Transubstantiation Wit In Times Of Covid

As you may or may not have noticed, dear worst-reader, I’m visiting my family in times of Covid. Reason? Well, I’m not quite uncomfortable enough to say exactly why I’m here. Let me just put this out there in the mean time: I’m here, during the worst pandemic in a hundred years, because a family intervention is necessary. That being said, I’m actually gonna try to enjoy the company of my mother for a few days, maybe even a week or four. Of course, due to covid–and the sheer angst I now have from how #Americants refuse to accept CDC guidelines–I won’t be doing any of the shenanigans one usually does when one visits a redneck beach resort town. My priority is, in fact, to take care of the family issues surrounding my ageing mother and also, to get my second Pfizer shot, which is scheduled for June 1. Still. There are a few other things that need be taken care of. For example. There’s tons of yard work–which I’m going to hire out. There’s also lots of family finance stuff to be taken care of. And then, well, there’s my mother. With that in worst-mind, let’s just worst-say that she’s gettin’ friggin old and this most certainly won’t be my last rushed trip here in the near future. Hopefully, though, I won’t have to rush here anymore during this hellacious pandemic!

One of the things I’ve enjoyed doing with my mom as she’s gotten older is going with her to her Church. I don’t know where that comes from because when I was younger I didn’t enjoy it all. And don’t worry, dear worst-reader. I know what you’re asking. You’re asking how can worst-writer, a devout disbeliever, an unabashed skeptic, a promotor of religious alternatives in the form of great spaghetti monsters in the sky, someone who clearly has not been blessed with the gift of faith… How can I attend church? Well, the answer is easy. First. I see in my mother’s eyes her faith. Even for a skeptic like me, that’s good enough. Also. Church is good down time with my mother. Then. It’s also something I can talk to her about–since I’m well versed regarding Bible stuff. (That’s right. I’ve read it. So there!) Also. My mom’s pastor is a really nice guy and if you ask me, she lucked out with this church in redneck-beach-ville. Yeah. He’s a heck of a guy.

Anywho. One of the things that impressed me with how the church has been able to hold mass for the past few months, especially since they haven’t been able to do so for all of 2020, is how well they’ve organised everything according to CDC guidelines. Her church has a rather large gymnasium-like facility attached to the chapel where there’s plenty of room for seats to adhere to social distancing. Of course, everyone wears a mask and even temperatures are checked before entering. But the real cool thing is the transubstantiation stuff. And let me not get-on about how this sort of thing totally doesn’t fit into a Lutheran church. And so. Just get a load of the pics above. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader. But you gotta hand it to these church managers for coming up something like this. How ingenious. Or?

Rant on.

-T

Adults Room?

let us pray.JPG
Your government–and YOU–is being run by this?

I get the whole church/religion thing. Seriously. Spent a few nights and days here or there reading THE BOOK. The good book, don’t you know. Actually enjoyed parts of it. I especially like what Thomas Jefferson did with it. But I also have to admit that the Book of Revelation has left me somewhat scarred if not horny. And so. Religion–these days–should somehow be left to rational people. You know, like artists and creatives–to those with no power. These are the types who can take its grand literature and make some sense of it, don’t you know. Think Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Beckett (Sam), etc. If you don’t leave the grand good book to those who can think rationally then guess what happens? That’s right.

#Americant, baby.

Good luck suckers.

-T

Links:

Sleep of Reason

sleep of reason
Source: Wiki

Thinking too much about my beloved & missed #Americant this morn, dear worst-reader. Thinking about what could lead to the likes of President Stupid and his pee-pee-hair? I mean, is there an essence to it all? Is it that so many compatriots are as stupid as the leaders they elect? That must be the magic-sauce, eh? Yet Barry-O wasn’t stupid. I mean, even if you disagree with his corporate Democrat politics, he simply doesn’t look as ridiculous as #Trump. Plus, even though so many believers still believe that #Trump is a wrench in the machine, when he has, in fact, done nothing more than double-down on Republican politics that began (in earnest) with Reagan, they still love him. How is it that so many voters couldn’t/can’t see through what republicans have done and thereby think the man with pee-pee-hair is the solution? Which begs the question, how much more stupid is #Americant capable of? Yeah, that electoral college thing worked well for the few. Indeed. How far has democracy come–while the masses sleep in the bliss of their ignorance. And so. In the back of my mind was a phrase that I hadn’t heard in a while and it took me a few moments while drinking massive amounts of espresso a few hours ago to recall it. I was able to localise the phrase to Christopher Hitchens (see vid link below). I’m not sure exactly where the phrase comes from, but after a quick search I’m now wondering if it comes out of just a friggin painting. Or? Nomatter. 

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

Coat Hangers Or Knitting Needles

Watching/reading about the proceedings regarding scariest #SCOTUS appointment ever–that #Americants deserve? Also a few pics from #Eurowasteland that coincide with it all. (Actually I’ve since learned that, in Germany, women who died from botched abortions, did so because of knitting needles not coat hangers.)

Rant on.

T

Misdirected Lyrics And The Ultimate Lie Of The #Americant Mind Long Run Amok

Another email exchange with an old friend.


To Worstwriter:

I’ve been reading a bit lately. Found this quote:

What’s more crazy than a bunch of people gathering each Sunday to sing and greet each other at the foot of an empty cross, the ancient equivalent of the electric chair?

Pretty good, eh.

Your old friend.


