tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43776623510619256382024-02-22T11:34:35.805-08:00FUGGER'This is No Dream! This is Really Happening!'Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.comBlogger548125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-52092310818254860282021-12-21T17:07:00.000-08:002021-12-21T17:07:31.300-08:00A SHADOWLESS WORLD<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihCBkU517ggcp51YLzwmgjQM0EKgYzCzHsczXuneG8Nwmq9LMAUe9CrZx60_aVLWiU1LE3MOxdwM83h1h7KEblh9VSBWwExy-trlwgl42_nWKVXXJh2DZlQnqvcebbiH336nIb1bUfo3Vk0Xlrl_6UhJHEIlmaVVy7sfWN7_QGQj4i5ue41AGGb9Zwsg=s652" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihCBkU517ggcp51YLzwmgjQM0EKgYzCzHsczXuneG8Nwmq9LMAUe9CrZx60_aVLWiU1LE3MOxdwM83h1h7KEblh9VSBWwExy-trlwgl42_nWKVXXJh2DZlQnqvcebbiH336nIb1bUfo3Vk0Xlrl_6UhJHEIlmaVVy7sfWN7_QGQj4i5ue41AGGb9Zwsg=s320" width="212" /></a></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Remember how we became afraid of our
shadows? We started to wonder what they were. We knew they were dark
shapes made by our bodies and other objects in light, but we started to wonder what
they were on a deeper level. Do you remember? We started wondering
what they were - really. We wondered why they were there. We wondered
what they wanted. They must want something. Everything wants
something. We started to wonder what they knew about us and realised that
it must be everything – always there, watching and listening. Then
we realised that night
time was all of the shadows merged into a singular shadow that
covered the Sun. <i>'What power!'</i> we exclaimed. <i>'They can deny us the
Sun!'
</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We became truly fearful then, remember?
We built bunkers, remember? We took to the bunkers and never left. We
communicated with each other via online forums and we delivered
things to each other with drones that dropped parcels into chutes. We
flooded the bunkers with light at every angle so there would be no
place for a shadow to reside. The light was intense and we would have
become blind if we didn't start wearing the blindfolds to protect our
eyes.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then came the naysayers. They wondered
what use it was having eyes if we could not use them to see and they
asked what harm the shadows had ever done to us in the first place.
They eventually took off their blindfolds and turned off their lights
and they even left their bunkers. The fools. The bloody fools.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We never heard from them again of
course. I suppose the shadows must have gotten them. God knows what
the shadows did to them. Maybe the shadows swallowed them up. Maybe
they got turned into shadows too. Maybe that's what happens when you
die, you become a shadow and then you follow the living and make
plans for their demise so you can convert them into shadows, into
night, into darkness and... God, it doesn't bear thinking about.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Anyway, those of us who were wise
remained in our bunkers. We have adjusted to not
seeing the world lest we become blind and we see a new world now, a better world, a shadowless world, through our VR headsets. We are safe from our shadows and we will
survive, unlike the naysayers. Some say they hear the naysayers
moving about on the ground above us, talking and sometimes even
laughing. One person said they heard them playing music and maybe dancing,
but that could not be. The naysayers have surely perished and there
is no such thing as ghosts. Ghosts are just fearful superstition and we
left fearful superstition behind us a long time ago. Fearful
superstition belongs in the past, in the darkness, with the shadows.
We live in the light now, even though it blinds us and the
electricity bills are fucking astronomical.</p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-16256112612071198732021-09-11T13:04:00.000-07:002021-09-11T13:04:19.577-07:009 11 + 20<p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRvqDM7r3umXzbhG-oBvDwcrgQw3JmTPs1XQotkuhLlnif5CAR_rZr8JaBs3vjTc-6xloXe1s7L9z1YBXQUBEA_viAQqxa5rf42Y29iuEj8qpYYF-ZbvXI849DlDaUSlTbWPOxiGAgrLB/s1200/ca-times.brightspotcdn.com.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRvqDM7r3umXzbhG-oBvDwcrgQw3JmTPs1XQotkuhLlnif5CAR_rZr8JaBs3vjTc-6xloXe1s7L9z1YBXQUBEA_viAQqxa5rf42Y29iuEj8qpYYF-ZbvXI849DlDaUSlTbWPOxiGAgrLB/s320/ca-times.brightspotcdn.com.jpeg" width="320" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>'The spectacular nature of the
event more than compensated for the tragedy. Traumatic, yes, but </i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i>wonderfully so. A sad day for
America, but an unprecedented, ratings triumph the world over. An
atrocity that at least had the decency to leave a franchise in its
wake. Personally, now that the dust has settled and the dead are laid
to rest, I think I can finally admit to loving it. It's unreal! I’ve watched it
again and again and again. It’s better than Hamilton.' </i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lEqeELMXsyo" width="320" youtube-src-id="lEqeELMXsyo"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /><i><br /></i></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><i><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></i></span></p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p><p><br /></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-31074828051920864612021-07-09T16:01:00.000-07:002021-07-09T16:01:29.769-07:00WE ARE ALL LITTLE ALBERTS NOW<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLs7nYMblFNVENLDsYyj2VnEQyn4mP3GZjdA3l3VTk8Q57AL4E1La3GMJjZxe9YKEAKeo8f38oSchjC_WSnFfs8WrfZweb7fvk6wjFS4C439ZjeujK7T-hi4hVLrTtRyXatgkGr6eDe559/s817/little-albert-experiment-controversies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="817" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLs7nYMblFNVENLDsYyj2VnEQyn4mP3GZjdA3l3VTk8Q57AL4E1La3GMJjZxe9YKEAKeo8f38oSchjC_WSnFfs8WrfZweb7fvk6wjFS4C439ZjeujK7T-hi4hVLrTtRyXatgkGr6eDe559/s320/little-albert-experiment-controversies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In 1920, the American psychologist John
B. Watson of Johns Hopkins University embarked on a disturbing
experiment to develop irrational phobias in human beings. He paid an
impoverished mother one dollar so he could experiment on her infant
son, who he renamed ‘Little Albert.’</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Watson exposed Little Albert to rabbits and
puppies. Little Albert happily played with the animals until Watson loudly clanged
metal pots and pans to alarm the baby. A phobia of furry creatures was
successfully installed and Little Albert was sent on his way to live with it
for the rest of his one dollar life. <br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A delighted Johns Hopkins raised
Watson’s salary by 50% to keep him at the university, but later
fired him for sleeping with one of his students. Watson then went to
work in… can you guess? I’ll give you a moment to guess what
industry Watson went on to work in.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">That’s right, advertising! </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Watson was
employed by the J. Walter Thompson agency and tasked with scaring
consumers into purchasing certain products. Watson made out, for example,
that not using a particular brand of toilet roll would land your arse on
an operating table.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In his advertising, Watson played upon
what he termed the <i>‘fear response’</i>, part of what was understood
to be the <i>‘hypochondriac culture’ </i>of the 20th century. Watson
sought to appeal to readily malleable emotions rather than
recalcitrant, rational intellects.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Watson claimed that he was able to do
what he did because of a <i>‘lack of individuality in the emerging mass
society’</i>. In 1935 he wrote a book called <i>‘Influencing the Mind of
Another’</i> where he boasted that he <i>‘could make any human being
afraid of any object in the world.’</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Watson famously viewed human beings as
programmable machines. He said that we are <i>‘made’</i> and not <i>‘born.’</i>
Maybe he thought this because he was a machine himself, a machine
that could not pity a distressed infant. Maybe he thought we are all
like him. Was he right?</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Right or wrong, his approach was
certainly effective. We are part conditioned by his methods and much
of our culture is made in his image. Taking the baton from the holy
men who preceded him, this machine man used fear to control us and he
made us love it.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In his book, <i>‘Mechanical Man: John B.
