Thwarting The System
by: fictionpuss
Now you have to think and stuff, and realise that there may be times when you've wasted years on failed approaches.
It's no longer a free lunch, or free love.. yet I think it's progress.
Fuck it, every revolutionary movement uses the tools in its environment, to do otherwise would be foolish. I mean, I see the angst, but I don't understand where it's coming from.
Cults believe they have all the answers, Disordianism is not a cult. Why then weep at the marvels of your electric toothbrush?
From Dillinger To Bugs In 5 Easy Steps
1) On July 22, 1934 John Dillinger and friend visit the Biograph Theater in Chicago to see the film “Manhattan Melodrama” starring Clark Gable and Mirna Loy.
2) On leaving the theatre, Dillinger is promptly filled with holes by Federal Agents.
3) Due to the publicity showered on “Manhattan Melodrama” following Dillinger’s death Clark Gable and Mirna Loy are thrust into super stardom.
4) Cashing in on his new success, Clark Gable quickly stars in “It Happened One Night” where his fast-talking character munches on carrots. In addition, a character in this same movie is named “Bugs Dooley”
5) Spoofing on Clark Gable’s “It Happened One Night” character, a fast-talking, carrot-munching cartoon rabbit, Bugs Bunny, is created.
DILLINGER AND BUGS ARE BOTH DISCORDIAN SAINTS
do you STILL believe in coincidence?
2) On leaving the theatre, Dillinger is promptly filled with holes by Federal Agents.
3) Due to the publicity showered on “Manhattan Melodrama” following Dillinger’s death Clark Gable and Mirna Loy are thrust into super stardom.
4) Cashing in on his new success, Clark Gable quickly stars in “It Happened One Night” where his fast-talking character munches on carrots. In addition, a character in this same movie is named “Bugs Dooley”
5) Spoofing on Clark Gable’s “It Happened One Night” character, a fast-talking, carrot-munching cartoon rabbit, Bugs Bunny, is created.
DILLINGER AND BUGS ARE BOTH DISCORDIAN SAINTS
do you STILL believe in coincidence?
From the Dawn of Civilization,
we have existed in order to undermine it. Our only enemy is the status quo. Our only friend is chaos. We have no government ties and unlimited resources. If something goes wrong, we are the cause. Every corner of the earth is under our surveillance. If you do it, we see it. Always. We believe the powerful should be made less powerful. We have heard the voice of society, begging us to destabilize it.
WHERE ARE ALL THE BANANAS?
The cabbage view is incredible because it suggests that we can have experience of objects out in the world directly, beyond the sensory surface, as if bypassing the chain of sensory processing. For example if light from your screen is transduced by your retina into a neural signal which is transmitted from your eye to your brain, then the very first aspect of the computer screen that you can possibly experience is the information at the retinal surface, or the perceptual representation that it stimulates in your brain. The physical monitor itself lies beyond the sensory surface and therefore must be beyond your direct experience. But the perceptual experience of the page stubbornly appears out in the world itself instead of in your brain, in apparent violation of everything we know about the causal chain of vision. The difficulty with the concept of direct perception is most clearly seen when considering how an artificial vision system could be endowed with such external perception. Although a sensor may record an external quantity in an internal register or variable in a computer, from the internal perspective of the software running on that computer, only the internal value of that variable can be "seen", or can possibly influence the operation of that software. In exactly analogous manner the pattern of electrochemical activity that corresponds to our conscious experience can take a form that reflects the properties of external objects, but our consciousness is necessarily confined to the experience of those internal effigies of external objects, rather than of external objects themselves. Unless the principle of direct perception can be demonstrated in a simple artificial sensory system, this explanation remains as mysterious as the property of consciousness it is supposed to explain.
