flying squirrels et al.

The stained coffee mug reads, in German: I am the master of the house. Four days of drippings streak its side, evidence of my laziness and unwillingness to spend forty-five seconds each day washing the dishes.
Who is now the master of the house? Certainly not I; a transient I am, here to sit out the terms of my punishment, my mood oscillating between abject woe and patient indifference, too often lured to the TV for a good numbing of the mind. At work at night, my thoughts run wild, the painful images of past loss recycling until I am reduced to tears. At day, during my few hours of leisure, I rebuild my confidence and make the small steps needed to keep this house and my life up and running.
After thirty years of painstaking neglect, the saying may be true about the house, but no one is master of the five other acres of this property. Thick vines run between the treecrowns, building wide epiphytic networks that will eventually pull the host to the ground. The underbrush is thick with thorny and poisonous brush that rends the flesh and causes it to itch. The stream is lost in places to overhanging masses of bamboo and other opportunistic weeds that make empty spaces their home.
A thousand shades of green explode in the sudden sunlight while a million droplets descend through layers of leaves, their passage a wild staccato in a cloudburst's sullen wake. I approach an ancient weathered tree and knock thrice to check its soundness and with a frantic scramble out pops a flying squirrel who climbs ten feet and then stops, flaps of gliding skin loose about his sides, his wide flat tail shuddering slightly in time with his thundering heart. I merge quietly back onto the path and move along the top of the northern ridge, slowing at the sound of furious scolding up ahead, hoping to see the mother owl, and yes, there she is, her wide shadow the only evidence of her passage, and I turn just in time to see her flap into the eaves of a massive oak, harassed as she flies by a handful of smaller, seed-eating birds I recognize from their winter begging.
No, I am not the master of this house, of this land. The beasts are the masters here, living out their lives in this postage stamp of natural bounty, safe from harm by all but each other.

Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP

for heroes a palpable need

Throughout history, heroes have emerged from the ranks of average men to change the situation of all for the better. They are often unwittingly thrust into their elevated positions, intitially reluctant to bear the responsibility at hand. The hero sees the change that is needed in the world, and although it might yet be an evil that is bearable, she rebels against the status quo and puts herself at the ultimate risk, the loss of liberty, in order to become the change she seeks to make in the lives of others. After living and working among these simple minded people, and observing their ways, I find them too deeply entrenched in their petty, predictable, utterly mundane routines to even entertain the hope that they might one day live better or more fulfilling lives, let alone take upon themselves the responsibility for making that better life a reality.

Shall I, as they apparently have, abandon all hope that the way things are is not how they must by default be? Far better to insulate myself from their ignorance and small-mindedness, and to keep within my breat the fire burning that will light my way along this dark and torturous path to a future of bright and shining toil, that place where the full breadth of my faculties find expression, not in service to another, but to the benefit of mankind.

The greatest challenge I see is how to stir up these masses of working poor, these people who likely fill the forgotten pockets of America's exurban landscape from one coast to the other, and to convince them that the future lies not in service to others, but in the decisions they themselves make daily, and in their hidden and untapped abilities, whose expression could lift them from the daily useless toil in pursuit of cheap and simple goals and redirect their efforts to the discovery and propagation of Happiness.

mine furor

Mine furor has gripped America.
It is the topic of conversation from the Shenandoah to the Rocky Mountains. Buried in years past under a mountain of disinterest, mine furor surfaces when we least suspect, spreading heartbreak and woe throughout our collective consciousness.
There is only one sure way to combat mine furor's iron grip - total war on the forces of greed and indifference. We cannot afford to ignore our coal-black brothers any longer, toiling as they do in places unknown, in conditions unimaginable.
Join today - your country needs you.

Ultima Ratio Regum.
X

Reline your stomach today with Relinerize!

ARE you tired of relying on your body to renew your stomach lining every week?

Bioregenetics International announced last week from its headquarters in Bangor, Maine, a revolutionary new way to ensure that the human stomach remains properly lined.

"People are fed up with the inconvenience of natural stomach lining regeneration," Dr. Thornton Churlish, director of product development at Bioregenetics, said. "Our product provides them with a feasible alternative to the weekly hassle of standard regeneration."

The new product, named Relinerize (TM), is a half pound of stomach lining starter cells that, once swallowed whole, lines your stomach with a more robust covering than usual, saving your body effort and reducing wasteful energy consumption. Clinical trials on Rhesus primates have shown a remarkable reduction in energy usage due to constant regeneration and a reduced dependency on shellfish as a major dietary supplement. Relinerize, which must only be taken once every three months, completely eliminates the natural process of stomach lining rejuvenation, a process that occurs regularly in most healthy people.