To dear old friend:

Oh, dear old friend, since you insist on quoting odd and perhaps mis-directed lyrics—especially without sourcing it—then you deserve yet another worst-writer response.

The analogy in your text is, of course, inaccurate and ultimately fails to convey, what can only be assumed, is its intended message: that people are witnessing a murder sanctioned by the state while worshipping a supernatural being. Obviously your lyricist is trying to compare modern day church-goers with people witnessing a capital punishment execution each time they go to their place of worship. Is then their place of worship an execution facility?

First, the cross, in and of itself, doesn’t represent a device used in capital punishment. There is evidence, for example, that Christ was crucified on a cypress tree. The exact location of that crucifixion, though, is unclear. But we do know, according to the gospels, that Christ was crucified outside Jerusalem’s walls, which means it is plausible a tree was used. Hence, a cross–or the image of two pieces of wood crossing each other, where the short, horizontal piece of wood almost sits atop the longer, vertical piece, has become the image of a living deity–is not an image of an execution. So. Is the cross valid when comparing it to the electric chair, especially when the man being murdered doesn’t really die? Or. Is state-sanctioned murder also a kind of sport for the stupid-of-mind, e.g. spectators of WWE, realityTV, republicans, modern day evangelical church goers, etc.?

Indeed.

Let’s go with the latter, shall we? You live among the truly Stupid in my beloved & missed #Americant. Now that Stupid has finally shown its true colours, its face, its whole being and thereby elected even more Stupid to the Presidency of the united mistakes of #Americant—most of this was made possible, by-the-buy, with the mindless influence of evangelicals—there might be some minds out there (your lyricist?) hearing new supernatural voices preaching the gospel of fcuking dumba$$ stupid idiot cocksuckers who can only earn money and do nothing else worthwhile–with their lives. And so. Little minded stupid people come up with ridiculous analogies in lyrics in order to circumvent their inner most thoughts compelling them to wake the fcuk up. And as usual, it will all fail un-graciously upward and up.

Anyway. I hate fcuking ignorant play-time lyricists.

T

-end email-


-Rant on

T

The Caesar Equation?

Let us at least say of religion that it means that every part of the body is infused with mind, not that the mind is overwhelmed and drowned in body. For the principal attribute of the Gods, without or within us, is mind.

-Caeser’s Journal XLII-B, aka Thornton Wilder, The Ides of March

Rant on.

-T

Another Night Of Not Finding You-Know-Who Or How I Beat It Before Turning Sixty One Last Time

Ok. Obviously there are better things to be done on a Friday night before flying to my beloved homeland Sunday morning. The only question that remains is: what the hell to do Saturday night? In the mean time, here another fabulous quote as I re-read a book.

“When individuals are finally emasculated and alone, bereft of the help of competing collectives, they cannot defend their rights or question the abuses of their overlords. When there is no other place to turn for help other than the world of miracles and magic, mediated by those who grow rich off those who suffer, when reality to an ideology becomes a litmus test for individual worth, tyranny follows.”

-Chris Hedges, American Fascists – The Christian Right And The War On America.

Rant on.

-T

The Bridge To The Cliff Has Already Been Crossed. So How’s The View While Falling Off The Cliff That Has Been Your Life Journey?

orwell big brother

The political payback president stupid owes certain republicans has been trickling in with ferocity lately. By certain republicans, of course, I’m referring to the bat$hit religious nutjobs that got Stupid elected. The best example of this can be seen in #Trump’s appointees. There are also a bunch of bat$hit appellate judges he’s been appointing–some of which have never tried a case in court. The way the State Department is being gutted is another example. The department is being headed by a #Trump appointee that is still a f’n Boy Scout. (Yes, I’m ragging on Boy Scouts.) Through new ideological leadership a bunch of long standing diplomats are either early-retiring or quitting their posts at the US State Department. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but I thought draining the swamp had more to do with elected officials and not a bunch easy-target bureaucrats. And let’s not get too deep into the recent tax break that’s been approved by a bat$hit republican Congress–where the richest #americants are not only being giving the largest government hand-out ever but are also being enabled to hoard what’s left of an already decimated economy that probably can’t recover. And by-the buy, how much do you want to bet that of all the free-money the rich are getting after this tax-break none of it will recirculate back in the country? But all that nonsense is neither here nor there. Reason? I can deal with $tupid politics. Stupid politics can be fixed. But there is one thing in politics that can’t be fixed and it almost passed right be me the other day–if it weren’t for a German article my better half showed to me. Did you get the recent BS about #Trump telling the CDC (Centre for Disease Control) what words to use when publishing official documents, especially budget reports? Get this:

In some instances, the analysts were given alternative phrases. Instead of “science-based” or ­“evidence-based,” the suggested phrase is “CDC bases its recommendations on science in consideration with community standards and wishes,” the person said. -from Wash Post article

Gee, dear worst-reader, who do you think the community standards and wishes is in the quote above? If this doesn’t put creepy crawlers under your skin, than nothing should. This is Orwell newspeak, baby. And it’s being officially dolled out by your electoral college elected officials.

Look what you’ve done #americant.

Good luck suckers.

Rant on.