The indirect realist view is also incredible, for it suggests that the solid stable structure of the world that we perceive to surround us is merely a pattern of energy in the physical brain. In other words, the world that appears to be external to our head is actually inside our head. This could only mean that the head we have come to know as our own is not our true physical head, but is merely a miniature perceptual copy of our head inside a perceptual copy of the world, all of which is completely contained within our true physical skull. Stated from the internal phenomenal perspective, out beyond the farthest things you can perceive in all directions, i.e. above the dome of the sky and below the earth under your feet, or beyond the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room you perceive around you, beyond those perceived surfaces is the inner surface of your true physical skull encompassing all that you perceive, and beyond that skull is an unimaginably immense external world, of which the world you see around you is merely a miniature virtual reality replica. The external world and its phenomenal replica cannot be spatially superimposed, for one is inside your physical head, and the other is outside. Therefore the vivid spatial structure of this page that you perceive here in your hands is itself a pattern of activation within your physical brain, and the real paper of which it is a copy is out beyond your direct experience. Although this statement can only be true in a topological, rather than a strict topographical sense, this insight emphasizes the indisputable fact that no aspect of the external world can possibly appear in consciousness except by being represented explicitly in the brain. The existential vertigo occasioned by this concept of perception is so disorienting that only a handful of researchers have seriously entertained this notion or pursued its implications to its logical conclusion.
The key to this problem of fitting a spacious world into our brains is to notice that our experience is a 'view' of a spacious world. Things are separated by angles relative to an observation point. The separation of things by angles at a point means that we do not have a sense of depth that operates in the same way as our sense of things being separated in horizontal and vertical directions. Our sense of depth is based upon cues rather than an actual experience of the space between things. As an example, the stars in a planetarium appear incredibly distant even though they are on the ceiling of a room and would appear just as distant if viewed through virtual reality goggles. Visual depth in particular is a set of inferences, not an actual experience of the space between things in a radial direction outward from the observation point. This means that the things that are the spacious world of experience could be as small as just a few cubic millimetres of brain tissue!
If there is anything to be learned from the long history of the epistemological debate, it is that the issue is by no means simple or trivial, and that whatever is ultimately determined to be the truth of epistemology, we can be sure that it will do considerable violence to our common-sense view of things. This however is nothing new in science, for many of the greatest discoveries of science seemed initially to be so incredible that it took decades or even centuries before they were generally accepted. But accepted they were, eventually, and the reason why they were accepted was not because they had become any less incredible. In science, irrefutable evidence triumphs over incredibility, and this is exactly what gives science the power to discover unexpected or incredible truth.
We should remember that the following considerations are also part of informed commonsense.
- What we perceive is often dependent on our organs of perception and their condition. If we had compound eyes, as flies do, we would receive information about the visual world in a completely different form. If we had jaundice, things would look yellow. If we had other sense organs altogether, like infra-red detectors or echo-location devices, things might appear to us in ways which we can’t even imagine. (Let’s call this ‘perceptual variability’).
- Even our current perceptual apparatus is obviously not infallible. We are all familiar with perceptual illusions of various sorts. A major sub-classification of such illusions relates to whether the sensory organs are malfunctioning (as in jaundice) or whether they habitually misrepresent objects to us even in full working order (e.g. the Müller-Lyer illusion).
- Sometimes these perceptual illusions extend to cases where we think we perceive things which in fact aren’t there at all (rather than just misperceiving the properties of things which are there to be perceived). This is a more radical case of perceptual error than simple illusion. (Call it ‘hallucination’ or ‘perceptual delusion’).
The basic claim is that in cases of illusion or hallucination, the object that is immediately experienced or given has qualities that no public physical object in that situation has and so must be distinct from any such object. And in cases of perceptual relativity, since objects with different qualities are experienced from each of the different perspectives or under each of the relevant conditions, at most one of these various immediately experienced or given objects could be the physical object itself; it is then further argued that since there is no apparent experiential basis for regarding one out of any such set of related perceptual experiences as the one in which the relevant physical object is itself immediately experienced, the most reasonable conclusion is that the immediately experienced or given object is always distinct from the physical object. (Or, significantly more weakly, that there is no way to identify which, if any, of the immediately experienced objects is the physical object itself, so that the evidential force of the experience is in this respect the same in all cases, and it is epistemologically as though physical objects were never given, whether or not that is in fact the case.)
The naïve realist theory of perception is not threatened by these facts as they stand, for they are accommodated by that theory by virtue its very vagueness (or ‘open-texture’). The theory just isn’t specific or detailed enough to be refuted by the (actually very rare) occurrence of these cases.