Watson and the Beginnings of Behaviourism’</i>, Kerry Buckley wrote
that Watson inspired a <i>‘progressive dream’ </i>where science is <i>‘a
new religion’</i> with <i>‘a binding faith for its practitioners.’ </i> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Get on your knees. We are all Little Alberts
now.</p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-65654991234619131852021-05-20T07:56:00.001-07:002021-12-22T10:27:18.912-08:00WHATEVER WUNGOS ARE<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEsgAaxYbCis-yBUe_Z9lxgQ5oFM8K463cq_OhoSRSx7Zo4X5VMf1Wy9fSuHHy8TvA5ENvSGSTwwSmXRTZYJJbq4cXEj6csV9oLO_HvqfmTgf3GbDR8VRT8zG16F_qyZXKRteLuZP8Xad4/s1125/wungo+def.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="1125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEsgAaxYbCis-yBUe_Z9lxgQ5oFM8K463cq_OhoSRSx7Zo4X5VMf1Wy9fSuHHy8TvA5ENvSGSTwwSmXRTZYJJbq4cXEj6csV9oLO_HvqfmTgf3GbDR8VRT8zG16F_qyZXKRteLuZP8Xad4/s320/wungo+def.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">If celebrity something or other Ned
Belleck was never certain what he was famous for, he was completely
in the dark about what he was infamous for. He just woke up one day
to find everyone online condemning him for being a 'wungo'. <i>'The
signs were always there,' </i>tweeted tweets. <i>'I always knew that about that
guy,' </i>opined people who Ned never knew and who never knew Ned.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ned didn't know what a wungo was. He
was not an old man or particularly out of touch, but everything moves
so fast these days. Ned Googled the word. The only definition he
found was in the urban dictionary. This definition wasn't very
helpful though as it defined the word 'wungo' with other words Ned
never heard of. The definition read - <i>Wungo: Noun. A total sumper.
Penchant for skellegy hents. “Oh man, Suzy's such a wungo, I bet
she barbutts her fing.”</i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ned decided not to worry about being a
wungo. It'll all be forgotten about soon enough and everyone will
move on to something else, he thought. But he thought wrong. The
accusation made it into mainstream gossip columns and was mentioned
on afternoon TV. Most shocking of all was when the police arrived at
Ned's door to charge him for wungoisation. Ned contacted his lawyer,
but even Ned's lawyer refused take a call from a wungo.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ned called friends to ask what a wungo is and the few who picked up the phone answered him sharply. <i>'You
know damn well what a wungo is, you Godamn wungo!'</i> they said before
hanging up and blocking his number. Ned didn't get any more public
engagements. His agent dropped him as did the charities he worked
with and boards and committees he sat on. His life was ruined.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ned left his large, beachside property
and moved into a small flat. He changed his name and appearance and
took a job in a garden centre. He just got on with the rest of his
life and kept his head down. Other than his employer and the
customers at the garden centre, he spoke to no one. He never
recovered his trust in humanity.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ned never found out what the word
'wungo' meant and he spent the rest of his life wondering what wungos
could be. <i>'Whatever they are, wungos must be pretty odious,' </i>thought
Ned to himself.
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ned often found himself keeping an eye
out for wungos. He wondered if those around him were wungos and sometimes
even suspected as much. He even found himself going online
anonymously to accuse people of being wungos. I mean, maybe they were
wungos. <i>'They sure seem like wungos,' </i>said Ned to himself,
<i>'whatever wungos are.'
</i></p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-58655029603386234432021-05-04T13:56:00.000-07:002021-05-04T13:56:38.105-07:00THOSE MASKS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlU_7hE6v87-wf1erYUU9biTtKAK7uvVG8a4JM5S7Tl4X2dLD18NFFGkWDFhXlHypnlG8W_OHl2MIQfbt1ps9f4Ghyphenhyphen2zj72emhyC5-CejNRYtoTJWzQrVN8hXNwOi9YTuJT5c9aWVUZ1u/s550/Zebra-e1356447651447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMlU_7hE6v87-wf1erYUU9biTtKAK7uvVG8a4JM5S7Tl4X2dLD18NFFGkWDFhXlHypnlG8W_OHl2MIQfbt1ps9f4Ghyphenhyphen2zj72emhyC5-CejNRYtoTJWzQrVN8hXNwOi9YTuJT5c9aWVUZ1u/s320/Zebra-e1356447651447.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Well, those masks now. I'll wear them
if that's what they say to do, but I've a line in the sand. I'll not
wear them in the shop. Oh no. For me, you see, the shop is a place of
freedom. Freedom of choice. It's where we get to practise our true
autonomy. Think about it. It's where all the products are. Loads of
products. And not just one type of each product either, but a choice
of different types of the same product. That's freedom, you see. Freedom of choice. And
what other kind of freedom is there but the freedom of choice? And
where do you get the most to choose from? That's right, the shop!
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A wide variety of choice. An expanse of
choice. A plain. A wide open plain, like the Serengeti. Oh Jaysus, I
loved it. You should have seen me, back in the day. Maskless.
Frolicking and gambolling in the aisles. Like some creature off a
David Attenborough thing. Up and down. Around the corner. It was
beautiful. I was free. You should've seen me. You should have fucking
seen me, man. Untamed abandon. I'm welling up thinking about it.
There we were. All of us, like a load of flamingos or zebras or
something, making our way to the checkout. Stocking up. Teeming out
into the car park.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But it just feels like a mockery now,
with the masks. It's like a collar. I feel like a chained beast. I'll
put up with wearing the mask outdoors or at home or in the bath or
wherever, but not in the shop. No. Not the shop. It's symbolic
really. Donning the mask in the shop is a kind of surrender. You
can't let them have us where they want us, in the true locus of
freedom, the shop. And they're putting shit in the vax too. A
micro-nano-thermite-chip. It's to keep an eye on us. Like tracked
animals. If I want to be tracked like some animal, I'll get a
Smartphone. And I do have a Smartphone. I bought it in the shop and
you know what? I wasn't wearing a mask at the time.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Oh, and I've just dowloaded a cool new app. The Smartphone roars like a howler monkey if anyone with the virus comes within a fifteen metre radius of me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mJkOy3mXN6Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="mJkOy3mXN6Q"></iframe></div><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-86836891003386539002021-03-18T10:23:00.000-07:002021-03-18T10:23:49.579-07:00ONCE UPON A TIME – DEATH!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVC9hM-OTt-j7spJKD8Xnsa_saKzYijI3IWD4oWua-VX7_In8X252vXGwMB7Xo_ZfazoW5i2LMwBjZZXoDkHSh1_hIXeNonHCLxqwdKoWQlri-abpwdDktUHwVwvxpY6IJb-1CDZxeaXKH/s2547/OUTD.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="2547" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVC9hM-OTt-j7spJKD8Xnsa_saKzYijI3IWD4oWua-VX7_In8X252vXGwMB7Xo_ZfazoW5i2LMwBjZZXoDkHSh1_hIXeNonHCLxqwdKoWQlri-abpwdDktUHwVwvxpY6IJb-1CDZxeaXKH/s320/OUTD.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once upon a time, humanity ceased to be. Well,
it didn’t really cease to be, but everyone thought it did because the news
made a terrible mistake. Everyone in the world lay down around the
place as if they were dead. They spread out their limbs at funny
angles and shut their eyes.</p>
<p>Religious people waited to be taken to the afterlife, but no
tunnel of light came for them. Atheists waited to be eaten by worms,
but the worms showed no interest. Everyone just waited and waited and
then they got hungry and they got cold and some had to take a piss.</p>
<p>After a while, a little boy jumped to his feet and said “let’s
pretend we’re alive.” The little boy’s mammy told him to lay
back down because he was dead, but the little boy said “I know I’m
dead, I’m just playing that I’m alive.” Then a little girl
stood up to play too.</p>
<p>Soon, all the children were on their feet and then most of the
adults. It seemed that they had found a ‘get out’
clause in this death business. You could pretend to be alive. So, almost everyone went back to doing what they did before they thought
they were dead.</p>
<p>However, some people remained on the ground as if dead and were
very cross with those who had gotten up for not being dead properly.
