most things described as pizza in North America qualify as such in Italy; at least my Bolognese friend was aghast at our sacrilegious innovations.

That said, some heresies I have enjoyed:

Thin crust but not too thin, pref. whole wheat or multigrain; pesto sauce; mozzarella, walnuts, bacon, apple, roasted garlic, mushroom.
OR
Thick fluffy crust, tomato sauce, mozzarella, anchovies, pineapple.
OR
Kosher k'laf pages torn out of an illuminated copy of the second book of Aristotle's Poetics, lightly toasted over a funeral pyre at the banks of the Ganges, spread with the cerebro-spinal fluid of a kraken thickened with ground filberts and the eyelashes of an owlbear, topped with the hoof of Sleipnir, claw of Garuda, hot sujuk, lint from the Emperor's New Clothes, and a fried Portuguese Man O' War.

There is no escape. You can’t be a vagabond and an artist and still be a solid citizen, a wholesome, upstanding man. You want to get drunk, so you have to accept the hangover. You say yes to the sunlight and pure fantasies, so you have to say yes to the filth and the nausea. Everything is within you, gold and mud, happiness and pain, the laughter of childhood and the apprehension of death. Say yes to everything, shirk nothing. Don’t try to lie to yourself. You are not a solid citizen. You are not a Greek. You are not harmonious, or the master of yourself. You are a bird in the storm. Let it storm!

--hesse