Sunday, 4 November 2018

The Unfortunate Rejection of Resistance

Regrettable as that fuzzy rubric may resound, I recall Robertson's 700 and Buchanan's culture war that scared R & D to the stations for 41 & 42 — two Ps in an oval pod after all these years still slick as sieves.

The elder rejected vision as a mere thing, which of course was cause enough to reject him in favor of the younger. The younger for his part — virtue signalling his judicious centrism to his targeted base of self-styled reasonable liberals and moderates who will always be scared of Black people who get too loud — renounced Sister Souljah for her poverty of perspective as it relates to her suggested response to her default nation's war in the 'hood.

For good measure already years into his defeat, Poppy gave his ostensibly corresponding club of ideological allies Pals in Arms what-for in deed by ceding his lifelong status as a fellow card carrier, suddenly not so proud. I can't help but wonder — in that words do matter — if their use of 'jack-booted thugs' as a sort of equal opportunistic employment of lingo normally color-coded to describe members of an alphabet agency wasn't what really stuck in his craw. They may as well 've called the feds a bunch of shiftless wiggers. What's particularly delicious, in a 'so funny it's true' kind of way, is that the guy who made the offending statement had his hands wrung by Pops just enough to squeeze an "I didn't mean all cops!" quality of apology out of him.

If they can even indirectly dictate the manner in which you reject them, resistance is futile. If the resistance means mere rejection, the kingdom of heaven promised in the Constitution is denied. At least that's what I heard. The press is not just failing to talk turkey as it relates to the racism and lying of Chief Executor Delerium Tremens. The press' job as far as I can tell has always been to fail to tell it truly regarding whoever is currently ordering the duties as executor. Oh, they'll paper cut 'em for any number of gaffes and misdeeds, but they won't confront the actual intent with which they carry out the most dastardly of them and they definitely won't question the hallowed policies that inscribe contradictory cover stories hardly true even by the collective three branches' traditional skilful slight of semantics. That is, skilful until now.

The difference in the level of the verbal arts between the most recent two White Houses could not cast greater contrast, as backers of each like to point out with no irony intended, which would seem to counter the notion that the arc of history in this case has presented a result today that is simply symptomatic of yesterday. From the perspective of the powers passed down in succession, however, it is hard to deny. The distinction between the imagery that radiated from Bo Rama and that which emanates from Delerium Tremens may seem extreme, but the logical leap between their campaigns' winning, respectively, the ad industry's most coveted marketing prize, and the un-presidential victory of a reality star is minuscule.

Even if Tuesday rids the land roundly of those going too far for the taste of the Milquetoast press — which roundly, of course, it can't and won't, but if it were to — the offending folk aren't going anywhere because there's no one of significance who'll repudiate with consequence the stuff that keeps making their nation great (not "the nation I know would..." but the actual nation), lay waste as they may to all the tiniest of the million points of lies that grow off the stool of state. The stool still stands. Or sits. Or lies.

But I can't blame anyone for double dosing on pain pills. I used to do that myself and regularly, as the headaches were hard to endure. Though I suspect my overall health is not the better for it.

Sunday, 28 October 2018

Agaze or a Sundae

O! wendily, wendily. For one to know if another's take is correct, one must know if the take of the take bears integrity. Finally new use of 'political correctness'. My apologies belatedly, and in advance of what's to come. I reckon I am guilty of expound-splaining as ones' of redundant blogarrhea do do... albeit having forgone the clichéd link to an on the subject essay of mine own, though certainly rife with pretension ('mine own', in-deed). With what shall we win, well why not go on, true take, true take. Too is the take of C des Cs' twittling worthy of such similarly deeper consideration (anarchier than thou, anyone? .. good times).

For, you see, I was talking about my burgeoning belief that it is, in fact, only the plausibility that TPTB actually believe that repairing &/or buttressing their credibility is necessary as such. It is where I came up with (warning, near-narcissistic self-referencing of an essay in effect) 'manufacturing plausible consent'. I swear to Bejeezelbub Lucichrist that it is not just a portmanteau but a very real theory of my own very own, still yet incomplete in the flesh, which is why I probably do not link to it. If I may quote the late junkie, WSB: It's full of holes, it's full of holes. Prolly cuz I forced Gnome together with plausible deniability... but, no, I think I still think that they belong under the same analytical frame.