Studies have shown that the body often takes too long to reline the stomach, which, due to the constant presence of acidic digestive fluids crucial to the digestive process, is in a perpetual death spiral of destruction and rejuvenation. Relinerize adheres to the stomach wall and expands quickly to cover the entire organ with a thick coat of cells ten times the width of the average stomach wall.

"The thickness of a Relinerized (TM) stomach wall is the key to the product's success," Mary Yardmoth, lead researcher on the Relinerize developmental team, said. "With our new product, the speed of degradation to the stomach wall is slowed dramatically. An additional benefit of the Relinerized stomach's reduced capacity is marked but healthy weight loss similar but far superior to the invasive practice of stomach stapling."   

While Bioregenetics says that the ingestible version of Relinerize is easy to swallow, they have hinted at the development of a new, implantable, capsulized miniature biofactory that functions much like implantable birth control devices. "We understand that most consumers are willing and able to dry-swallow a half pound of gelatinous membrane," Churlish noted, "but there is a small segment of the population that would rather have a miniature cellular production factory sewn onto the outside of their stomach pouch."

Relinerize is shipped via special overnight delivery in a sleek foam container marked BIO-HAZARD in bold red lettering, making it easy to spot. The product must be ingested immediately to guarantee the highest rate of success. "We want to stress the importance of immediate consumption," Yardmoth said; "you can't just leave your shipment of Relinerize to bake in the hot sun out in your mailbox."

For further information, and to order your free sample of Relinerize, e-mail relinerizeinfo@bioregenetics.net

a profundity of beasts

My late father had a vision for the six and a half acres of land here in south-central Pennsylvania - to make it a safe haven for all sorts of flying and crawling and bounding beasts. While the township will not allow the front of the property to become wild, the rear of the property, which receives but minimal mowing, is slowly fulfilling his dream.

Over the past months, I have been witness to a wide variety of beasts moving through or living on our land. The most recent and exciting addition is a Barred Owl, or hoot owl, who has made her nest somewhere on the northern slope of this small valley. She is a fine bird, wide in wing and broad in head, who, I suspect, due to the fact that she is hunting during the day, is raising a brood of chicks in one of the many rotting trees. Hopefully the large, snow-white feral cat that lives in the barn does not try to raid her nest or otherwise scare her off.
I found the owl just yesterday fishing in the stream in broad daylight. Startled by my appearance, she flew silently to an adjacent sapling, where she eyed me with bland curiosity as I attempted to pole-vault over the stream and proceeded to fall ten feet into the gravel stream bed. Aside from a few cuts on my right elbow, I am unharmed.

Last week, while walking to the barn to fire up the Kubota tractor for a bit of mowing, I discovered a large snapping turtle sunning in the grass near the culvert. Wholly indifferent to my presence, the turtle, a fine specimen with a foot-long shell wainscoted by dried algae, moved not an inch when the tractor lumbered past five feet from its head. I was shocked to hear of the annual local tradition of making turtle soup out of these splendid creatures, and will be vigilant for anyone attempting to capture this snapper on our land.

Last year, I startled a large whooping crane fishing in the culvert's spill area, a pool not five feet wide and two deep. the bird rose on its grey and white wings, flying east toward Codorus Park, her long spindly legs tucked deep into her belly. In the same spot, the rushing current escaping the culvert, I found last week a pair of mating Mallard ducks who flew a dozen yards downstream, their wings clipping the overhanging bushes as they planed in for a landing in the shallow stream.

A woodpecker has been dismantling the rotting maple near the lane, eying me suspiciously when I walk out onto the front porch to see what all the knocking was about. Since her departure for trees unknown, finches have taken over the nesting hole she bored into the soft wood. Robins hop across the broad front lawn, pecking at the soil and throwing down the bugs and worms they find there. Brilliant cardinals flash bright red in the trees. A murder of crows, perhaps ten in number, harass the striped-tailed hawks and other birds of prey that circle the valley in search of food, pecking in flight at their feet.
Either the crows have moved on, or they do not mind the presence of the massive buzzard that wheels in the valley's updrafts, so large that when it passes overhead I mistake its shadow for a passing airplane.

These and many other, smaller, but no less worthy beasts live or eat in this valley. As I discover them, I will here mark their passage.