Some of those on the ground were tempted to join in the pretending to
be alive game, but they dared not. It seemed naughty.</p>
<p>Eventually, the people who were pretending to be alive scooped up
the people who thought they were dead and put them in caskets and put
the caskets in the earth. The people who thought they were dead did
not protest. They were happy enough under the soil. It seemed
correct.</p>
<p>You see, even though the people who thought they were dead were
about to be really dead, due to being buried alive, they felt they
were coming out on top. The way they reasoned it, being dead is safer
than being alive because being alive will get you killed one day. FIN!</p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-80213360043184589872021-01-05T14:11:00.001-08:002021-01-05T14:11:08.835-08:00BOURGEOISIE V BOURGEOISIE<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGFRKnXu8GQ_s95U3YshkCU80KQyZcfh2_wazxy1Th0tPOtgfQMFKImehCuTpHd3q6HEQsLPYNlAUjVevVOCtjfoI5hZCGJUSerHNroH1jHCd6EvuZLtXUXvi3fqau8epGWSal30plON8H/s290/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGFRKnXu8GQ_s95U3YshkCU80KQyZcfh2_wazxy1Th0tPOtgfQMFKImehCuTpHd3q6HEQsLPYNlAUjVevVOCtjfoI5hZCGJUSerHNroH1jHCd6EvuZLtXUXvi3fqau8epGWSal30plON8H/s0/images.jpg" /></a></div>One day, the bourgeoisie went to the
cinema to see a savage indictment of the bourgeoisie made by a member
of the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie became very angry at the
bourgeoisie and some bourgeoisie formed an organisation that put bombs under the
bourgeoisie's cars and so on. Members of the bourgeoisie ended up
killing a lot of members of the bourgeoisie. Eventually, when the
bourgeoisie got tired of blowing up the bourgeoisie, a member of the
bourgeoisie made a film about the bourgeoisie blowing up the
bourgeoisie and the bourgeoisie went to the cinema to see the film,
which was a savage indictment of the bourgeoisie, and the bourgeoisie
became very angry at the bourgeoisie and some bourgeoisie formed an organisation
that put bombs under the bourgeoisie's cars and so on.
<p></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was all very exciting. It was all
very important. It was really revolutionary. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Some of the bourgeoisie were even sent to prison by the bourgeoisie, but all of the bourgeoisie eventually became bourgeoisie media pundits
and went on TV shows where the bourgeoisie spoke to the bourgeoisie about the bourgeoisie in
front of an audience of bourgeoisie watching from home and a few lucky members
of the bourgeoisie who'd won tickets to be in the live studio audience.</p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-36040456850095479412020-12-28T07:58:00.000-08:002020-12-28T07:58:18.988-08:00SO, GUYS...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQMK3l5NawEc220F2lOoOy7HZ-8NkjVcJ35GEYJAkBaXlcyFkpCVvK4ePnjK8cwi0cemNuU1kLFEfrb3-N6z3BGkXIU0JDuKhPxeo34bPL5p_3tOmjcu0lnuANpP9uH4OsydHWQfI4-cr/s1039/AF.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="1039" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLQMK3l5NawEc220F2lOoOy7HZ-8NkjVcJ35GEYJAkBaXlcyFkpCVvK4ePnjK8cwi0cemNuU1kLFEfrb3-N6z3BGkXIU0JDuKhPxeo34bPL5p_3tOmjcu0lnuANpP9uH4OsydHWQfI4-cr/s320/AF.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">...<span style="color: #1b95e0;">@anarchofurrious</span>
is cool with <span style="color: #1b95e0;">@TankieTrustfund</span> but not
<span style="color: #1b95e0;">@PraxisAnaphylaxis</span> and said it was OK to
burn down mom n pop stores that don’t sell their book on Anarcho
Liposuction and they do still read theory on their OnlyFans so
I still think we can change the world guys and nudes are $40.<br /></p>
<p><style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm }</style></p>Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-19540452088792940192017-01-08T21:20:00.000-08:002017-01-08T21:20:31.215-08:00ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8za76udhPzxvS8_ifGEY0z1V7A9Llc2F03TQn_AfWNcRTqWyuWbR9YnbmDhUnoIDyK1876ZhIfziiVdkQ2-VFRptu4f9-9f4WYRaCeLinajONc4RtpdKbCSNZ97BBvjk_pg3CLsv0Ltu/s1600/Covent_Garden_Theatre_London_fire.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG8za76udhPzxvS8_ifGEY0z1V7A9Llc2F03TQn_AfWNcRTqWyuWbR9YnbmDhUnoIDyK1876ZhIfziiVdkQ2-VFRptu4f9-9f4WYRaCeLinajONc4RtpdKbCSNZ97BBvjk_pg3CLsv0Ltu/s320/Covent_Garden_Theatre_London_fire.jpeg" width="320" /></a> </div>
I'm putting on a play about our current world. I won't be giving any of the actors scripts so they'll have to improvise any old shite that comes into their heads. I'm hoping for some monologues that make little sense, but sound powerful anyway - in a strange way.<br />
<br />
I'll also cue light changes and sound effects and pull up and down the curtain at entirely random times so as to disorientate the cast and audience alike.<br />
<br />
The whole show will finish with the theatre catching fire and everyone being directed to fake emergency exits that all lead to the toilet. <br />
<br />
It'll be just like real life. It'll be very realistic.<br />
<br />
Then of course there is the encore. Played by the final living actor, burnt a gaudy orange, coughing and sooty upon the remnants of the stage. The last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste*, sans everything.<br />
<br />
*Oh, definitely tasteless.Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-43744838924724870172016-12-30T03:25:00.000-08:002016-12-30T03:31:28.197-08:00TROLL AND COUNTER-TROLL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9GYU_4jwljVSqoVkzfRGIVpnCgmmb0RyK7cQO8-icnuhvkNVZZfom3scFOnxWVaFW01istrnUb3eHpuQ1HG3kE4HrF2VlQ4j22wapo2khkc3rSDLBath9kMscp12ckr0EoAGOKly5aIa/s1600/DavShayler.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9GYU_4jwljVSqoVkzfRGIVpnCgmmb0RyK7cQO8-icnuhvkNVZZfom3scFOnxWVaFW01istrnUb3eHpuQ1HG3kE4HrF2VlQ4j22wapo2khkc3rSDLBath9kMscp12ckr0EoAGOKly5aIa/s320/DavShayler.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
People are saying that Edward Snowden
is a Russian asset. This is wrong. Edward Snowden actually still
works for American intelligence. I swear. And all the surveillance
stuff Snowden said that the NSA can do, all the listening on your
laptops and devices, all that stuff is a load of shite. The NSA can't
do any of that. It just wants us to think it can so we don't act
against the U.S.A.'s interests. The NSA doesn't really need to watch
us. The NSA just needs us to think that it can watch us, so it got
Snowden to tell us that this was the case, which it really isn't.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Snowden is now living in Russia and
he's spying on the Russians. The Russians know that he's a spy
though. So, when Snowden is around, the Russians talk a load of shite
about their supposed deep surveillance of the U.S.A. Snowden then
reports this shite talk back to the yanks and the yanks pretend to
believe it, but they don't because they know that the Russians are on
to Snowden because that was the intention of the yanks all along. The
yanks want the Russians to waste all their time making up pretend
espionage stuff to trick Snowden with. That way, reason the yanks,
the Russians will have less time to come up with real espionage
stuff.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When it comes to real espionage,
there's actually no such thing. No one has the time. They're too busy
cooking up the fake stuff. Strictly speaking, there are no such
things as actual spies. Well, there are spies, but their job isn't to
spy. Their job is to give the people they are meant to be spying on
the impression that they're spying on them. Really though, there is
no spying going on at all, but everyone thinks there is, so they
don't make any plans. The plan is to make the enemy think you might
know what the plan is, so they scrap their plans, should they have
any, which they don't because they haven't the time.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Are you still with me? Has confusion
got you in its grip? It's all about confusion at the end of the day.