The cogency of this argument has been challenged in a number of different ways, of which the most important are the following. First, it has been questioned whether there is any reason to suppose that in cases of these kinds there must be some object present that actually has the experienced qualities, which would then seemingly have to be something like a sense-datum. Why couldn't it be that the perceiver is simply in a state of seeming to experience such an object without any object actually being present? (See the discussion below of the adverbial theory.) Second, it has been argued that in cases of illusion and perceptual relativity at least, there is after all an object present, namely the relevant physical object, which is simply misperceived, for the most part in readily explainable ways. Why, it is asked, is there any need to suppose that an additional object is also involved? Third, the last part of the perceptual relativity version of the argument has been challenged, both (i) by questioning whether it is really true that there is no experiential difference between veridical and non-veridical perception; and (ii) by arguing that even if sense-data are experienced in non-veridical cases and even if the difference between veridical and non-veridical cases is, as claimed, experientially indiscernible, there is still no reason to think that sense-data are the immediate objects of experience in veridical cases. Fourth, various puzzling questions have been raised about the nature of sense-data: Do they exist through time or are they momentary? Can they exist when not being perceived? Are they public or private? Can they be themselves misperceived? Do they exist in minds or are they extra-mental, even if not physical? On the basis of the intractability of these questions, it has been argued that the conclusion of the argument from illusion is clearly unacceptable or even ultimately unintelligible, even in the absence of a clear diagnosis of exactly where and how it goes wrong.
AMAZING RANDI'S MILLION DOLLAR CHALLENGE CONTINUES!
It was announced about a year ago that the Amazing Randi's JREF organization was going to be disscontinuining the challenge, as it was a strain of both time and effort, but fear not those who would choose to break the laws of physics - the contest is not ending!
read more...
A Conversation Between Sigismundo Celine And Sigismundo Celine
I am Sigismundo Celine, not the man in the moon.
But then he was the man in the moon. Earth was a distant light in the sky far, far away. Various famous Lunatics were gathered around explaining moon-logic to him. “You never get ‘outside’. What you call ‘outside’ is another part of ‘inside’. See?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have never experienced another human being. I have experienced my impressions of them. Even in sexual intercourse I did not, strictly speaking, experience the other: I experienced my experience of her.”
“Then the whole universe is inside my head?”
“But your head is inside the universe. How do you explain that?”
“Well, then, I must have two heads, so to speak. The universe is inside my actually experienced head, but that head and the universe itself must both be inside my head logically necessary conceptual head. Is that it?”
“Yes. My conceptual head contains the universe, or a model of the universe to be strictly precise, and inside the that model is the model of my conceptual head, which is of course also my experienced head.”
“Careful now. You’re building up to an infinite regress.”
“I can see that, but it must be because consciousness itself is an infinite regress. I think that explains coincidences.”
“Are you quite sure you know what you are saying?”
“Yes. A coincidence is an isomorphism between the contents of my conceptual head, outside the universe, and my experienced head, inside the universe.”
“And why would there be such an isomorphism?”
“Because, damn it, my two heads are really only one head. I’ve just separated them for logical analysis.”
“But how can your conceptual head, outside the universe, be your experienced head, inside the universe?”
“Because, because . . .”
“Yes?”
“Because concepts are experiences, too. My conceptual head is experienced, and becomes my experienced head, whenever I think about mathematics or pure logic. Yes, by God. When I see a spotted dog, that is inside my experienced head, as Hume demonstrated. But when I think about the actual dog that creates the image in my experienced head, I must be expanding my conceptual head to include the actual dog, not the image of the dog. So the dog, and the rest of the universe, are actually in my conceptual head, not in my experienced head, which only has their images.”
“But then my experienced head is both inside and outside my conceptual head – which means it is both inside and outside my universe.”
“You’re still in the infinite regress.”
“I can appreciate that. By the way, am I talking to you or talking to myself?”
“Is there a difference?”