Ultima Ratio Regum. JP

easter airport cluster-fuck

It is the Thursday evening before Easter, two thousand and ten, and terminal one at San Diego airport is in chaos.
Three lanes lead past the terminal, bisected by a pedestrian crosswalk. As soon as this light turns red, arriving travelers bolt from the curb into the arms of their friends, where they hug, kiss, and eventually start loading their bags into too small trunks. Invariably, the light turns green again before the greeting and loading rituals are completed, and traffic remains halted rather than flowing.
In the waning light, passengers throng to the edge of the sidewalk, craning their necks to try and see over others craning their necks for a glimpse of the person coming to pick them up. Once positive contact is made, the motorized loved-one parks her car any way possible, in any proximity to the curb, shifts into park, and exits her vehicle for the welcoming ceremony.
There are only three security officers on duty. They patrol the hundreds of feet of curb as best they can, flashing their flashlights at drivers who have waited too long and hurrying along those inept at loading luggage. The officers might as well be herding cats. Cars stop in any and every lane to load passengers, blocking traffic behind them for minutes at a time. Vehicles cut sharply toward the curb, forcing those kind enough to let them into one lane to wait until someone in the next lane is kind enough to let them into that one, too. Unlike other, larger airports, the arriving and departing passengers share the same curb at Lindbergh Field; those travelers with little time to spare tussle with those recently freed from their cramped seats who are enjoying a leisurely, leg-stretching stroll.
I hate driving into airports to pick up arriving friends; there are few things I loathe more than entering a confined airport loop closely monitored by a cash-strapped police force. A close second in my pantheon of loathing, however, is people who turn into self-centered assholes the moment they see a loved one. You can almost see their vision tunneling, their hearing blocking out any frustrated honking, their skin flushing and their hearts fluttering. Without a moment's hesitation or the slightest concern for the needs of the vehicles behind them, they stop their car in the middle of traffic to hug, kiss, and chat with whomever they are collecting. Doing your hugging and kissing and chatting in the comfort of your own home, or at the next gas station, is not nearly as romantic or special as doing it in front of a packed airport, but it is far easier on the people who are sitting in traffic for the sole reason of physically picking up their peeps.
So, next time, consider leaving your ride in short term parking - you will have all the time in the world to say your hellos without fear of someone getting run over. You will not stoke the wrath of everyone around you with your obliviousness to how much of everyone's time you are wasting. And you won't have someone shining a flashlight in your eyes and yelling at you to move along.
In short, never abandon common courtesy, even if you haven't seen Granny in months.

Ultima Ratio Regum.
X

poem - ranting and praying

HARSH voices arise, with terrible cries,
Of wasteful and communist leanings.
Loud do they shout, of reasons devout,
To mandate their Christ-i-an teachings.
They rant and they pray, to keep far at bay,
The chaos of true Libertie;
We Rationals hope, they'll renounce the Pope,
And abandon insanity.

Ultima Ratio Regum.

X

a mess of liberty

LIBERTY is a messy ordeal.
A liberty-crazed citizen would pursue her pleasure regardless of what that pleasure may be. If she were given freedom of will, she would likely decide to speak her mind without censorship, consume whatever drugs she wished (in the privacy of her own home), or have whatever kind of sex she desired with whichever consenting adult she chose.

This cannot happen.
Americans cannot be granted liberty.

Worker productivity would shrink to zero, happiness levels would rise, and the Truth and Righteousness afforded solely to the true followers of Yahweh, the One and Only True God, would be threatened.

Vile philanderer President William J. Clinton, in a rare stroke of wisdom, signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law in 1996 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defense_of_Marriage_Act), thus upholding the longstanding institution of marriage culled from our Bronze-Age text, the Bible.

Our supreme leader George W. Bush showed his willingness to fight the threat of liberty in his efforts to constitutionally ban same sex marriage (http://www.cnn.com/2003/ALLPOLITICS/07/30/bush.gay.marriage/).
We thank you, Premier Bush, for your courage.
We condemn the slime-ball socialists and perverted progressives for derailing this momentous and vital piece of legislation.

The American people must be protected from themselves. The homosexuals cannot be allowed to marry, for it would bring shame to the hallowed and flawless institution of heterosexual marriage. These people, who are obviously confused and not of right minds, are not entitled to the rights enjoyed by others, because their views are obviously wrong and they are obviously criminally insane.

This whole business of same sex marriage could be stamped out quite easily.
First, announce that same sex marriage is legal.
Second, record the names and physical addresses of all people applying for same sex marriage licenses.
Third, remove the applicants from their stated physical addresses to holding facilities.
Fourth, reform said individuals through chemical, electrical, or biological means into Yahweh-fearing heterosexuals, or, failing that, work them to death in slave camps (i.e. holding facilities).