-T

Links that motivated this post:

Pyongyang’s Train Driver (A Dream)

kim jong un portrait

The man I was sent to replace was named Charlie. His full name: Christofer Littleton. He was born in Liverpool, England, but hadn’t been back there since he was a kid. After his mother abruptly died on his twelfth birthday, his father, who was an engineer for the British army, packed up everything and the two went to India. Charlie finished growing up in Bangelore where his father was a consultant to the Indian Government. After completing compulsory school and utilising contacts from his father, Charlie took a job as a tool-man in Hong Kong. When he departed India, it was two days before his eighteenth birthday. It was 1953.

A “Tool-Man” is another name for a train engineer.

His idea was to work in China and help that country develop its metro system. To start, though, Charlie worked with the digging crews that would eventually lay the first rails of the Hong Kong MTR. During his second year, right after his contract was renewed, Charlie met Marry. Marry was from Korea. Marry moved to HK just after North Korea tried to invade South Korea. Marry and Charlie never had a family. One day Marry went to Charlie and told him she was unhappy with their lives in Hong Kong and that her unhappiness had nothing to do with being barren. She then said that she had a big family back in Korea and she was ready to go home. Charlie had worked ten years. The HK MTR was flourishing.

Charlie quit his job at Hong Kong MTR. With in a few months he and Marry took a boat to South Korea. Once there Marry revealed that her family wasn’t in the South but instead in the North. This revelation had little impact. Charlie joined his wife and the two entered North Korea. It was 1965.

I met Charlie in 1989 in a small office in the south-east corner basement of The Pyongyang Great Hall. The door to Charlie’s office was labelled “Tool-Man” and below that was the Korean translation. After greetings and other formalities, Charlie immediately took me to the train station that was directly at the rear entrance of The Great Hall. It was during this walk through the building that I realised my situation. I was living a dream. Yes, dear worst-reader. Some live dreams through the physical universe, some do not.

I tried to question Charlie about his decision to live in The North. Other than the following, Charlie withheld elaborating about his life decisions. He said, “Do your job.” His other remark was: Not unlike where you come from, everything here is not a dream.

We exited the rear of The Great Hall and I found myself standing directly on the train departure platform. Something was waaaaay out of whack. I couldn’t place it, though. My watch read nine forty-six. The morning air was fresh and crisp, unlike the air in Seoul–which I had no recollection of traveling to. The grey sky dimmed my view somewhat of the train grounds behind The Grat Hall but below the platform was a single narrow gauge track. The track was just as out-of-whack as the departure platform. In fact, according to my limited knowledge of trains, the gauge of the track meant that the train could not be a real train. But none of that mattered because, regardless of train here or there, I would command it the rest of my life… in North Korea.

During the first few moments of this passing of the baton, Charlie voiced soliloquies about his endeavours and when he was done he continued with songs of glory-interludes, adding tales of privilege while driving Dear Leader around the grounds behind The Great Hall. There was also a small buffet of goose-shrimp, tackle-butter and confused-gender bread but only attendees with a special badge could take from it. I did not have the special badge.

I kept one eye on Charlie and the other on the people gathering around us. As each person recognised Charlie and then me, the reason for my presence became clearer. Oh, dear worst-dreamer, I was indeed there for a reason. The reason goes beyond the metaphysical of my never having laid one foot in either South or North Korea. As best as I can surmise, the only reason I was there–in reality or not–was to relay Charlie’s message. For I am, in fact, a chronicler of a dream’s dream.

Being a tool-man wasn’t Charlie’s only purpose in life. His life was the two sides of all coins. First there was Marry. Second there was his message. Together these two purposes served a power higher than even the most giving and willing humans have ever attempted. I speak, of course, of the great messengers Jesus, Mohammad and, perhaps, #Trump. (I use the word “perhaps” because purpose remains to be determined. Or?)

Upon my arrival Charlie had already surpassed his time on earth. His extension or continuance, if you will, was granted by Dear Leader. The cause of this grant was a mistake in life and was not unlike mistakes from other infamous messengers: He failed to get the message out.

I’m wondering if the whole idea of message-delivery is that which brings me to my greatest fear: Not having enough time to debate the error and misfortune of the only son-of-God, born to this foul-able coil, like so many others, of mortality, and thereby stuck with the impossible. But I’m off subject–perhaps.

No matter where Charlie stood during the ceremony there was a descending sun-glow around his head. He had no remorse in saying goodbye to the facility that had him trapped for so many years. Is his face just like that of Jesus? Was his a face of disappointment? A face of misguided rage? Forgive me father for we have sinned?

By-the-buy, asking The Father for forgiveness of your sins was once a translators interpretation of pre canonical text. The reason it is still used today, even though it has nothing to do with biblical forgiveness-seeking, is because it’s what JC said either before or after “Father why hast thou forsaken me.” In fact, JC mumbled no-nonsense for hours before his final light went out.

But Charlie’s remorse was something else. In fact, I’d go so far as to claim that he knew all along that I would get the baton. He might not have known my face but he knew someone would be there. He might have even known all along that he wouldn’t be able to get his message out. So I also wondered if he was enjoying the suffering in my face. Yes, I think he was enjoying it.

After elegantly praising his time as Tool-Man and extolling the joy of marriage, he turned to me and put a hand in a coat pocket. Out of his pocket he pulled a lone key attached to a six inch diameter stainless steel ring. He handed me the ring and key and told me to be gentle but also firm… with her. Then he added: she will determine your time. He stood at attention as the small gauge train rolled around the small gauge track and came to halt before us–on the small departure platform. It was the first time I had seen the down-scaled train.