But then he was the man in the moon. Earth was a distant light in the sky far, far away. Various famous Lunatics were gathered around explaining moon-logic to him. “You never get ‘outside’. What you call ‘outside’ is another part of ‘inside’. See?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have never experienced another human being. I have experienced my impressions of them. Even in sexual intercourse I did not, strictly speaking, experience the other: I experienced my experience of her.”
“Then the whole universe is inside my head?”
“But your head is inside the universe. How do you explain that?”
“Well, then, I must have two heads, so to speak. The universe is inside my actually experienced head, but that head and the universe itself must both be inside my head logically necessary conceptual head. Is that it?”
“Yes. My conceptual head contains the universe, or a model of the universe to be strictly precise, and inside the that model is the model of my conceptual head, which is of course also my experienced head.”
“Careful now. You’re building up to an infinite regress.”
“I can see that, but it must be because consciousness itself is an infinite regress. I think that explains coincidences.”
“Are you quite sure you know what you are saying?”
“Yes. A coincidence is an isomorphism between the contents of my conceptual head, outside the universe, and my experienced head, inside the universe.”
“And why would there be such an isomorphism?”
“Because, damn it, my two heads are really only one head. I’ve just separated them for logical analysis.”
“But how can your conceptual head, outside the universe, be your experienced head, inside the universe?”
“Because, because . . .”
“Yes?”
“Because concepts are experiences, too. My conceptual head is experienced, and becomes my experienced head, whenever I think about mathematics or pure logic. Yes, by God. When I see a spotted dog, that is inside my experienced head, as Hume demonstrated. But when I think about the actual dog that creates the image in my experienced head, I must be expanding my conceptual head to include the actual dog, not the image of the dog. So the dog, and the rest of the universe, are actually in my conceptual head, not in my experienced head, which only has their images.”
“But then my experienced head is both inside and outside my conceptual head – which means it is both inside and outside my universe.”
“You’re still in the infinite regress.”
“I can appreciate that. By the way, am I talking to you or talking to myself?”
“Is there a difference?”
LEFT SIDE/RIGHT SIDE
common grey matter has two components:
PENTAL: The Pental is very observant, very quick, and likes to compartmentalize everything it witnesses; the Pental is also extremely arrogant. The Pental isn’t usually aware of the Pomal, and when it is aware of its existence is very jealous and manipulative. The Pental believes itself to be the entire universe, and in a sense it is correct. The Pental IS the entire universe, at least for each of us. Everything I see is part of the Pental, everything I think about is part of the Pental, and my Pental tells me how to see and think about things. When I look at a “tree” I only “know” it is a “tree” because my Pental tells me. The Pental would have you believe that it is the only thing which exists.POMAL: On the other hand, the Pomal has none of those qualities, in fact, to even attempt to describe the Pomal is doing it a grave disservice . . . any description or definition I gave would only be my Pental’s idea of the Pomal anyway, and would therefor be useless. The closest I will come to pinning anything on the Pomal would be to compare it with the “Tao” . . . but even that is off. The Pomal is the Pomal, and thats really all there is to say about it. Don’t let the lack of a definition trick you
into believing the Pomal is lesser than the Pental however, that’s just your Pental whispering to you. The Pomal rules dreams, intuition, synchronicity, tarot, the I-Ching, and magick – perhaps even quantum physics. Anytime the Pomal pops itself into your “normal world” the Pental will immediately pounce on it, and dominate it, to show you that it is boss, in this way the Pental shows that its power is over everything, and at the same time saves itself from destruction (despite what it believes, the Pental is very fragile, and can be disrupted easily by extreme emotional jolts, heavy drugs, meditation and yoga). The Pomal’s influence on the world of the Pental is subtle, but profound.
The Funeral of Oxo Marx
Oxo Marx's funeral was a small, sad affair, attended only by his mother, who was blind, deaf, dumb and not very good at crossword puzzles; his sister Oxa, who was on an oxygen mask, not because she needed it, but because she thought it was hip; his almost girlfriend Priscilla, who was now considering returning to the circus; his landlord, Willy Man, who had found the self-beheaded Oxo and considered him a pretty good tenant; and a mysterious woman in black, whose face was obscured by a thick veil.