The intelligence agencies are mad for the confusion.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Did you know that back in a simpler
time, during the Cold War, the Russians used to use props in their
military parades? They'd have a huge big fake nuke, a thing that
doesn't exist at all, a big fake warhead in a parade and they'd know
that the yanks would see it and then go and waste all their time
trying to research what it was and how to make one of their own. The
yanks would waste a load of time and effort that could've been
expended on developing real nukes. That was typical of the shite that
went on in the world of geopolitical espionage. Of course, if such a
thing was attempted today, the yanks would just give the Russians the
impression that they had wasted all their time when, in fact, they
would've known that the nuke was fake all along. And the extra twist
on top of this would be that the Russians would know that the yanks
know the nuke is fake, but the Russians would be happy enough because
the yanks would still end up wasting a load of time and effort on
giving the Russians the impression that they were wasting a load of
time and effort.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Do you see my meaning? Is what I'm
trying to impart clear to you at all?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Look, it's like this, spies know that
reality is irrelevant. The world of spies is a post-reality world.
It's just trolling really. Troll and counter-troll. If James Bond
films were realistic, Bond would just be going around saying he
bedded all those women and blew up all those secret bases, but the
reality would be him sitting around in hotel lobbies trying to look
suspicious but feeling kind of lonely and wondering what it's all for
and if there is such a thing as anything at all and he'd frequently
check his reflection in panes of glass to make sure that he's still
there and, deep down, he'd be hoping that one day he won't be. Or
maybe, like David Shayler, Bond would see his reflection and declare
to himself <i>'I am the messiah and hold the secret of eternal life.'</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's hard for spies to keep their feet
on the ground. That's why they're advised to keep weights in their
footwear. This also makes them easier to sink, when they need to be
disposed of. We'll all have weights in our shoes soon enough.</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-68008999529286960512016-12-24T02:53:00.000-08:002016-12-24T02:53:52.683-08:00HI, I'M DONALD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtyVpVFJZn2rTwd5kKOdD99dMaSQ9A5LFuYWzEKVWf3WUKK-ALFT0iuLfe0oVQQHG3ymvO5ACEObpM8VaTJ3BD4j9UBmoejs2FtghblHwV64HYUveRDosy-7PZnF3euLsE1iH1_pAY2J6b/s1600/donald-trump-s-real-estate-tycoon-windows-front-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtyVpVFJZn2rTwd5kKOdD99dMaSQ9A5LFuYWzEKVWf3WUKK-ALFT0iuLfe0oVQQHG3ymvO5ACEObpM8VaTJ3BD4j9UBmoejs2FtghblHwV64HYUveRDosy-7PZnF3euLsE1iH1_pAY2J6b/s320/donald-trump-s-real-estate-tycoon-windows-front-cover.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hi, I'm
Donald. You probably know this. I'm everywhere, even here now. Yes,
I'm Donald. You've heard all the jokes and theories about me. About
why I am where I am. The cultural and socio-economic reasons and, you
know, that stuff. Blame it on neoliberalism or racism or reality TV or, well,
whatever, whatever.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'll tell you something though.
Something people don't talk about so much. Something I know very
well. Something even I don't talk about. Let me tell you this. My
father gave me everything, or at least an awful lot, and that left me
feeling bad. Really, believe me. I felt really bad. I felt like I
never made anything for myself, you know, so I needed to do that,
right. You understand me. OK. So, I needed people to take me for me,
but I didn't know who 'me' was right, so I gradually became this kind
of a thing and I put this thing that I became out there and here I am
and, you know, I'm very successful. I mean, I say that I'm successful
all the time and people say that I'm not. They say I lost a lot of
money and all of this, but I'm not talking about money. I'm talking
about real estate, mental real estate. I own property and that
property is in your head. It's mental space and it gives me value. It
makes me feel great too. I feel very valued. I like feeling valued,
right. Don't we all like to feel valued? You know it. You know we do.
Valued is something that my father never made me feel. I had to do
that for myself and I was very successful at it. I built a home in
everyone's mind and that gives me value and now I'm trading in that
value and do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to buy the
world. The whole world. I'm going to take the world, another thing my
father couldn't give me by the way, and I'm going to destroy it and
then I'm going to see what happens. Maybe I'll find out who I am
because, you know, that's the one thing I really don't know. That's
the one thing I never figured out and I guess by destroying
everything I'm going to discover it, right? Sure. I'll destroy
everything and by that I mean absolutely everything, believe me, I'll
destroy it while you guys cheer or boo or whatever, like I could care
less how you feel about it by the way, as long as you feel strongly
about it, and then, when everything is destroyed, you'll look at me,
Donald, and I will look back at
you. I'll look straight into your eyes, straight in there, and I'll
say <i>'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.' </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That's what's going to happen folks,
believe me, and I know that my father may not have been proud of what
I'm destined to become, but boy would he ever have been impressed.</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-29819686916099468782016-12-14T22:15:00.000-08:002016-12-14T22:15:52.522-08:00THING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5Wc4QGH-bdtwLR3Dhe-YGTcns9l2n6QpSEsB0IJ13AHYh7vMr8q6Rz5LokzD47wt8vZeH6tpkgXZZVbkq9mokJO1Hw8Qtt5BAB9i9PXDapDiETtK5jnRd8LCsxoMT90vcIBGi_mCobJR/s1600/Repo_Man.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV5Wc4QGH-bdtwLR3Dhe-YGTcns9l2n6QpSEsB0IJ13AHYh7vMr8q6Rz5LokzD47wt8vZeH6tpkgXZZVbkq9mokJO1Hw8Qtt5BAB9i9PXDapDiETtK5jnRd8LCsxoMT90vcIBGi_mCobJR/s1600/Repo_Man.jpeg" /></a></div>
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I visited a nation called 'Nation'.