This is the ONLY way to eradicate homosexuality. Giving these people the same rights as heterosexuals is dangerous to the fabric of our society.

Imagine the chaos.
Imagine the consequences.
Think of the children.
Keep America Christian.

Bridgette C. Weatherbottom

(note: This post is satirical, and it in no way represents the author's views. The only morally proper thing to do is to let everyone in America do whatever they want to whomever they want, as long as all parties are consenting and no one gets hurt, unless they want to get hurt.)

no American theocracy

THE United States of America were not built on a Christian tradition. Our country was not founded as a Christian nation.

For those who are still confused on this point, please refer to the Treaty of Tripoli from 1796. The Treaty, supported by founding father John Adams, was ratified by nearly every elected Senator.
Article 11 of the treaty states:
"... the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion..." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Tripoli#Article_11)
The entire treaty, including article 11, was distributed via newspaper to the American people.
There was no public dissent. No angry voices arose to challenge the statement of non-Christianity. The people at the time, active participants in the founding of our nation, in no way disagreed with the statement.

And yet, today, a movement is growing to declare America a Christian nation. The leaders of this movement claim that the founding fathers built our young nation on the notions of Christianity.
There is little if any evidence for this argument. Far more evidence exists that the men who crafted the constitution, most notably Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, had atheistic leanings and were well informed of the dangers of a state religion.
An official Christianization of America would be devastating to our way of life. Instead of officers of the law enforcing legal standards, we would have religious officers persecuting those they deem unholy or sacrilegious. Instead of freedom of thought and freedom of religion, our thoughts and beliefs would be restricted.

Little good comes from a state religion.
Theocratic government in America is not a valid option - look at the theocracies in the Middle East, and imagine the suffering it would cause in our country.
Under a Christian theocracy, a man in America would be obligated to murder his new wife if, on their wedding night, he discovered she wasn't a virgin (Deuteronomy 22:13-21). He would be obligated to kill his children if they were disobedient (Leviticus 20:9). It would be his Yaweh-mandated duty to kill homosexuals suspected of buggering each other (Leviticus 20:13).

Americans should be allowed to believe in whatever religion they choose. I, for example, believe in Allah, Odin, Athena, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Mercury, the Earth-Mother, and the pile of dog shit I saw on the street the other day.
Under a Christian theocracy, I would be killed if anyone even suspected my non-Christian beliefs.
If a Christian wants to believe that women are the servants of men, or that humans were made from clay, that is her preference.
It should not be the law of the land.

The American government cannot take sides in this issue; it must remain neutral and aloof.
Diversity is what makes America special. It keeps us alive, young, and vibrant. We cannot afford to close our minds to the bounty of human inventiveness and imagination.

Keep religion out of government, and keep America free.

Ultima Ratio Regum.

JP

Stop Desecrating Our Flag

I was reading an article in Time magazine about the alarming rise of the fringe group calling itself the Tea Party. The article outlined this group's ambitions, the many and varied facets of its many and various subgroups, and the danger it poses to the American political system.

The Tea Baggers must be allowed to speak - it is their constitutional right.
They cannot, however, be allowed to desecrate the Standard of the United States.
In nearly every picture accompanying the article, Tea Baggers were shown wearing portions of the American flag affixed to or otherwise adorning their bodies.
Such displays are violations of the U.S. Code.

"No part of the flag should ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. However, a flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations. The flag represents a living country and is itself considered a living thing. Therefore, the lapel flag pin being a replica, should be worn on the left lapel near the heart." U.S. Code, Section 8, Subsection J, Respect for flag
(http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/html/uscode04/usc_sec_04_00000008----000-.html)


In their zeal to profess patriotism, many Americans don similar costumes. The Tea Baggers are not the only segment of the population abusing the flag in this manner - we see similar abuses every single day perpetrated by all groups of the population.

This type of display is an offense to our nation.
This type of display is against the law.
This type of display is more egregious than the burning of an American flag for purposes other than proper disposal.

Instead of proving patriotism, a section 8 violator demonstrates unforgivable ignorance. His desire to show love for his country is unlawful and insulting. He might just as well break wind on the Constitution.

So next time you spot a section 8 violator, remind him of the severity of his offense, and ask him to remove the offensive material. It is your patriotic duty. It is vital to our nation.

Our flag stands for more than the soil we tread or the votes we cast. It is not a hat to wear or a job to keep our bellies full. It is not a whimsical decoration or a sequined gown.
Our flag stands for Security and Happiness, for the precious ideals set forth in the Declaration of Independence.
It embodies a desire for liberty from tyranny and oppression. It represents a sacred and immutable Dream we all share.
Our flag flies over the bodies of our dead.
It projects the values of our nation.