The funeral was lead by the Good Reverend Ricardo, who Oxo's mother trusted with her life, and most of her savings. His speech was short, and to the point. "Let's be honest, people. Oxo wasn't an overly popular man. And, for good reasons. His breath was rank, his teeth had a fuzzy film, he made objectional comments on a routine basis, and besides all that he never liked reality tv. There were many things wrong with Oxo, and the world is probably better off without him. He beheaded himself, which to my knowledge has never been done before, this is itself an accomplishment, and probably his only one, so let us savour it. Uh . . . yeah, that's about it I suppose. Does anyone want to say a few words?"
Oxo's sister Oxa raised her hand wearily. The Good Reverend Ricardo stood aside as she staggered to the podium, and took three minutes to arrange her oxygen mask perfectly. Then, she cleared her throat, leaned down to the microphone and said: "Phlegm. Formica. Saliva. Bochi. Wang Doodle. Syphon. Thank you. These are. Just some words. I like to say. Thank you."
Oxa shuffled back to her seat and noisily rearranged her oxygen mask. There was some awkward silence before the Good Reverend Ricardo made his way back to the podium. Just before he spoke for the final time he turned away and took a nip from his flask. "Well," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess that's it. It actually took longer than I expected. Who wants to get drunk?"
The mourners wandered away from the grave, except for the mysterious woman in black, who lingered by the grave stone until the cemetery was empty, then she leaned down and whispered to the stone: "I just like to go to funerals."
Then she walked away, went home, and ate some white toast.The Problem of the Pimple
Oxo Marx awoke on a Monday morning with a large blemish on his left cheek. He felt it the moment his eyes opened; the muscles moving to let light into his brain sent a sharp, fierce pain throughout his face, and he let out a small sound: -Gahaaa.
Sitting up, within his sheets, he sought it out with his fingertips, delicately feeling out the soft flesh below his eye like a blindman might. When he touched the pimple another shockwave of pain fluttered through his face, causing his eyes to blink a few times without his permission. A tear rose to attention in his left eye, but didn't have the heart to jump.
-Goddammit, Oxo hissed through clenched teeth. -A pimple. A fucking pimple.
He was angry not only because it was Monday, a day he routinely loathed, but also because he was meant to have his first date with Priscilla later than evening. He had bought tickets for the circus. He didn't know if Priscilla liked the circus anymore, but she had been an elephant rider for years, and then quit one summer day to become a dental hygienist. Just like that. He hoped she still liked the circus. He hoped she wouldn't notice his pimple.
The pimple, not his pimple. He wasn't going to think of it as his, he had nothing to do with it, apart from the fact that it had decided to nest on his face.
-Goddammit, he hissed again, and got out of bed.
As he walked to the bathroom to survey the damage, he let out a fantastically long and loud fart. Feeling slightly better, he faced his reflection in the mirror. It was worse than he thought. The pimple was about the size of a quarter, red, pulsating, a drop of pus just starting to ooze from the head. 'A decidedly ugly pimple', he thought to himself. He laughed then. -As if there's an attractive pimple. he said to himself.
It was then that the pimple spoke.
YOU'RE NOT SO HOT YERSELF, YA KNOW. it said. He believed he even saw the pore open and close slightly as it spoke. The movement was painful, and uninvited. It was, to be quite frank, insulting. He was not used to being addressed by blemishes, and chose to ignore the remark.
Oxo turned on the water in the shower, and when it had reached the desired temperature, he stepped inside. The water smacked the pimple immediately, jolting him again, and Oxo turned his back to the hot stream. He cursed slightly under his breath, and the pimple throbbed. He felt it was gearing up to speak again, or had he imagined that? No blemish had ever spoken to him before, and he had never heard of a blemish speaking to anyone else. He had just gotten out of bed, after all, perhaps its the was the remains of a dream. A hypnogogic hallucination . . . or hypnopompic maybe, he could never remember which was which.