Needless to say, the citizens of this nation were called
'Nationalists'. Initially, I thought Nation was the most
unimaginative country I'd ever been too. The streets were all named
'Street Street' and the cities were all called 'City'. The postal addresses
were a disaster. Every house was unnumbered and had the address
House, Street Street, City, Nation. Mail rarely arrived at the right
place. When I pointed this out to a Nationalist he laughed and said
<i>'au contraire my friend, in Nation the mail cannot help but arrive at
the correct destination.'</i> This Nationalist then took a sip of the
national drink, which was a drink named 'drink' that was usually
enjoyed with the national meal that was a meal named 'meal'. Also,
this man was called 'Person' as were all people in Nation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rather than lack of imagination,
Nation's reason for naming things after what they were, even if there
was lots of the same thing, was to prevent <i>difference</i>. It was
reasoned by the founder of Nation (and the very first person to take
the name 'Person') that difference was the cause of all conflict and
therefore everything must be the same.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
However, the problem of difference is
difficult to overcome and it eventually reared its ugly head. What
happened was this, one day two people called Person had a
disagreement about which was better, drink or meal. Person and
Person's disagreement grew to a row that caused a fist fight and then
their relatives got involved and it was person against person, or
Person against Person as the case may be and indeed was, in this
case. This brawl grew and grew and resulted in a short lived civil
war. It seemed that everyone in Nation secretly longed for the
excitement and stimulation that only conflict can provide, and this
desire was overwhelming. Where it comes to conflict, people just
can't help themselves. Even if the people are all called Person.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually everything was wrecked and
ruined and shite and everyone got sick of it and wanted things back
the way they were, so everything went back to the way it was – but
with one big difference. Steps were taken to ensure that war would
never reoccur in the great nation of Nation. It was decided that
everything - the people, the houses, the streets, the cities, the
drinks and the meals - all of it, would be renamed 'Thing'. Even the
nation itself was renamed 'Thing' and, so far, this seems to be
working. It's even harder to get the mail to the right address now,
addresses invariably being Thing, Thing Thing, Thing, Thing, Thing,
but no one seems to mind. Despite the inefficiencies, the things of
Thing are content enough to just get on with doing their thing.</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-80848863900106939202016-11-11T15:53:00.002-08:002016-11-11T15:53:43.550-08:00EVER DAFTER!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PB-IPaoy_WjzOL3MpGGXb_UDBiyXIpL5FdNorp-PQ4L-JXUYjVMP6QpEdZErmgfNfLn4vnfapHa0d6LVjUHwJmXpJhCwkpWrGxcPZwsz_GI_JluISl26iUOSW7ZIjPx4GQjMlzJrB3Vs/s1600/fire+sound+klaxon+copy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PB-IPaoy_WjzOL3MpGGXb_UDBiyXIpL5FdNorp-PQ4L-JXUYjVMP6QpEdZErmgfNfLn4vnfapHa0d6LVjUHwJmXpJhCwkpWrGxcPZwsz_GI_JluISl26iUOSW7ZIjPx4GQjMlzJrB3Vs/s1600/fire+sound+klaxon+copy+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once upon a time,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
...everyone woke up and moved their
lips to speak but the only sound that came out was the sound of a
klaxon. An alarming, blaring, enraging, fucking klaxon.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And everyone cleared their throats, but
it did no good.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And everyone rinsed out their mouths,
but it did no good.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And everyone sucked a lozenge, but it
did no good.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And everyone was very unhappy because
they thought they would never get the chance to insult each other
again.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So everyone went on the internet, to
type their insults into cyberspace, but when they placed their hands
on their keyboards everyone saw that their fingers had turned into
logs of shit. Ten logs of shit was all they had, five per hand. And
everyone was startled to see their shit fingers and everyone screamed, but all they emitted was a terrible klaxon sound.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So there everyone was, honking and
weeping in front of computers that were covered in shit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But after a while, everyone adjusted
because people can adjust to anything. The human race is a very
adaptable species.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And in no time at all, it felt like
nothing had ever changed and everyone just carried on. Instead of
insulting each other they just honked at each other and instead of typing callous and cruel remarks into the internet, they just smeared
shit all over their computer screens.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And they lived happily ever dafter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
ThE EnD.</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-28210272399095550212016-11-05T19:40:00.001-07:002016-11-06T01:56:41.034-08:00POOR PEPE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4oP1htCy6U6WXDJgp5rNUB7-LgL1W4qFxinMP62o3s8YUZllIHWbkPkN2l8kK7_sgfczfsgJkA3aOYDpaICkyBt6wo8KTTm38Og4-RODCxQFwOxFrHvE15UxjrIfo-AafH7cO8Mce6LY5/s1600/reasontolive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4oP1htCy6U6WXDJgp5rNUB7-LgL1W4qFxinMP62o3s8YUZllIHWbkPkN2l8kK7_sgfczfsgJkA3aOYDpaICkyBt6wo8KTTm38Og4-RODCxQFwOxFrHvE15UxjrIfo-AafH7cO8Mce6LY5/s320/reasontolive.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bullying was normalised by reality TV, pop star judges and tough guy celebrity chefs with Deirdre Barlow hair.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Young Pepes learned that to win you must be malicious. That empathy is a weakness. That sympathy is passé. That spite is right!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Poor Pepes. Sad, insecure, mutually stigmatising, profoundly petrified Pepes. Discouraging each other. Stealing each other's strength.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The least equipped of us to deal with the challeng<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ing</span> vagaries of life, should Pepes be pitied?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Pepes degrade and humiliate each other in an attempt to exorcise their own degradation and humiliation.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But self-hate is non-transferable. They curse each other and they are all cursed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jungian shadows are projected wildly. Insults and caustic humour betray an overwhelming dissatisfaction with existence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It goes on and on. From snide to cutting. Accumulating. A toxic tsunami sweeps across our world. An inescapable, global hex.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Discourse is corrupted and now those racing to be POTUS exchange cruelties. So presidential. What good influences.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Being kind or even considerate and thinking<i> 'hey, there's a whole human being inside that human being' </i>is history. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Climate change, warfare, whatever, the Doomsday clock is reaching twelve. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It seems the <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">concluding</span> act of the human race <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">is to</span> piss on its own grave.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But if you can't beat them, join them. I think I'll give it a go.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, my first and final insult to the poor Pepes of the world is this...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My remaining hope is that I live long enough to see you all die.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Die.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In cowering, sobbing, isolated regret.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Inhaling the Arctic methane.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Your world in unrest. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dying. Dying. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That is all.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Release the gas. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Send in the drones.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Whatever. </span><br />
<br />Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-62628616483989560352015-10-12T00:43:00.000-07:002015-10-12T00:43:13.323-07:00WE'RE NOT DEAD!<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="//www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/x39boz1" width="400"></iframe><br /><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x39boz1_we-re-not-dead_creation" target="_blank">WE'RE NOT DEAD</a> <i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/FugTheWorld" target="_blank">FugTheWorld</a></i></div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-763569539663322282015-07-19T01:20:00.002-07:002015-07-19T01:31:07.719-07:00WASTED WORDS: Six Years of Fugger!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Fugger first blogged on this day, six
years ago. That's six years of words arranged in grammatically dodgy
order for reasons best known to absolutely no one, least of all me.
All I know is that six years is a lot of words. Too many words. But
what the Hell, it's Fugger's birthday so here are some more...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For this anniversary post, I thought
I'd do something special and let you know about the word quota.
Everyone has a certain amount of words assigned to them for use in
their lifetime. Did you know that? Yeah, there's a word depot that
stores a limited amount of words for each person's use. Once you use
up your words, you can no longer speak or write. You are struck dumb.
You never get to communicate again - beyond pointing and waving or
using facial expressions or nodding and shaking your head. Consider
that next time you waste a load of words complaining about the shite
on telly. You might run out of words before you've said what you really want to say. It happens. Having said that, I'm not sure if running
out of words is a bad thing at all.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Words drain life of value. Honestly. When you recount an experience in words you reduce that
experience to just words. You even start to consider the experience
as a story that you tell and forget the actual sensation of the
experience itself. Emotions become syntax. Then you start to
embellish things, to add a bit of sparkle to what inevitably
becomes a jaded narrative. You might even discard reality completely and make
something up. I'm not sure if anyone knows for certain why
we do this. Maybe we do it to entertain others so they'll like us.