We must treat it with the respect it deserves.
The desecration of our common symbol cannot continue. It must end.

Ultima Ratio Regum

JP

demon literacy

Our quasi-democracy faces many dangers, but none as evil as literacy.

A woman who can read is likely to read.
Once she is hooked, it is nearly impossible for her to stop.
She will read books by foreign authors. She will read books about different styles of government. She will learn about cultures from around the world that make the contents of her mind a threat to humanity.

Fortunately, we have burnt the majority of such books in our weekly bonfires.
If you know of someone in possession of books not approved by the U.S. Censorship Bureau, please notify that Bureau immediately.
For bonfire locations in your community, call your local censor.

Ideas spread faster than AIDS, and are twice as deadly.

In an ideal democracy, the population is comprised of illiterate peasants with a minimum of education.
They should be taught how to dress themselves, when to brush their teeth, and how to operate simple machinery, but there is no room for mathematical theory or philosophical discussion.
The population in this ideal democracy is informed about the world at large by the central government. The population receives instructions on what to do and when to do it via state-run television and radio.
This is the way things were in America before the commie liberals took power, and this is the way things will be again.

Do not give up hope. It is now only a matter of time.

Examples of the dangers facing the ideal democracy can be found in documents such as the Communist Manifesto, the Declaration of Independence, and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
These vile rags promulgate the supposed rights of the individual to freedom, self-determination, equality, and a level of silliness that is undemocratic and unsustainable.
Anyone who reads such unwholesome material will immediately cease in his labors, found a worker's commune, and don a fancy party hat.
Imagine the profit losses. Imagine the debauchery. Imagine a world where the people have a say in government.

You should be as worried about literacy as we are.
If you are not, please notify the National Agency for Reeducation and Entertainment (NARE), and they will send round a lorry to pick you up. If you know anyone who shows signs of reading banned material - excessive questioning, intelligent banter, evidence of recent party-hat wearing - notify NARE immediately.

Together, we can return to national illiteracy. Together, we can stamp out zealot intellectualism.

Together, we are strong.

Remember your censor, and keep those fires burning.

Compassionately,

Bridgette C. Weatherbottom

how to buy love

You can't buy love.
Many misguided individuals repeat this phrase, denying themselves love for any number of reasons.
I'm too ugly, they say, or I'm just not a nice person.


Nonsense.

It's true, you can't actually exchange money for love at the brokerage next to the Friendly's on Locust Street. But you can buy nice clothes for someone, take them on fancy cruises, pay for their haircuts, support their hobbies, and put food in their bellies. And if you're cruising and feeding and supporting them, and you are there with them while these things are happening, that person will love you.

It's human nature.

Now, they might just love you on that day, or for the week after you bought them a new sweater, and they might just love you physically with their hands or their mouth, but they're still loving you.

Suck it up. Learn to love yourself, and the rest will fall into place 

But don't waste your efforts on someone who knows how terrible you are - spend it on a child.

Impregnate somebody, adopt, or buy the child. Human trafficking is bigger business that drug trafficking these days, so it shouldn't be too hard to pick up a cute little tyke at one of the crack dens you frequent. 

Don't be afraid to ask. You'd be surprised.

A child will love you no matter what you do.

You can say terrible things to it and call it racist names - it will love you.

You can abandon it in Wichita, and when the police return it to you, it will still love you.

You can feed it junk food until it gets fat and has diabetes, but it will still love you.

It doesn't have a choice.

But seriously. All you need is some sort of plan and a bit of disposable income, and you can buy someone's love. They might leave once they figure out that you're a cunning, deceitful fake, but there are plenty of fish in the sea, my friend. And what's the difference between fake love and real love, anyway?

As long as people are being born, you will have a fresh batch of people whose love you can buy once they come of legal age, every few months. And if you impregnate one or two of them along the way, or get pregnant by this or that person, then you'll have a child to love you, and you won't have to spend so damn much money.

There is no consensus on what constitutes love. Priests say one thing, scholars say another, and drunks say something else entirely. There is no way to explain love, no way to share the extent of the chemical reaction in your brain that occurs when it hits, so why not just keep things simple.


Lower your standards, don't get your hopes up, and start loving yourself.

You'll thank me eventually.

X

hope floats - commies don't

LOCK your windows, and close your doors - there are commies about!
Commies, short for the communist or socialist scum who are infiltrating American society, are evil and should be killed on sight.