As he stood in the shower, feebly washing his chest with a sudsy rag, he went over what he had heard the pimple say. "You're not so hot yourself, you know." it had said. He washed the back of his neck. He knew he wasn't the best looking guy in the world, that's precisely why getting the pimple in the first place had angered him so much. He really didn't need the pimple to point it out to him. He washed his left arm. Oxo had never been particularly attractive, in fact he still harboured the memory of a girl on the bus telling him point blank "You're ugly" when he was fifteen. He hated that memory. He hated the memory, and hated that he remembered it so vividly, when he had forgotten so many other memories. He wasn't certain if the memories he had forgotten were good ones or bad ones, since he had forgotten them, but he secretly always assumed they were good ones. It would be just like him to only remember bad memories. He washed his genitals. The thing about that memory that bothered him most was what he had ended up responded at the time. He didn't like to think about it. Oxo washed the crack of his ass. Witty comebacks had never been his strong suit, nor had quick thinking on his feet. When she had told him he was ugly he hadn't known what to say, he was so blown away by the sheer naked honesty of the comment. He responded, quietly, "I know." and quickly taken a seat, his ears and neck turning red, and burning hot. Oxo washed the back of his neck again.
He thought of the memory again, saw the girl's face, her casual indifference, and started to become angry again, after fifteen years. He would love to meet the girl again. He would love to see her on the street, or on the bus, and have something to say back to her. Oxo was mindlessly running the rag back and forth across his chest now. He imagined bumping into her on the street and saying "Oh I remember you, you're the girl who said I was ugly. Well, did I mention that you have bad breath?" No no no.
He slapped the sudsy rag down to the bathtub. What a terrible retort. Even after fifteen years he couldn't think of anything good to say back to her. Say something hurtful, something that would make her think about the comment later, much later. Maybe for the rest of her life. Tell her that she has fat thighs or that she has . . . he paused, remembering. It occurred to Oxo that he couldn't actually remember the girl's face anymore, he could only remember his memory of it. She had blonde hair and blue eyeshadow, that much he knew, but would he be able to recognize her on the street if he saw her now? He didn't think so.
Oxo turned the water off, and stood dripping. He was going to be damned if he would spend another fifteen years wondering if he could have responded more appropriately to his pimple. Without drying, he stepped out of the bathtub and faced the mirror. He wiped away the fog that steam had left on the surface and looked at the pimple. It still throbbed.
-Say something, smartass. he said to it. It throbbed on, but made no reply. He looked down at it, another single drop of pus starting to ooze out of the head. -C'mon smart guy. Say something smart. I dare you.
The pus dribbled out of the head, but still no reply was forthcoming.
Oxo leaned in, toward the mirror, almost pressing his face against the reflection. -Say something you little fuck, I know you want to . . . come on!
And then the pimple spoke again. The pore opened and closed as it said YOU'RE UGLY. then began to giggle.
Oxo stared at it, dumbstruck. He had expected it to repeat its original comment. Standing there, still dripping wet and nude, Oxo began to shake with rage. Again! Again with that comment, and now from a pimple. A fucking pimple. That was the last straw.
He was getting rid of the pimple. The pimple was going to be gone, that's all there was to it. One way or another.
Oxo stalked off into his apartment, slammed open a closet, and began to rummage through a box in the bottom. He thought he could hear the pimple ask what he was doing, but kept lifting objects up, feeling beneath them and then dropping them back down and moving on. Finally, his finger tips found what he was looking for.
Oxo Marx pulled out his father's saw. -HA! he cried out in triumph. He walked into the kitchen, took out the cutting board he had never used, and placed it onto the counter. He turned his head, laid it onto the cutting board, and began to saw at his neck in long quick strokes. In three full slices his head came off from the stump and rolled into his sink.
In this way, the problem was solved.
Origins of Tarot
I have it on good authority from my contact on the 'inside' that the first recorded tarot deck was created by a Mrs. Eugenia Fish in the 800s (CE) but that she based the cards on an older Atlantean deck which was common knowledge at the time - the differences that Mrs. Fish brought to what is known now as the more or less common deck was the addition of the Fool card, which she included out of respect for her dead husband Roland Fish the Idiot of Ford, who was crushed beneath the largest crouton in history, which was being created for Emperor Charlemagne, to be added to the World's Biggest Salad, which was intended to be one of the Wonders of the World, but never really took off.