In short: they can do what they want, they that be, so at best the propaggrandising is long-already of indirect influential intent, seeking to maintain merely the canard that they gotta keep up appearances. They only feel the need to keep up appearances of keeping up appearances. Who in the last quarter century or maybe longer has done anything to stand in the way? —dly

As to Sundae all over the world:
Best Ficktion: a wondrously shifting subject, of length for on-line, so print it out.
As to the gaze:
Referencing still that I didn't get smart until he behind the mask I thought was his own own face explicitly gazed upon itself providing the context, now in recursive mode.

"Snap one more time, see!"

Tuesday, 9 October 2018

October's Objects of Possession

I’d like, for once, to argue with people who’d gotten their preposterous opinions on their own, reflecting the genuine shapes of their own minds as buffeted by private experience… rather than arguing indirectly with The State’s proxies in the form of brainwashed consumers who inadvertently ingest opinions and pre-fab personality traits with the media products they absorb like addicts.


'T's that shit you let fly that lays the ground on which you sound bitter or crazy for your all of a sudden one day saying something that implies your not thinking that shit should fly. Like, by the time of the meddlesome mother's objection to her kid's having to recite "under God" in school, you missed the boat on calling out in front of God & her PTA just how retarded the goddamn Pledge is in the first place.

How many y'all ever really thought 'Ye' was a musical genius? Name one track he's ever done that even ever accidentally rocked your brain stem. I mean, what's his actual legacy defining moment?

Can't one at least take pleasure in Maga cum Dickface's abrading his anus all over the oval rug, branding the presidential seal, or is it that his followers' certain justification of their hero's soiling of the inviolable accessory just grate on each last nerve that conveniently responds to trumped up triggers? As in, the only reason that shit's sacred is because of them. Fuckin' hypocrites. Imagine the gall it takes to profess to hold something dear that you don't hold dear.

The following image is from 1885, one century before the rhetoric of the Ray Gun Revolution's being cemented in history. For the Millennial, an adequate comparison for context would be when Bo Rama was re-elected, his nation's approving his legacy in all of its vainglorious disposition matrix, which is just another stone along the path of what will continue to pass for one of those many feel good American moments one's questioning is questionable.

Stralauer Plz, Berlin-Friedrichshain 1885 (Am Ostbahnhof 2018)

Wednesday, 3 October 2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: zurück auf Platte

Verben wird gefärbt und Farben geverbt. Wie von allein entwickelt sich die Sprache im Verlauf der Benennung und ihrer Beschreibung. Manchmal wollen die drei, vier da, sie zurückhalten oder doch noch neu schreiben. Da wird einige wollen, dabei gewesen zu sein.
—aus Neu Schreiben von Hause Aus
F: Was für Spuren hinterlässt der Spionhund?
A: Geheimkot.

—Ditwar Icke

. . ..

»Die Berggünthers«, erwähnte er ohne ersichtlichen Grund. Infolgedessen kam einen Fragezeichen im Gewand einer Miene. »Also der Gunther Dompflaster, Gunther Leermangel...«, setzte er darauf als Erklärung fort, »...der Gunther Schweintraube... also nicht koscher wie angedeutet sowie überhaupt nicht politisch koscher auf Metaebene. Dann gibts die Günthers Gunther Blutkotzer und Gunther Sandalen aka Gunther Flipflops.«

Er sprach von Beurlaubt von der Realität, einer Platte von Blutkotzende Goten, einer Band, wovon keiner wisse, außer ihm. »Da haben sie Ramones Anerkennung gezollt, da natürlich hieß keine von „den Goten“ Gunther.« Ein Bisschen Residents-mäßig seien sie auch, indem sie der wahren Identität ferngeblieben seien. »Als Berggünthers tauchen sie aber einzig auf dieser 33er auf.«

Da fing er an, übereifrig einen angeblich dementsprechenden Songtext zu rezitieren. Man beachte den Gendativ, meinte er dabei:
Ick bin Doofa Leehra. Eenfack Doofa nennn. Un duzen.
Spandoh klinĵt als wärs Beruhĵa disch.  In Russiiisch!

Uhwah saĵt uff jeht ooch. Mann! »Aba wełcha is bessa?«
wiłłick Nunoch fraaa'ng denn ick bin Doofa Leeehra. Dutzäään!

Dinot DiNutten is definitif dein tot.
Dendelin Quenz dem Freeha droht.

»Hast du es?«  ... [Fragezeichengesicht]...  »Pass auf: Im Gegensatz dazu, wie es sich beiläufig anhört, heißt es nicht, dass eine Frau Quenz dem Freier droht. Durch den Gendativ wird es anders des Freiers Dendelin Quenz, also, die dem Hörer droht. Will man den Hintersinn der Lyrik knacken, ist das ein kritischer Punkt.«