As the headline suggests, a dead commie thrown into a river will not float - his body is made of a fibrous material similar to asbestos. Remove the dead commie from the water as soon as possible. His body will quickly rot and pose a hazard to shipping lanes.
As of press time we have not been able to catch a live commie to dissect his body in its living state.
We know enough not to let him live.
We kill the commie before the commie can kill us.

Wily and suspicious by nature, the commie can be lured into a trap only if it is properly camouflaged. He will trash wildly once captured, so have your killing implement at the ready. Preferred bait is mechanically-separated meat product with a high sodium content mixed with stale gingersnaps.
Remove the head of the dead commie as soon as you can. He might be faking death, and there is nothing worse than a wounded, half-dead commie spreading chaos behind your defensive lines.
Wounding the commie will only enrage him - he will still be largely combat effective.
AIM FOR THE HEAD.
Shooting off a leg will only slow the commie; it will not stop him.
Immolating the vile scum will only enrage him. He will charge your position and do everything in his power to burn it down.
Think of your loved ones.
Think of the children.
Do not hesitate.

Avoid public libraries, public transportation, and public universities - these are all socialist institutions funded by taxpayer dollars that provide services to all Americans equally. They are crucial to the socialist ideal, and must be avoided.
Commies have been known to participate in local elections, where they support valuable services such as police and firefighters. Furthermore, the commie will, on the local or national level, support programs that provide assistance to the poor, the disabled, and the elderly.
Anyone who votes for such programs is a commie.
Do not trust.

The Commie uses public roads. Interstate and intrastate highway systems would not exist without taxpayer support. They are socialist services that are dangerous to the American way. Switch to privately funded road systems whenever possible.

Every step toward communism is a step away from the American Way of Life. We must band together to stamp out the aforementioned socialist institutions. We must close our schools, tear up our roads, disband our emergency services, and burn down our libraries.
Only then will we be free of communism and its bastard cousin, socialism.
Only then can America flourish.

Know your commie. He may seem peaceful and well educated, but he is likely an atheist and a believer in sacrifice for the common good.
Fear the commie - you life may depend on it.

Ultima Ratio Regum

X

man-shit

one of the best things about my current location is the amount of man-shit to be done.
i haul two hundred plus pound logs down the valley on my shoulders or by dragging.
i use chainsaws and axes.
i ride a tractor.
i climb onto the roof to check the chimney for creosote buildup.

but a man has many needs, desires and urges that cannot be met with such brutish and manly activities. where are the ladies i was promised (i have the flier that guarantees a minimum of three ladies per month)? where is the utopia that was so often spoken of out West?

the roads here are not laced with platinum, and the streams run water, not milk or honey. can i expect the fabulous plunder and hordes of complacent slave women i was promised? should i wait for the others to arrive to begin the spree of raping and pillaging?

no word has come. i cannot track their progress. are they stuck in the great divide, toiling among the defiles with their packmules laden with provisions? have they crossed the plains, hounded no doubt by the packs of red indians i encountered along the way?

oh if only word would come, or the shipment of slave girls would arrive. then at least i could wile away the days in peace and contentment, siring bastard children and sleeping until noon.

please send word. time grows short.

X

the high cost of boasting

Boasting of my abilities or accomplishments must stop. For some people I know, boasting has a positive affect, boosting their motivation to achieve.
For me, boasting has a decidedly negative affect. If I boast about quitting smoking, I will start smoking within a few days. If I boast about the progress I am making with my writing, I will stop writing. It will take me days of internal adjustment to get myself back in the right mindset to want to write.
For me, boasting tricks my mind into thinking I am doing more than I am. I slack off and think I am making progress when in reality I am getting nothing done.
Lao Tzu gets it right in #24 of the Tao when he says, 'One who displays himself does not shine. One who justifies himself has no glory. One who boasts of his own ability has no merit.'
American society accommodates a large amount of boasting. It is expected of us. We parade our success in from of cameras and in blogs.
I would like to break from this unhealthy tradition. My actions shall speak for me.
ultima ratio regum.
X