In addition to the adding of the Fool, Mrs. Fish also cut out some of the less popular Atlantean trumps, which were 8 - "The Hangnail", 12 - "Gut Rot", and the infinitely unpopular 15 - "Halitosis". I think most modern tarot scholars would admit that her changes were prudent.
Mrs. Fish didn't only invent modern tarot either, she also invented Backgammon, Monopoly, Strip poker, and Battleship. She truly was a Renaissance woman, before the Renaissance.
In addition to the adding of the Fool, Mrs. Fish also cut out some of the less popular Atlantean trumps, which were 8 - "The Hangnail", 12 - "Gut Rot", and the infinitely unpopular 15 - "Halitosis". I think most modern tarot scholars would admit that her changes were prudent.
Mrs. Fish didn't only invent modern tarot either, she also invented Backgammon, Monopoly, Strip poker, and Battleship. She truly was a Renaissance woman, before the Renaissance.
Modern Sisyphus
One night Quiche invited four friends over for some drinks and smoking. She invited Tab Matsui, who always worried about people and her boyfriend Don Mosher who was always worried about animals. She also invited Carmonita Scarfoni, who was always worried about life, and Toni Carboni, who was always worried about death.
Drinks were poured, spliffs were lit, and conversation ensued. Tab never took spliffs overly well and soon began to worry about the people who were being afflicted by natural disasters. "there's nothing you can do to prevent something like that," she said, and began to weep. Don, her boyfriend said "think about the animals though, they truly have no idea what is happening. it must all be a mystery to them. just like everything to us."
"what's a mystery?" Quiche asked. Carmonita said, "life is a mystery. how can we know what the point is?"
Toni said, "you can't know the point until you've died. it's too profound." Quiche began to giggle. Don turned to her, his drink splashing on the tabletop. "how can you laugh, Quiche? terrible things happen all the time. what's so funny?" Quiche spoke through a bouquet of laughter: "everything."
Tab asked: "you think it's funny that we don't know the meaning of life?"
Quiche answered, "no."
"well then, what's so funny?" Don asked. Quiche turned to him. She smiled. "i find it funny that you all believe there is a meaning to the universe. there isn't." Carmonita sat forward. "how can you dare to say that? if there isn't a meaning then there is no point in living!"
Quiche asked, "no?" and began to giggle again. Toni sat very quietly, and finally said "Quiche is right. there is no point. if you think about it, it's perfectly obvious. there is no meaning to life."
Tab began to weep again. "well then what are we living for?" Don answered: "nothing."
Carmonita's face lit up. "we should kill ourselves!" Toni turned to Carmonita. "yes, you're right. it's the only logical response to an illogical universe."
As the four prepared to kill themselves Don noticed Quiche was lighting up another joint. "what are you doing, Quiche? aren't you going to kill yourself with us?" Quiche laughed again. "no, i have no intention of killing myself."
Tab asked, "but why? it was you that made us realize the universe has no point."
Quiche shrugged. "so?" was all she replied.
Don turned away from Quiche. "forget her, she's just afraid. come on, let's get on with it, i can't stand this world another second." and he, and the other three killed themselves, and fell back away from the table. Their feet stuck up in the smoky air.
Quiche sat back, gathered their weed with hers, took another haul on the spliff, and said "this is the life . . ."
Bean
Phantly Roy Bean was a saloon-keeper, and arbitrary judge who called himself "The Law West of the Pecos". Discordian legend tells that Judge Roy Bean held court sessions in his saloon along the Rio Grande River in a desolate stretch of the Chihuahuan Desert of West Texas.
As a youth Judge Bean was accosted on a stretch of road by a group of bandits, (or native americans, legends differ on the details) he was attacked ruthlessly and left for dead amongst the cacti. He survived for fifteen days by murdering armadillos and cracking them open for moisture - on the fifteenth day the Judge had a vision of a woman with golden hair who called herself "the Heiress", she gave Bean the strength to pick himself up and make his way on foot to a nearby town called Langtry, which would be his home for the rest of his life. He believed the Heiress to be a goddess who had spared his life so that he may make the world over in his idea of her image.