Being liked feels good. Being liked makes us feel safe. Being liked sometimes brings rewards
or gives us a chance to procreate. Or maybe it's not about being liked at all. Maybe we exaggerate just because, you know, because. For reasons we can't put it into words. We're a funny species, sometimes on purpose.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
To keep experience authentic, the less
you say the better. The only way you can properly convey an
experience is through telepathy and we can't do that, yet. Once we
master telepathy, we'll consider words as insufficient and
rudimentary a means of communication as smoke signals. Dishonest
smoke signals at that. With telepathy we'll know exactly how each
other feel and we'll understand each other's motivations and no
longer have a clutter of words clouding our mutual comprehension. Despite the odd embarrassment, this will be for the best. There'll be
a certain amount of awkwardness because people you dislike will know
that you dislike them and, worse still, people you love will know
that you love them. Your silly preoccupations and insecurities will
be on show for all to see, but then so will everyone's. This will
probably lead to a lot of empathy in the end. We'll all see how silly
we are and have a good laugh. You might even stop disliking those
you dislike and come to love them, now that you've come to <span lang="en-GB">truly</span>
understand them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(This post isn't very good is it? I
should be putting a narrative on all this and packaging these
concepts in some kind of amusing scenario, with a set up and a pay
off. There'll be a funny bit at the end, I promise, but it should be
less of a slog getting there shouldn't it? I should try harder to
hold your interest. Holding your interest is my aim I suppose
because, you know, just because. For reasons I can't put it into
words.) </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But where was I, oh yes, the word
quota. Some people, those who talk too much or write a lot, like
yours truly, often exhaust their word supply before death. If you
keep an eye out, you sometimes see these wordless people around the
place. You might see them paying for items at a checkout and smiling
politely but saying nothing when they are handed their change. Most
are elderly, but some are younger, living out decades <span lang="en-GB">incommunicado.</span>
I've a theory about these people. I reckon they find it liberating to be without
words. I can't say for certain of course because wordless people
aren't able to confirm it, but their knowing smiles and zen
<span lang="en-GB">demeanours</span> could well be down to their word
lack. They look free to me, whenever I see them. They seem
unburdened. I say <i>'hello' </i>and they just nod sagely.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Anyway, this brings me to the funny
part of this sixth anniversary post. <i>'At last,'</i> says you. OK, so,
there was this fella right, and he was always going on about this and
that and whatever and never shutting his yap and it's his first day
at work in a new place and he really needs a shite. He's busting to
go, absolutely dying, but the building is huge and he can't find the
jax so he goes to ask where it is, but then he finds that he's run out of <style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style>
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Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-29399248397170545882015-07-07T20:16:00.000-07:002015-09-04T15:29:48.074-07:00MAN UP! HEAD DOWN!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzf-DBoqsCdndKQVrFPtZff9Z4I11IhEIcNm1-w6t97yrBVaOg-xKDtY8FuwpmMICf-UHTVIMCPd6WS4AMZba7KTNwIBXq7dfhWHIUvfYZd3S0UdixTIBM38YFpF53VEothQlhDVi9z0Kt/s1600/Gustave+Dore%25CC%2581+Dante+Thatcher.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzf-DBoqsCdndKQVrFPtZff9Z4I11IhEIcNm1-w6t97yrBVaOg-xKDtY8FuwpmMICf-UHTVIMCPd6WS4AMZba7KTNwIBXq7dfhWHIUvfYZd3S0UdixTIBM38YFpF53VEothQlhDVi9z0Kt/s320/Gustave+Dore%25CC%2581+Dante+Thatcher.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Life isn't to be enjoyed. It's to be
tolerated. I think that's undeniable. You can breakdown in the face
of this truth or you can man up. If you choose to man up, you get
your head down. You get your head down and you get your work done and
you pay your way. There isn't much joy in it, but there is dignity in
it. Don't be a freeloader. Don't expect anyone else's share. Take
care of yourself. It's about competition, not cooperation. The only
time you cooperate is to beat the competition. We're all rivals and
you know it. Deep down, you know that only too well. Sure, the minus
is that no one owes you anything, but the plus is that you don't owe
anyone anything. Just get your head down, provide for yourself and
try not to die in too much pain.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You see, you've got to be a tough guy
in this world because this world is tough, guys. You don't measure
the worth of your world with intangible notions like personal
contentment and a sense of community. That stuff isn't quantifiable.
You don't see that shit on graphs. Community can be best validated by
measurable collective economic stability. That way we keep the road
to the workplace smoothly tarred. Anything else and you're on your
own. You've got to man up and compete. You've got to generate the
income to partake of resources. There isn't enough to go around so
you've got to earn your share. There's a scarcity and even if there
isn't a scarcity, we should act as if there is or else there will be.
Got me?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Way back in the way back when, F.W.
Taylor knew that internal gratification didn't get us anywhere. He
knew that external reward is the way to go. You're not a craftsman,
you're a cog, but you're a cog that gets paid a heck of a lot more
than a craftsman and shit gets made quicker too. Where would we be
without quick shit? Waiting, that's where. It's about efficiency
guys. Efficiency trumps all and if you're efficient you get paid more
and you can spend your pay on quick shit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of course, I know what you're thinking.
You're complaining that your income has been cut despite your hard
work. If your income has been cut you man up. Work harder! The
frontiersmen of old didn't bitch when their crops failed. Oh no. They
steeled themselves for a hungry winter and tried again next year.
People died, yeah. People die all the time. The cog gets rusty and
it's replaced. Big deal. The machine has to keep running and that's
all that matters because without the machine, well, without the
machine we'd all have to go without wouldn't we? Yeah, we would. We'd
all just be spare parts with no purpose. We'd have no reason to get
our heads down and we'd have to look up and look around and if we did
that then who knows what we'd see. What would we see then? It could
be anything. Anything under the sun. The thought is too awful to
contemplate. Just get your head down, that's the only way. For the
love of God, whatever you do, get your head down and don't look up.
Don't look up, just man up! Man up and get your head down!<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="188" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sbBrg4PmKjk?rel=0&controls=0&showinfo=0" width="250"></iframe></div>
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Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-87133108478088415592015-07-06T00:07:00.002-07:002015-07-06T00:32:40.573-07:00THE TECHNOCRATS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLceGtI05qk8tSyAo5rqijNYZDLCuQr3xIe-jsbH9ThyphenhyphenYQ4P4s6XYQmMwiQ_UCrl8K1aDx-NJxHwsnnPx3k-ZrnKPSBwROpcDgE4NdAnk2Ul6pZZ8dJwmsF9AYrtOtMDzkn0tANGzOBvMW/s1600/KEN-E.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLceGtI05qk8tSyAo5rqijNYZDLCuQr3xIe-jsbH9ThyphenhyphenYQ4P4s6XYQmMwiQ_UCrl8K1aDx-NJxHwsnnPx3k-ZrnKPSBwROpcDgE4NdAnk2Ul6pZZ8dJwmsF9AYrtOtMDzkn0tANGzOBvMW/s1600/KEN-E.png" /></a></div>
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Do you remember those mad cartoon characters The
Technocrats? They were on every Saturday after the ThunderCats. They wore well-cut
suits and expensive watches. They always had mildly bored
expressions on their faces and pushed their glasses up their noses.
They overcame sovereignty with their powers of austerity. At every
commercial break, you'd be reminded to stay tuned when The Technocrats pointed at you from the screen and told you to <i>'stick with the
<span lang="en-GB">programme!</span>' </i>Ah yeah, The Technocrats were
mad. Do you remember them at all?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They had a robot that was the comic
relief. The robot was called KEN-E. KEN-E was a clueless sack of mechanical crap
that barely worked. The Technocrats were always playing tricks on
him. In fairness, KEN-E was a very loyal robot. Even though The
Technocrats didn't take him at all seriously, KEN-E would always obey their commands. <i>'The Technocrats demand my loyalty,' </i>KEN-E would
say, <i>'I must stick with the <span lang="en-GB">programme.</span>'</i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Technocrats had all these enemies
too. Alexis Feckless was the worst. He was always coming up with
stuff so he could escape paying his way. He wore a leather jacket
with the collar turned up and he had a shiny bald head. He looked
really evil in a lazy kind of way. He was terrible. We'd boo and hiss
him when we were kids. We all joined The Technocrats Club too. You'd
send away your name and address and then you'd be billed for all
sorts and sent <span lang="en-GB">budgetary</span> advice. They'd
tell you how to spend your pocket money and recommend that you sell
all your toys to wealthier kids and then rent them back. After a
while of renting the toys back you'd run out of the money you made
from selling them. Then you'd write to the club requesting
further advice and you'd get a letter back telling you to<i> 'stick with
the <span lang="en-GB">programme!</span>'</i> That's all the letter said.