BMG book recall

The Bertlesman Group (BMG) issued a recall today of approximately 1000,000 books.
As of press-time, our agency has received unsubstantiated reports of books bursting into flames when placed next to caustic household objects, such as bleach and ammonia.
At a press conference this evening, the VP of marketing for BMG, Samuel Chryst, approached the subject with caution, urging customers not to overreact.
"It seems as if there is a chemical reaction occurring when the books are exposed to bi- trimethyl - godammit, I'm not a chemist. Please, just don't store any books printed in the last two months in your fucking chemical closets," Chryst said. He then immediately asked an aide, "do people even have chemical closets anymore? What kind of idiot stores books in a closet, anyway?"
The books appear to be contaminated with an substance that ignites when placed in an enclosed area alongside common cleaning materials and then exposed to sunlight.
"I was reading the newest edition of 'Going Rogue', sitting in my sunroom, when I started smelling smoke. I thought the roast was burning, but it was the book smoldering in my lap," 80 year old Margaret Vills said. Vills claims that the book kept burning even after she doused it with the garden hose.
It is unclear how this recall will affect the company's sagging sales. A rise in internet viewership and the arrival of electronic books, or e-books, on the scene is crippling BMG's ability to compete in an over-saturated market. To further complicate the matter, the US Postal Service (USPS) issued a statement warning customers not to return the books by mail due to their hazardous nature.
"I don't want want these things starting fires in our sorting facilities," an anonymous USPS employee said late Wednesday. "We have enough problem with idiots bringing fucking guns in here."
Preliminary reports show that all books printed by BMG or its subsidiaries since December of 2009 are contaminated.
A call to the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) to inquire if the contamination was possibly a terrorist plot went unanswered.
"All I wanted to do was learn how to program my new Mac," Delaware resident Jason M. said. "But my 'Idiot's Guide to Macs' just burned my house down. Now I need a new Mac and a new house. Somebody's gonna fucking pay for this."

on specialization

Specialization, in a profession, field of research, field of study, or in a blog such as this one, seems to be the name of the game. Some bloggers write about something with which they have frequent contact, like whale watching. Others blog about their illness, their children, or clever ways to make money. Family blogs allow widely dispersed kinsmen to stay in touch.

My blog, LieSmith, is a vehicle for me to express my feelings. I can attempt to be witty or insightful here. I post portions of my book that wallow in the aether, seen and read by none. Is it because I am a scatter-brain? Is it because I do not yet see the need to maintain separate blogs on different subjects?

Perhaps once by book takes off, I will have a blog to connect with readers, another to express my feelings, and another to write about random stuff, such as this post, that pops into my head at midnight on a Friday in January.

In order to make more money in your profession, you obtain education that allows you to fill an niche in the market. As a researcher, you choose one area of study and immerse yourself in the minutiae of that particular field.

Is this trend toward specialization necessary because there are so many more people on the planet? Are there so few jobs to go around that you have to focus on one area and become its master? Arguably, the great polymaths of the past were self-made men who exhibited boundless drive and curiosity. Gone are the days of Ben Franklin, publisher, inventor, statesman, humorist. We are hard pressed to find today a Newton, or a Socrates. Would Charles Darwin, a man of myriad talents besides naturalism, be able to combine his various interests into the seminal novel that founded the theory of Evolution? Or would he have focused in on one area, for example ornithology, and ignored all the things that crawl and swim?

Is specialization a bad thing? A technician with many years of experience making electronic displays will, when faced with the challenges of making a new idea work, know the fundamentals of the field and be able to skip a lot of blind groping. A researcher will know how certain chemicals react with certain materials, and will be able to complete her project more efficiently.

The goods we use and the lives we live are made cheaper and better because of specialization. But are we losing today's great minds to the demands of shrinking margins?
Perhaps the time of the generalist has passed.
Perhaps we can find ways to expand our expertise in more ways than one.
Let a million flowers bloom (without, of course, the subsequent executions).

Ultima Ratio Regum.
JP

an iron beast in my home

There is a beast in my home. It fumes, sputters, creaks and groans. Vapor rises from the plate atop its head, and it has an insatiable appetite for dried plants. Its surface is too hot to touch, and it requires daily cleaning.
This beast, if you have figured it out (and I hope you have, since I am not very good at being subtle), is a wood burning stove.
After researching the telltale signs of creosote buildup, and climbing up onto the roof a half dozen times and shoving my head inside the chimney, I have fired up the faithful old beast. The house used to be warmed (briefly and inefficiently) by forced heated air. After watching the oil level in the big steel drum in the basement fall steadily, and, rather than spend money on buying more fuel, I risked the chance of a chimney fire and fired up the beast.
The tally of mummified animals at the base of the chimney - four. One partially decomposed rat and three fully decomposed blackbirds. The byproduct of their decomposition had piled up to a stately six inches, a soft, fluffy material resembling insulation. For lack of a proper place to store this curious and painfully slow experiment in mummification, I have placed it in the wastebasket.
For anyone seeking a warm, crackling hearth and pleasant companionship (I will be away for the next few days but some very nice people are stopping by later), do feel free to pay a visit.
from the Bamboo Bowl,
many affectionate greetings. JP

