Monthly Archive: November 2011
…the simpering excuse of the Moral Coward. It’s lesser form, “I’m just doing my job,” brings to mind the incompetent half-ass; the man at the printing store who delivers $500 worth of stationary to you, with an obvious typo in the title – a typo you missed as you wrote the order in haste – which he didn’t think worthy of a telephone call to verify.* For any Man of Red Blood, no explanation of the Nuremburg Defense is necessary: Right is Right, and Wrong is Wrong. The very pathways of our souls are ordered along these lines. Debates, perhaps,...
According to Westsern Witch Doctors, sanity is a relative measurement. The Sane Man is not He who has optimized his processing power with Good Priors and Bayes Theorem; it is not He who has become an Ubermensch, inductively reasoning out Trigonometry, while being omni-aware of his innermost thoughts – no, the Sane Man is nothing like that. Quite simply, modern Psychology defines sanity as that which fits closest to the mean. Bell curves are what determine value; not intrinsic worth. By their standards, dear reader – by virtue of the unhealthy society in which we live – we are, both...
I think it’s becoming increasingly obvious that the Baby Boomers left us with a mad world to grow up in. The Democratic Experiment has devolved into genocidal Special Interest Groups, where your vote means nothing. The whole banking, credit, and finance industry is showing its true colours as a ponzi scheme, and we’re the ones who will pay. Law Enforcement has devolved to brutal thuggery, the courts are a full of hypocrites, and the military is spit on, out of a marxist view of opressed and opressors. The party ended in 1969; the High Water Mark hit, and rolled back;...
Let me tell you about Writing. In the words of the Great Charles Bukowski, “Doctors, Lawyers, Plumbers – they make all the money in this world! Writers? Writers starve. Writers suicide. Writers… go mad.” No truer words have ever been spoken. One doesn’t become a writer – or a standup comedian – or an artist – or a musician – because of a bit of native talent, and an eye on opportunity. Only actors do that, and only because their parents make them. For the True Artist, it is a calling; at our hearts we are all misfits, incapable of...
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