The underlings of the train exited from one of the three cars attached and they all shook hands with Charlie first. Charlie responded in Korean to their gestures and when all was done, the underlings turned to me and offered salutations anew. As I began to shake hands and reciprocate, Charlie entered the last train car and the train drove off towards the west corner of The Great Hall and I would never see him again.

Just then I woke up.

-end-

Rant on.

-T

A Cross In The Road In The Forest

a cross in the woods

During a scenic ride through the forest above the Flensborg Fjord I came to a cross in the road. A sign indicated it was forbidden to go to the left. Something about danger of loose ground along the cliff. When I turned the bike to the right to continue my ride, I noticed something in the short distance. I could make out the benches from afar but it wasn’t till I got closer that I saw a podium meant for my display. This was not a rest stop of the kind I thought I would encounter. But then again, what a coincidence. So I dismounted my ride, wet my lips, shook out my hands and I began. It was the perfect place to begin.  Oh, how my new flock was open and ready for my sermon. For posterity sake, I’ve taken the liberty of posting this pick of my flock, all seated with their backs to you, dear worst-reader. Of course, just in front of them, if indeed an image or the like… He has come.

Rant on.

-T

That Woman Syndrome

One last thought before heading back to the old country where rational thought (still) prevails in the confines of political discourse. I spent a lot of time joining my mother this visit to her various church gatherings. Whether it’s mass on Sunday morning or happy-hour at a local lodge, I’m there watching her, witnessing, taking in the carnage that is my beloved #americant–and its old people. The only problem I have with hanging out with mom and her “friends” are the staunch republicans that occupy not only her church but the entire community where she lives. Which is kind of odd because, well, at least at the church, the pastor is an obvious liberal type–liberal as in he’s a hippy. That combined with an open door policy towards minorities, gays and, goodness forbid, immigrants (there is a sign in front of the church that reads: “immigrants are welcome”), it’s a bit of a wonder that so many church goers are atypical republican followers. Or maybe not. Nonetheless.

I was sitting at a happy-hour gathering of Mom’s church goers the other day and an elderly couple started complaining about Nancy Pelosi. It was right out of the blue. They were chomping down on their tuna salad sandwiches and chips and sodas when suddenly the doors of TV propaganda hell opened up and Pelosi was the wrath occupying their mind’s eye. I assumed that since they had gotten rid of Hillary in the last election, Pelosi was next in line–which I guess, for them, made sense. But then I popped a question to the patriarch that lead the anti-Pelosi wrath.

“Why are you concerned about a Senator that represents California? Aren’t there more important things for a Marylander to be worried about?”

“She’s the worst. She’s gotta go. Trump’s gonna take care of her, too.”

Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, this conversation was right in the middle of Trump’s attempt at getting rid of Obamacare–which, btw, was on the brink of failure.

“Let me ask you a question, sir,” I said. “I’m fifty-three years old, can you name me a liberal policy in the last thirty years that has negatively effected your life?”

“Obamacare!” he said.

“But sir, Obamacare is Mitt Romney’s health care plan for the state of Massachusetts, when he was that states republican governor.”

“Oh, then I guess you know everything,” the old, wrinkled, spoiled rotten American said.

“So you can’t answer my question, then,” I asked.

Both he and his wife got up with their paper plates full of processed food and walked to the other side of the room. They sat with other old people and continued eating.

It was a disgusting moment as I watched all those old people, born around the end of WW2, filled with rage because, well, they weren’t able to take even more than they already owned to the grave with them. Shame. Shame. Shame.

Rant on.

-t

Anti-Theist vs Atheist In The Church Pew

doodle from a church pew

Anti-theist. There. I said it. (Pause.) It’s who I am. The only problem is I don’t feel any better by having said it. I mean, it’s obviously not the same as coming out as gay or purple or a hetero who likes pink. But my therapist said that by going public with it, it will help my self esteem and my posture. (Pause.) Yet this “coming out” most certainly isn’t helping with that alienating feeling I get after having talked to my therapist about it and/or that one visit to Curacao where I thought I saw a whale shark in the Willemstad harbour. It turns out that it wasn’t a whale shark at all but instead the backhand of a creole doll that thought little of my attempt at flirtation while practicing Dutch. (Short pause.) Ok. Whatever. §Here’s the thing, dear worst-reader. I’ve been to church (accompanying my mother) twice with this US visit. And it looks like I’ll be going one more time before I fly back to Eurowasteland. In fact, last night, at mid-day mass, I felt compelled to listen to the preacher talk about what he thought were the original songs sung during the Christmas celebration at the birth of Christ. They sang songs, I asked myself. Sure, why can’t the three kings, the shepherds and the guiding angels sing songs? I mean, there has to be something about our commercial Christmas that relates to the birth of Christ–other than his supposed birth date? It’s obviously not relevant that Jesus was probably born in July. Which is even more confusing when one considers that he was a Pisces. I mean, that’s why people put those fish symbols on their cars, right? Pisces the twins. Oh. And who was Jesus’ twin? Nomatter. And then there’s that thing with the tree. A Christmas tree is from a pagan, nordic ritual, ain’t it? Again–nomatter. §While sitting in the pew of my mother’s church, after the boredom set in once the preacher was done with whatever I thought interesting, I reached into the prayer/song book holder on the back of the pew in front of me. And what do I find? Someone left a nice little doodle (see pic above). Did they leave it for me? Did they forget it? If only I could figure out what it means. Not unlike trying to figure out virgin births, angels, metaphysics beyond the realm of nature, physics, etc. Oh well. At the least, it sounds better to be an anti-theist than it does to be atheist. I guess. Rant on. -Tommi

Link:

Antitheism | Wiki

By Definition We Are

psycopath v sociopath
Don’t worry. This pic is a modified cut & paste picture that worst-writer made while fiddling around on the Internets. So there!

psychopath |ˈsīkəˌpaθ|
noun
a person suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.

sociopath |ˈsōsēōˌpaθ|
noun
a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience.