The Cat That Does Not Laugh

Memory is a terrific function. Memory has at once the power to preserve and to torment. I remember with accuracy one night in Germany when I was watching TV alone but for the cat. I can still feel the room‘s temperature (toasty warm). I can still see the time of day (magic hour, just after sunset). My breath catches when I remember my eyes flashing in the reflection in glass of the balcony door (a combination of internal lighting, external darkness). In my memory, something funny happens on TV. I laugh and turn to see if the other person in the room is laughing too. There is nobody else in the room, just the cat. The cat looks at me and closes his eyes and starts purring. I can still now feel the disappointment that no one was there to share the humor, and that the cat didn’t laugh.
My father laughed when I told him this story, aptly titled The Cat That Didn’t Laugh. He died recently, of unknown causes. His death was sudden, but not a complete surprise; he had been engaging in unhealthy activities all his life. He smoked. He drank. He worried constantly. He worried so much it would wake him up at night. Worry became obsession, and other people began to notice. One day about a year ago, he announced to me that he was replacing worry with concern. His vague explanation was that he read in a magazine that worrying could kill you, so he reasoned that being merely concerned would prolong his life. I remember the twinkle in his eye that told me he was joking. I remember his wide eyes and grasping hands when he needed a cigarette (I rolled them to cut costs and control consumption). He reminded me of Gollum obsessing over the Ring, that one thing that would forever hold him in its sway.
The memories I bear of my father are so strong that sometimes I think he is still alive, and that I can ask him things. Has the chimney been swept in the past decade? Dad will know. How old is the pump that draws water from the well? Dad will know – I will call him right now. I am slightly shocked every time I catch my mind filling in the blanks with “Dad will know.” He probably would have known if he had not smoked, drank, and worried himself into an early grave. My hand reaches on impulse for my phone when I want to talk to someone about life’s difficulties.
I very soon remember that Dad is dead. He cannot return my calls. His ashes are in a box deep underground. There is no one around to share in my laughter, my joy. I cast about for him but he is gone, forever.
Dad is now the cat that does not laugh.

Requiescat in pace, GHWR.

being nice can kill you dead

a new study indicates that containing your feelings after an argument can lead to an early death. to sum up: the nicer and more accommodating you are, the more you are tolerated in the short run, but the more you damage yourself in the long run. I will hazard that a number of factors have led to an increase in niceness, and thereby premature death, in our society, but the most damaging of those factors is the Political Correctness (PC) movement that started in the late nineteen eighties.

I cannot provide hard data to directly back this up, but it would be reasonable to assume that PC has led to increases in lying and dying in this country, as people resort to PC standards rather than expose their true feelings. I am convinced it has also led to more men being pussy-whipped and to men dying younger (for, if my hazy memory of the summary of the study is correct, men are more likely to swallow their true feelings during a fight, especially in the corporate world). recently, following the maxims of Brutal Honesty and other philosophies that trounce PC and champion Truth, I have experimented with freely telling the people around me what I really think, not what I think they think I think they think I should be thinking.

the result? after an initial shock, people tended to more directly address my concerns, they spoke to me as an actual, unique person, and they seemed to have more respect for what I had to say, even if, like most things that escape my lips, what I was saying was churlish balderdash.

niceness is a sickness. too much niceness, like too much sugar, can kill you. I hereby motion to designate one day out of the year, preferably in winter when everyone is cranky anyway, as Angry Day, Trouble Time, or Day of the Flagrant Asshole. the name has to be catchy and, especially, marketable, so that marketers can market the crap out of not being nice and convince a million people to pin a frowny-face on their lapels. just look at AIDS awareness day, or autism awareness day. the people making the stop-AIDS t-shirts and teddy bears with tiny stop-autism t-shirts on them are making big, big money. there are nationalized events, 5k's, telethons and sit-ins (well, no sit-ins, but you get the point). sickness is business, baby.

it is important that we study the negative effects of niceness, and encourage Americans to be less nice going forward. join me, John Paul Roggenkamp, in my quest to spread awareness of the dangers of Mandated Societal Niceness. together, we can repeal the negative effects of Political Correctness. together, we can transform America back into the honest, dreadful, hard-scrabble, speak-your-mind-freely place it once was.

do your part; make the effort to be not-nice to someone today. once you get started, it's hard to stop. it wasn't so long ago that people dueled to the death over words. hey, at the least we would have fewer idiots to have to listen to.

virtuously,

JP

p.s. I'm not a doctor, but you're just going to have to trust me.