<i>'Stick with the <span lang="en-GB">programme</span>!' </i>This was just
advice of course. You didn't have to do what the letter said, but if
you didn't you'd be thrown out of The Technocrats Club and no one
wanted that. All the other kids would laugh at you. You'd have a bit
more pocket money for sweets though.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'll never forget the shocking final
episode when Alexis Feckless revealed that The Technocrats were
completely broke. He was a real dick about it.<i> 'You're all broke,'</i> he
said laughing. <i>'I've got the proof and you're all completely
penniless and always were. You're
all a sham! A complete and utter sham! YOU'RE ALL JUST A LYING,
CRIMINAL, TYRANNICAL, SCUM SUCKING SHAM!'</i> Then the show got cancelled
so we never discovered how The Technocrats got out of that spot of
bother. I'm sure they figured something out though. The Technocrats
always came up with crazy plans. Some would say outright deranged
plans, completely fucking demented plans. But, whatever happened, The
Technocrats always looked like they knew what they were doing. Even
if they didn't have the slightest notion what they were at, they
always looked like they did. That was their main power. I'm sure they
were OK in the end. We never found out though. The whole series was
scrapped and I've since heard that every episode was taken and
incinerated and the ashes were flushed down a toilet because the
people that commissioned the show found the whole thing really
embarrassing and shameful. Actually, the animation was a bit shit now I come to
think of it. The plot continuity was all over the place too. But when
you're a kid you don't mind that stuff too much. You're naive and
pretty stupid and you'll accept any hopeless old God forsaken shit
that's peddled to you. That's why the kids were so fond of KEN-E.
They identified with him. KEN-E liked
the reassuring demeanor of The Technocrats. I suppose the robot was
comforted by their certainty. No matter what half-arsed bollocksology
was afoot, us kids and KEN-E always stuck with the programme. We
remained loyal. That is, until The Technocrats show got scrapped,
burned and flushed down the fucking crapper where it rightfully belonged.
</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-35184307790705077072015-07-03T10:06:00.001-07:002015-07-03T10:06:44.771-07:00SOMEWHERE SOMETHING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-26661768102989664102015-06-26T08:59:00.000-07:002015-06-26T08:59:38.203-07:00SWEAR NEVER TO DO IT AGAIN, AGAIN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We don't make history anymore. History
just occurs. It kind of spills out all over the place and we have no
say in it. History is like a pint that gets knocked over by some
really drunk fella. It lands on his lap and makes it look as if he's
pissed himself. Sometimes it leaves a stain in the shape of a
country.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nobody is in charge anymore, for good
or ill. It's all just cause and effect, but we're not sure what the
cause was and we don't know how to deal with the effect. A lot of
people are talking but nothing is being said. Most people are arguing
about things that may or may not have happened and the factors that
may or may not have caused these things to happen or not. I doubt
anyone really cares though. Just as long as their opining is heard.
As long as they are seen to stand out from the herd ...for whatever
reason. No one knows a thing. We are all just caught up in a domino
effect and we don't know who pushed the first domino and we can't
tell which one will be next to go.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Take the example of ISIS. I really
don't know who ISIS are. I don't think anyone does. ISIS themselves
don't even know. All they know is that they are history, <span lang="en-GB">occurring.
They are just delighted to be</span> 'trending'. This is humanity in
entropy, where being click bait is the sought after currency. ISIS
are like the rest of us but instead of doing the Ice Bucket
Challenge, they chop off people's heads. The Islamic <span lang="en-GB">Wahhabi</span>
state matters about as much to them as whatever charity the Ice
Bucket Challenge was in aid of mattered to us. By the way, did we
#GetKony in the end? No, I didn't think so. That met a sorry
conclusion. Naked on the road, wanking and roaring.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We are all Jason Russell. Remember him?
You probably don't. History quickly fades these days.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Future historians will look back at our
times and try to figure out what happened. They're going to have to
pick their way through an abstract mess. The course of history by
Jackson Pollock. A tangle of twine and you can't find where it starts
or where it ends. And what an end. Might this be the end? Or is it
just a stupid transition? Maybe we'll wake up, like the pissed fella
that spilled his pint, and feel a bit disgraced and look out the
window and see a brand new day and swear never to do it again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then we'll do it again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then we'll swear never to do it
again, again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yzLT6_TQmq8?rel=0&controls=0&showinfo=0" width="300"></iframe></div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-43600848868058431482015-06-18T01:09:00.000-07:002015-06-18T01:21:23.686-07:00INCORPORATING ALAN<style>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU62fybCdtkQQUDXs6DKaE03j4MUifsfRpS-zafpZIJOG_bdHPFOOSvAdP-YFGSA7N-VBHGxHxA_VNY8gnPCpYxZ6w7KwQj8EYWrDjH6nBte0qBtR5j8mEjXVstsLHtzxFcm4meL7GDRuP/s1600/Alan+Moore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU62fybCdtkQQUDXs6DKaE03j4MUifsfRpS-zafpZIJOG_bdHPFOOSvAdP-YFGSA7N-VBHGxHxA_VNY8gnPCpYxZ6w7KwQj8EYWrDjH6nBte0qBtR5j8mEjXVstsLHtzxFcm4meL7GDRuP/s1600/Alan+Moore.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My sitcom about a writer of superhero
comics who aspires to be the next John Dee has been commissioned. It's called
'Incorporating Alan'.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode one of Incorporating Alan,
Alan hilariously sets out to prove that<i><span style="font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></i><i><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-style: normal; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Paul Daniels is not a
proper magician.</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode two of Incorporating Alan,
Alan is unamused to discover his publisher merchandising plushies of one of his
edgy rapist characters.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode three of Incorporating Alan,
Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Warren to stop
dressing like him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode four of Incorporating Alan,
Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Grant to stop
pretending to be him.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode five of Incorporating Alan,
Alan refuses to partake in a Q and A at a Batman convention unless it is
entirely conducted in Enochian.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode six of Incorporating Alan, Alan
is at loggerheads with his publisher when he decides to kill off their most
popular character again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode seven of Incorporating Alan,
Alan kicks off his two-year stewardship of the Pokémon comic by placing Snorlax
in Chapel Perilous.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In episode eight of Incorporating Alan,
Alan is infuriated when a critic describes his new experimental writing style
as <i>'Krypto the Super Doggerel.'</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That’s it for the first series. I was
asked to produce more episodes but I referred the broadcaster to the occult properties
of the number eight, saying that any other amount would exhibit preternatural
ignorance.</span></div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-65538367364797941002015-06-15T03:20:00.000-07:002016-12-30T03:28:32.014-08:00THE BIGGER PICTURE OF THE GREATER GOOD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-t_0Ys7XcPn9JiTMj6tkLEHu9AOU_NA5y693OM5LrNl8994Bx4yuq3PdV2ifjCWqFZ9b3vAw_FDNMBnx4FPxEibO-x2tFbA96-IpoW-jfciSEXJ2YlUABuMngTmYnPk7rMx2MI43-RIJ/s1600/James.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-t_0Ys7XcPn9JiTMj6tkLEHu9AOU_NA5y693OM5LrNl8994Bx4yuq3PdV2ifjCWqFZ9b3vAw_FDNMBnx4FPxEibO-x2tFbA96-IpoW-jfciSEXJ2YlUABuMngTmYnPk7rMx2MI43-RIJ/s1600/James.png" /></a></div>
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Our goal is 'The Greater Good'. Bad
things must sometimes be done in the cause of 'The Greater Good'.