In the wake of recent “mass” shooting in my beloved #americant, I got to thinking about one of the deeper issues involved in it that could also be considered a cause. This issue, of course, as with other mass shootings, is never addressed in a public forum. The reason for that is simple. If the cause for this or any other mass shooting were to actually be addressed in a public forum, I think the lights would go out and hysteria would be the new norm. (That’s right. There is lots of potential for even more hysteria!) Heck, things would be so bad that Americans might actually think twice about going out and buying something for holy consumer day–i.e. xmas or black monday or the last Tuesday before the vernal equinox. With that nonsense in mind… §The issue I’m worst-writing about is the fact that an already ignorant voting populace that consistently supports republicans, conservatives and neo-fascists, cannot differentiate between a sociopath, a psychopath and a snake oil salesman. And I’m not talking about knowing the difference between all the killers that are running around with their high-powered rifles, their extended clips and their semi-automatic hand guns. No. It’s now time for Americans to start seeing through the people that somehow, in their own perverse, self-righteous, amoral way, have stoked the crazies. Just get a load of what Cruz and Fiorina have said (see linked articles below). Carly Fiorina, a formative presidential candidate for 2016, goes so far as to equate #blacklivesmatter protestors with pro-life protestors. Now. I don’t know about you, dear worst-reader, but that blows my mind. Conservative and neo-fascists have been attacking abortion clinics, shooting people, blowing things up for years. What has #blacklivesmatter protestors ever done to anybody? But I digress. Good luck suckers. And. Rant on. -tommi

Links that motivated this post:

The Bigot Meter

ahmed clockTrillions of dollars have been spent. Habeas Corpus has been suspended–along with Bill of Rights. The government has the right to spy on you. You can be put on a no-fly list. We now have a government institution named homeland security. We also have a patriot act that cannot be dissolved which guarantees all the above. Seriously. Can it get more Orwellian? I’m sure there is plenty more to add to the list. But it all seems redundant at this point, doesn’t it? I mean, what has happened since that morning? That morning in September, 2001. I’ll tell you what has happened. They won. No, seriously. We might as well come out and admit it. The terrorists have won. The guys in those planes, the guys in Afghanistan, the Iranians, Hamas, ISIS/ISIL. Etc. All of ’em. They have won. Wanna know how I know they’ve won? Just look around. Look around as though you’ve never looked around before. Nomatter what you believe, what TV station you watch, what party you (think you) vote for, look around. The world has gone batshit. All there is, as ever has been, is profitability, greed, death, destruction and batshit. And that’s the ticket, dear worst-reader. The terrorists have won because, well, batshit rules. “But wait. Hasn’t it always been that way, worst-writer?” Ok. Maybe it has. But it seems to me that in the past, when the batshit got too thick, when the ammonia stench overwhelms, something came along to counter it. What that something is, I can’t get into here. It’s too broad, wide, over-reaching–and way too deep for worst-writer. Instead, all one needs to consider, look at, are the little things. Like how a 14 year old American citizen high school student, with brown skin, a muslim name and a small case with a bunch of wires and circuits in it, gets arrested–because batshit rules. Our minds have been so overcome with fear, so clouded with anger, so dimmed with wanton ignorance, that a boy’s science project MUST be a bomb. What! Wait. And that’s not all. Batshit is more than everywhere. You can see it in the way police departments across the country wield deadly force over communities, mainly aimed at people with dark skin. You can see it when presidential candidates get questions from “citizens” regarding the legitimacy of a dark skin president. You can see it when the Republican Party splits into factions of … Batshit. Indeed. The terrorists have won because we now officially live for batshit–thanks to them. And since we’re on the issue of thanking, I want to thank Ahmed Mohamed for providing #americant with yet another beacon of light to the truth–and for giving us the first ever BIGOT METER.

Good luck suckers. Rant on. -t

Links that motivated this post:

Separation Of Church And The Gullible

happy gullibleThere is a reason you can’t get divorced in a church. There is also a reason a church can’t issue a marriage license. Beyond the fact that worst-writer thinks marriage–as a state sanctioned institution–should be abolished, there is the age-old question of what came first: the chicken or the gullible? I won’t argue the issue of whether or not #americant is a nation born of religious faith–especially, in the eyes of timid sheep, born of Abrahamic faith. Instead I like to turn the conversation to puritanism and bidness. What most people have forgotten (or fail to recognise) is that America is a business. It is not a country. It is not a nation. It is a place of pure and unadulterated commerce. Period. Without belittling the pride so many feel for Her, that is not to say that there is no validity to the tears often shed when The Star Spangled Banner is sung–I choke up myself here and there. Yet none of that should hide the reality that there are two sides to any bidness transaction: there is the side that profits and the side that takes its seat among the gullible in order to enable and facilitate that profit. Obviously the experiment (that is America and has become #americant) has worked well for the profiteers. It’s even worked well for those that used to be close to the profiteers, i.e. the middle class, although that part is obviously waning. But, indeed, as is the case whenever the top trickles down to the bottom, at some point the top starts to feel cheated–as is the case post the new-deal. Now it’s payback time. Political conservatism in the United Mistakes has had a field day in the past thirty or so years getting some payback for what FDR, “liberals” and Democrats have done in an attempt to halt the top from taking everything. And I would even go so far as to say that the gullible have tried once or twice to wake up to the reality of this. But, instead of continuing to push for some form of top-down concessions, the gullible rest on laurels. In my lifetime Americans, in order to make sense of what has been done to them, i.e. the economy, wars on this or that, terrorism, guns, mass shootings, failing infrastructure, credit card debt, etc., etc., have sought answers where there are none–mostly because the wrong questions are being asked. How should the gullible, the stupid, ask the right questions? I don’t know and I don’t give a shit. The only thing I care about is the vacuum of/in the mind. Fear becomes your way of life. Threat becomes your daily dose. Neighbour becomes your enemy. Stupid is your survival. And so. I believe the founding fathers had an answer almost three hundred years ago for what ails #americant today. It is the answer to the ultimate question. And it goes something like this: the separation of church and state is what will set you free. The reason the founding fathers wanted a state separated from the church is because without the church (at least in the western world) there can be no king. How does a king gets his power, you ask. Through… Wait for it. Wait. A king gets his power the same way religion does. Faith. Belief. The gullible. People have to believe. But America has no king, you say. And you are right, dear worst-reader. But it has something that leads to a king. The faithful in #americant today have been wielded oh so brilliantly by the powers-that-be. Political conservatism has latched on to these believers like a leech. This is most obvious in the religious right and the gullible (believers) that somehow get jobs in state governments where they freely force (their) religion on others. Separation of church and state? Oh well. That’s ok. America was fun while it lasted. I guess. And so. I mean. Come on. A measly clerk in a Kentucky government office doesn’t perform her mandated job? And she’s even willing to go to jail for that? Seriously? That’s like saying a cop won’t arrest a bank robber cause he’s believes in his lunch break. But of course. After fighting this thru courts all the way to the Supremes, this is where the right side of history converges? Indeed it does. And with that in mind. Good luck suckers.

Rant on. -Tommi

Links that motivated this post:

Great Unknown Men

“The greatest men in the world have passed away unknown. The Buddhas and the Christs that we know are but second-rate heroes in comparison with the greatest men of whom the world knows nothing. Hundreds of these unknown heroes have lived in every country working silently. Silently they live and silently they pass away; and in time their thoughts find expression in Buddhas or Christs; and it is these latter that become known to us. The highest men do not seek to get any name or fame from their knowledge. They leave their ideas to the world; they put forth no claims for themselves and establish no schools or systems in their name. Their whole nature shrinks from such a thing. They are the pure Sattvikas, who can never make any stir but only melt down in love.”

-Swami Vivekananda, from the preface/citation of Henry Miller, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare

Kings or Churches

Ever wonder how a king is made? I mean, how does a monarchy come to be? How does it get its power? Who makes those gold calf crowns? I know. I know. History tells us that monarchs usually are rich, have even more rich friends, including lots of wannabe rich people–and then there are the rest who simply can’t get enough of the lure of The Kennedys, Diana, royal weddings. Hence monarchies exist. Poof! Seriously, dear worst-reader. I’ve been living in #eurowasteland for too long. You wanna know the thing that really gets under my skin after living in this place so long? The answer, btw, is the one thing that makes Europeans so relatable to Americans, hence Americans inventing monarchies in the form of deformed families aka The Kennedys. The thing that gets under my skin are Euro monarchies–even though I live in a Euro-Borough that supposedly doesn’t have a monarchy. Accentuate the supposedly. I’m almost sure, if given the chance/opportunity, the Huns would find themselves a monarch toot-suite. That said. Come on. It’s twenty-fucking-fifteen. Monarchies still strap Europe to the waste-heap of history like nothing else. If you look long and hard at these jovial houses of inbreeding, it’s a wonder that Europe has lasted this long while trying to assume its new role as alternative #1 consume-heaven (to #americant). And do you know why these monarchies have lasted this long? The answer lies somewhere between the Jungian monarchial archetype and the yellow press with page three big tits. That’s basically it. The plebes need something above and beyond their measly lives that give them at least some form of meaning. And now that the Euro is practically a failure, at least a failure in the Burroughs with monarchies (gee, where’s that irony come from) what’s left for Europe–and its plebes? The people in Europe and America are nothing more than working stiffs day-in and day-out. Other than the work done, the money earned, people today are nothing more than Automatons–they are the blue-dressed Winston Smiths. What is there for these people to do above and beyond breathing, peeing, procreating? Indeed, dear worst-reader. The females justifies their existence by perfectly surfing a juxtaposition between lust object and breeder. The male justifies his existence by keeping his mouth shut and doing what his job tells him what to do so that he can maintain a license for putting that damn penis somewhere every once-a-once. And so. What does all this have to do with the article linked below–which motivated this post? Everything and nothing, dear worst-reader. For you were warned on my About page. This site is maintained by compulsion. And not just the compulsion to write as though I hate every teacher that tried to teach me (to write). No. Indeed. The compulsion is something very different. It is, perhaps, something Jungian. But not as Jungian as Eurowasteland monarchies. That said, it’s always been a question lingering in the back of my head regarding the conflict in Northern Ireland. How is it that this conflict can go on for hundreds of years and yet so few people must face it? We all face the conflicts in the middle-east. Heck, we all face the conflicts of the cold-war. We’re even facing the conflicts in Ukraine. And we do all this more than we face Northern Ireland. Why is that? Could it be because all the conflicts mentioned here ultimately have nothing to do with monarchies–but Northern Ireland does? Down with all monarchies. Humanity, please, get over yourself. Move on. Get rid of these inbreds and freaks. Find your own meaning. Or maybe not. But I digress. Rant on.

Where the Bodies Are Buried – The New Yorker.

They Were Really Great

“Their precepts related chiefly to ourselves, and the government of those passions which, unrestrained, would disturb our tranquility of mind. In this branch of philosophy they were really great. (Italics mine.) In developing our duties to others, they were short and defective. They embraced indeed the circles of kindred and friends, and inculcated patriotism, or the love of country in the aggregate, as a primary obligation: towards our neighbours and countrymen they taught justice, but scarcely viewed them as within the circle of benevolence. Still less have they inculcated peace, charity, and love to our fellow-men, or embraced with benevolence the whole family of mankind.” -Thomas Jefferson on Philosophers, from a letter about his religious views, April 21, 1803, The Jefferson Bible

Plain Wonder

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Why wasn’t I shocked to see a twelve year old boy plowing a field yesterday? Maybe I was shocked. Or maybe what I was shocked by was how normal it felt to see something like that. We drove through the farmland of The Plains People yesterday. A boy was guiding four majestic horses towing a cultivator rig and the whole apparatus hummed and went clakity-clak as barely a toddler mastered it and the field. I couldn’t take my eyes off the child. He was so focused and filled with drive. It was as though for a short moment I was watching a man in the making. But I was also a bit jealous–and I’m not ashamed to admit that. “They are giving responsibility at a very young age,” I was told by an Amish patriarch. But twelve years old? You mean this is better than a PS3 or Xbox? Why does something seem/feel extreme to me regarding this sighting? Why do thoughts of child labor laws go through my mind as though they were the rain falling on my windshield as I drive turnpikes and keystone roads and my wipers take care of the view? Is it because I was raised in sloth and gluttony suburban hell? But then I recalled my son at twelve years of age. My beautiful and perfect son, with his glowing skin and his bright dark eyes, I used to prey to the god I could never believe in for him to be able to become the man I failed to be. I raised him with only two things in mind. 1) Think for yourself. And. 2) Be honest. With every silly, preposterous, clumsy act on his part–whether tripping over himself to learn to tie his shoes or dropping a plate as he carried it to the sink for clean-up after dinner or helping a ball of ice-cream fall to the ground because he was so overwhelmed with joy to get such a treat–I never thought once that he too could plow a field at twelve years of age. But I know he could do just that–if the circumstances were just right–if just there was a spec of humanity left in this suburban hell world where the show is nothing more than fucking freak show. Still. It should/could have crossed my mind to make my son a real man by twelve. Or maybe not. Now that he’s sixteen I miss his childhood already. Nomatter. My guess is The Plains People, as ludicrous as it all may seem in the year 2014 (which is confusing enough because time shouldn’t start with the birth of an idol), have something going on here. It is a wonder to witness their contentment and their harmony. They do so in the name of their god and I admire them for it because they are NOT in your face with it (like the corrupt Dominionists) and that too is something that people should consider when they prey to (false) idols. Watching The Plains People, watching a twelve year old Man plow a field, saying their grace over a wonderful dinner prepared by harmony, what else can be said? As this world turns on the pins and needles of religious dogma run amok, it is truly a pleasure to be among believers (believers who tolerate unbelievers) whose faith has not corrupted their humanity. Well. Hasn’t corrupted their faith as other faiths lust in and for corruption. Or something like that. Rant on. -T

Some Sins

Three characters. One hears noises or sees something, the other two do not. Audience sees/hears what one does. One things, eventually, that two and three are playing a joke since they say they do not see/hear what on/audience hears.

Radical economies. Like religion it’s time for a reformation in economics.

The day will come when junk yards will be the corporate centers of the world. Perhaps even working functioning hand-in-hand as the manufacturing produce and the junk yards recycle at the same time. Na.

How ’bout the analogy to prove to conservatives that their path of all-utility maximisation is wrong. One uses the long-winded debate about smoking. How many years did it take for America to realise that cigarettes are dangerous? Assuming that the status-quo represents the argument of the smokers and/or tobacco companies, then today the status-quo of the economy is identical. The red-state thing?

Seven Deadly Sins or the seven deadlies:

  • Pride
  • Envy
  • Gluttony
  • Lust
  • Anger
  • Greed
  • Sloth

Pride: excessive belief in ones own abilities that interferes with the individual recognition of grace of god. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as vanity.

Envy: the desire for other’s traits, status, abilities, or situation.

Gluttony: inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.

Lust: inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body.

Anger: manifested in the individual who spurns love and opts instead for fury. It is also called Avarice or Covetousness.

Sloth: the avoidance of physical or spiritual work.

Ghandi’s seven deadly sins:

  • wealth without work
  • pleasure without conscience
  • science without humanity
  • knowledge without character
  • politics without principle
  • commerce without morality
  • worship without sacrafice

To be continued?