Sometimes acts are performed in the cause of 'The Greater Good' that are so bad they outweigh the good in 'The Greater Good'. In such
cases, there is no contradiction because it is all done for 'The
Greater Good'. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>'What exactly is this Greater Good?'</i> enquiring minds
might ask. The answer is that we do not know. However, this does not
mean that we should stop trying to achieve 'The Greater Good'.
Ignorance of one's goal never excuses a failure to
accomplish it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It is the same with 'The Bigger
Picture'. Enquiring minds often ask us why we monitor the private
communications of entire populations, or why we blackmail, bomb
and execute the very citizens we claim to protect, or why we expose
vulnerable young people to <span lang="en-GB">paedophile</span>
rings. We do not answer these questions. Instead, we encourage the
enquiring minds asking such questions to see 'The Bigger Picture'.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When enquiring minds ask us what 'The
Bigger Picture' is, we reply that 'The Bigger Picture' is a big
picture of 'The Greater Good'. If some enquiring minds remain
unsatisfied and continue to ask questions we have these enquiring
minds discretely done away with and placed at the bottom of a remote
riverbed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some of the most enquiring minds one
could hope to encounter populate the riverbeds of these fair isles.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Remember...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Curiosity is not encouraged.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Obedience is essential.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rationality is irrelevant.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Enquiring minds/riverbed dwellers
sometimes point out that our ends and means lack sense and morality.
Before discretely doing away with these enquiring minds/riverbed
dwellers, we remind them that existence itself lacks sense and
morality. Ergo, we serve existence. Serving existence in the way we
do makes <span lang="en-GB">asymmetric</span> sense. It is also the
moral thing to do, <span lang="en-GB">asymmetrically speaking.</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You are free to disagree, but we may
have to discretely do away with you if you do.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If you would like to assist us in our
<span lang="en-GB">asymmetric efforts, we would be very pleased to
hear from you. You cannot contact us of course, but we will be
monitoring your communications and certain to get in touch should we
find your candidature fitting.</span> Anyone can join the secret
service, whether they would like to or not. The only requirements are a 'public school' education, a loose grasp on what it is to be human, a
perpetual sense of paranoia and a penchant for auto-erotic
asphyxiation.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You never know, you might one day end
up being a member of our team. Just think, you could be the next
James Bond, or perhaps James Rusbridger. It's entirely up to you
...and by 'you' we mean 'us'.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
**** </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The British Secret Service, completely
mad since 1909. It's for The Greater Good. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Get the (bigger) picture?</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-35218994067016639732015-06-12T09:04:00.000-07:002015-06-12T09:09:08.757-07:00HOME FOR SOCIETY'S FAILURES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSbYqR91o0V-dzclJ9YHWjbxkMQnfvvlPyAVdDQjCeqvOdKTifIsUHc2qdqmujx-mceXBSo3_hJr6NrQso4j0ZGbuLnG-GQUw6uyxIuR6sOw8RdM5R916_I4nj8j561vsQhm6zaj4v4wn/s1600/HfSF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSbYqR91o0V-dzclJ9YHWjbxkMQnfvvlPyAVdDQjCeqvOdKTifIsUHc2qdqmujx-mceXBSo3_hJr6NrQso4j0ZGbuLnG-GQUw6uyxIuR6sOw8RdM5R916_I4nj8j561vsQhm6zaj4v4wn/s1600/HfSF.jpg" /></a></div>
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A private home for the relics of the
establishment. They wander the corridors shouting out half-remembered
things and attempting to adhere to protocols from days gone. Doddery
TDs roar for imaginary Ceann Comhairles. Their minds suspended in
battles yesteryear, they emit non sequiturs. <i>'Don't interrupt me, I
didn't interrupt you,'</i> they protest to no one in particular about
nothing in particular. Senility clutches to the remnants of instinct.
It's an attempt to make sense of what never made sense.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A spoon is raised to Sir Anthony's
gaping mouth. The most ancient of them all. Vacant. The train has
left the station and the stop long since terminated. The
<span lang="en-GB">comparatively</span> sprightly Denis giggles and
hides Sir Anthony's slippers. Then Denis can't remember where he hid
the slippers or even that he hid them at all, so he looks for the
slippers so he can hide them again and wails when he can't find them.
His memories redacted, he can only be calmed by a little treat.
Lobster bisque or something like that. Then he scurries to the corner
and whispers legal threats into the ear of a husk that was once a
leading journalist. The husk weeps and pleads for mercy.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Undead ex-ministers cut deals with
dementia afflicted tycoons. Brown envelops are exchanged but there's
only shit in them. Speaking of shit, along come Joan and Enda,
collecting water charges with their bedpans. Buttons are dropped in
with a clinking sound and they shuffle on, droning about the future
of the nation and muttering some vague legislation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's a large fence with snipers all
around. Whether the guns are there to keep those seeking <span lang="en-GB">vengeance</span>
out or keep those who killed the future in, no one is quite sure.
Perhaps it's a bit of both. The situation is being contained, that's
all that matters. That's all that ever mattered. Actually dealing
with situations was never the aim. It was all just a perpetual crisis
management game, with some money made on the side. The profits of
chaos for those presiding over that chaos. They felt it their due.
<i>'You'd do the same,'</i> was their internal excuse and cognitive guilt
inhibitor.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Their time long passed, their power in
the past, they are now put out to pasture. Rendered harmless and
bovine, they await slaughter. Night falls and along comes the Reaper.
A soul is collected and another shameful cadaver is left for
inclusion in the annals of this home for society's failures.</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-11657266770801660712015-06-07T03:49:00.000-07:002015-06-07T03:49:45.494-07:00THE COSMOS COMMUNICATED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKdB_33y04fqN9MGwSoFm55rZxWf9NeBYNp3h3LzcUL87fu_M8T2N7oZT3YwvPhvYO1_PvZjnKs0gldOd2-XmP_BgG0GXlXODkln_lExq6AKV2wcqWLKaL2T6YYC5MEG9HQbx94w4UU2k/s1600/Kirby+2001.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKdB_33y04fqN9MGwSoFm55rZxWf9NeBYNp3h3LzcUL87fu_M8T2N7oZT3YwvPhvYO1_PvZjnKs0gldOd2-XmP_BgG0GXlXODkln_lExq6AKV2wcqWLKaL2T6YYC5MEG9HQbx94w4UU2k/s320/Kirby+2001.png" width="279" /></a></div>
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The cosmos communicated. It flooded his
mind with stars and equations, with the formula for infinity.
Everything was <span lang="en-GB">revealed</span> to him. EVERYTHING.
The reality of the smallest thing to the largest thing. There was no size.
It was just a <span lang="en-GB">category</span>, like the whole of
time and space that stretched out before him. He saw the beginning of
all and the end of all and he saw that both <span lang="en-GB">occurred</span>
at once. He saw things as God saw things. He saw that he was God. He
saw that all was God. He saw that all was one. The ultimate truth was
set in front of him and the <span lang="en-GB">intelligible</span>
was rendered elementary. The mysteries that had taunted humankind
since its inception were solved and made known. The Universe had
whispered in his ear and he had been granted the most absolute of
<span lang="en-GB">privileges. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-GB">He alone saw all. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-GB">He alone knew all. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-GB">He alone knew what
it was all for.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-GB"><i>'Hang on,'</i> he
eventually said to himself,<i> 'if I play my cards right, I might be able to make
a few bob out of this.'</i> </span>
</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4377662351061925638.post-38979495318955424862015-05-28T16:46:00.000-07:002015-05-28T16:46:14.229-07:00WASTE OF WATER<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="//www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/x2rvo7l" width="400"></iframe><br /><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2rvo7l_waste-of-water_creation" target="_blank">WASTE OF WATER</a> <i>by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/FugTheWorld" target="_blank">FugTheWorld</a></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
The last in the trilogy.</div>
Fuggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01576071692885477109noreply@blogger.com3