Not sure.

Tbone

True Truth

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What is the logic? (Where?) Sexism, for example. Or prohibition of pornography by so-called moralists. What’s the point of a bunch of men out there protesting a porn movie house?

The only answer to Christopher Marlow being another of W. Shakespeare’s work, although he was (supposedly) dead, is that he had already wrote the plays and WS simply stole them upon his death.

Idear: Something about the anti-federalists in Americant. William Cooper, for example. There is a subtle leader (out there) who has been trying and has dedicated his life to building, amassing, mobilizing an army that will over-throw the (current) past WW2 US govt. The play ends with WC thinking, questioning, whether or not all the people who signed on are enough and if they are real.

True truth. Faith, perhaps blind faith, is the power behind true truth. Is it the same as 1-1 or 3-3? Two equal and yet opposites parts that ultimately cancel each other only to leave a void where the human psyche can be so easily manipulated.

Lingering question.

How do you fake a virgin birth? Define or redefine “virgin”. Go back to ancient…

Something else.

Mark 14 the anointing of JC. Witnessed by many. This type of “anointing” was reserved for something special–it obviously motivated Judas to run off and betray JC. Is it possible that JC chose a different path than the (then) high Jewish priests would have accepted? If JC had chosen the path of war/King then perhaps they would have tolerated him but instead JC chose (a) path of David which threatened their power.

Thomas

Careful Planning

2004 12 17

Dear worst-reader. My dear little wrost-(note)book (Moleskine) full of whatnot, it has a fancy but dull hard black cover. What is the sense of it all if it all has been done? No. If it all has no sense. (Yeah, that’s the ticket.) Even the question must have been asked a thousand times. At least a short trip to Rome left me wondering about wealth–among other earthly things. And if there really can be a city within a city. Nothing matters. Nomatter. Certainly not fallen heroes. Or perhaps those not fallen. Bricks in the huge wall of man’s mistake(s) that make up the barrier of life. Life that is really something else. Not just existing or surviving. I wonder if Milton tried this. Turn the tide and make someone see white where there was always black. But how? We artists. The lost artists who earn and live for nothing. (This is done by wanting to find truth which everyone wants to avoid.) We soak up the want of more. What? Cars. SUVs. The acceptance of Milton’s possible apotheosis. Satan. How? (Don’t ask.) We must look to Byron and his hero: rebellious, antisocial (especially when it comes to institutions) not being adherent to something (national, organizational, etc.), anti-authority, smart and (humanly) functional, having a past that you don’t let run you down, an emotional wreck, capable, like Nero (ok, bad example; so you pick something dear worst-black-book), of sticking a knife in your own neck.

The human legislative has once again been separated. But who sits on which side of what?

What is good, what is Evil? If Evil at some point in time created and nurtured the world as we know it today than that means we have NO way of realizing our misdirection. Evil has systematically purged our intellects and subsequent institutions of any pathway to truth. This has been done by careful planning, I’d worst-say, to somehow counter the occultism. The idear of mysticism was taken to new levels. Enter the inquisition, communism, the crusades… Not in that order, of course.

Sistine Chapel

Sistine_Judgement

2004 12 15

Imposition. Visit to Sistine Chapel. The Sistine Chapel. The ceiling works almost three dimensional. How could “work” ever be done in this room? Who is trying to be impressed? A statue of Christ gets lost in this space of colorful human history. Colorful human loss.

Why does this room work like a comic to me?

All the pilgrims trying to find their way. By definition the pilgrim is lost. How can a pilgrimage truly end? Where do they really go. I mean, it’s a spiritual thing. Or?

A way to god pictured. As though images tell a story. Salvation and damnation. How fitting the two so gallantly fit together, like gears. What is clear is that there is no third place between or below heaven (salvation) and earth (damnation). Although there is a glowing hole behind the superimposed statue of Christ. I can’t help but think Michael Angelo makes the earth out to be hell. Such an imposition. Yes, I see the level of third grade here. (Proof there really is evolution?)

The want of journalism, that keeps the mind from going… going… gone.

Oh, I want ot give myself to something but I know nothing of the sacrifice of (acquiring) knowledge. This room, this all empowering room, a room that might be the only one where no black exists. It’s no where to be found. This is a room of light, light things. Of the purest and most sufficient confusion that all of mankind could want. It’s here. Not just the answers but all the questions, too. You can, if your of the willing, come to this place and never, ever, question or answer. Imposition. A cornucopia of snakes, trees, feet and hands and finger tips, heads that seem to be all the same, etc. The grass and the trees and the small stones on the floor where ten thousand people walk on the souls everyday, things, emblems dressed in Gold, all of the Gold, it would drip if allowed, if something came along but I think that’s the problem–there’s nothing mystical in this place, really. Is it sacrilege to say there is no magic here? I cannot find imagination here either. There is no place for even secrets here. It is the magnificence of this imposition that leaves the meek ultimately alone, left to the world of genital stimulation and other forms of sweet tasting sin. Sin, my worst-friend. And then come here. I know or feel nothing feminine in this place. As though woman was left behind somewhere. Of course she is pictured here or there but this has left her devoid of recognition. Is that this churches problem? What a surprise. It has forced Her to an existence of objectivity. It was odd to move from Egyptian art to this chapel. I felt more life there, in those other places of past and/or previous culture. Here there is only color and gold and NO mystic black.

Tommi