Roy built a saloon he named the Heiress that also served as his home. He hung a tattered picture he himself had drawn of his vision behind the bar. Above the door he posted signs proclaiming "ICE COLD BEER" and "LAW WEST OF THE PECOS." From there Roy Bean dispensed liquor, justice, and legends, including that he himself had named the town in honor of the actress Lillie Langtry on the Heiress' bidding. He was elected to office in 1884 and re-elected many times.
His court methods were arbitrary and comical and inspired many outrageous tales. His court paraphernalia included only one revolver, one law book and a pet bear named Boopsie. It is said that, when performing marriage ceremonies, he always ended the service by saying "And may the Goddess have mercy on what is left of your soul."
Judge Roy Bean was a merciless dispenser of justice, often called "The Hangin' Judge, having sent a record 23,00 men and two women to the gallows during his career. He was quoted often to have said "and there's LOTS more where they came from!"
Actor Michael Richards probably would have liked Judge Roy Bean a hell of a lot, since one of Bean's most outrageous rulings occurred when an Irishman was accused of killing a Chinese American worker. Friends of the accused threatened to destroy the Heiress if the Irishman was found guilty. Court in session, Bean browsed through his law book, turning page after page, searching for a legal precedent. Finally, rapping his pistol on the bar, he proclaimed, "Gentlemen, I find the law very explicit on murdering your fellow man, but there's nothing here about killing a Chinaman. Case dismissed."
In 1896 Bean organized the world championship boxing title bout between Bob Fitzsimmons and Peter Maher on an carnival island in middle of the Rio Grande, because boxing matches were illegal in Texas. The resulting sport reports spread his fame throughout the United States, as well as convincing a young Don King to enter into the world of boxing.
As a youth Judge Bean was accosted on a stretch of road by a group of bandits, (or native americans, legends differ on the details) he was attacked ruthlessly and left for dead amongst the cacti. He survived for fifteen days by murdering armadillos and cracking them open for moisture - on the fifteenth day the Judge had a vision of a woman with golden hair who called herself "the Heiress", she gave Bean the strength to pick himself up and make his way on foot to a nearby town called Langtry, which would be his home for the rest of his life. He believed the Heiress to be a goddess who had spared his life so that he may make the world over in his idea of her image.
Roy built a saloon he named the Heiress that also served as his home. He hung a tattered picture he himself had drawn of his vision behind the bar. Above the door he posted signs proclaiming "ICE COLD BEER" and "LAW WEST OF THE PECOS." From there Roy Bean dispensed liquor, justice, and legends, including that he himself had named the town in honor of the actress Lillie Langtry on the Heiress' bidding. He was elected to office in 1884 and re-elected many times.
His court methods were arbitrary and comical and inspired many outrageous tales. His court paraphernalia included only one revolver, one law book and a pet bear named Boopsie. It is said that, when performing marriage ceremonies, he always ended the service by saying "And may the Goddess have mercy on what is left of your soul."
Judge Roy Bean was a merciless dispenser of justice, often called "The Hangin' Judge, having sent a record 23,00 men and two women to the gallows during his career. He was quoted often to have said "and there's LOTS more where they came from!"
Actor Michael Richards probably would have liked Judge Roy Bean a hell of a lot, since one of Bean's most outrageous rulings occurred when an Irishman was accused of killing a Chinese American worker. Friends of the accused threatened to destroy the Heiress if the Irishman was found guilty. Court in session, Bean browsed through his law book, turning page after page, searching for a legal precedent. Finally, rapping his pistol on the bar, he proclaimed, "Gentlemen, I find the law very explicit on murdering your fellow man, but there's nothing here about killing a Chinaman. Case dismissed."
In 1896 Bean organized the world championship boxing title bout between Bob Fitzsimmons and Peter Maher on an carnival island in middle of the Rio Grande, because boxing matches were illegal in Texas. The resulting sport reports spread his fame throughout the United States, as well as convincing a young Don King to enter into the world of boxing.
The Case Against Colour (or, NOTHING Is The New Pink)
Yesterday, I overheard a conversation between two homeless men who were waiting in a line for lunch at a nearby shelter. I was waiting for a bus on a bench close to where the two were standing, and happened to overhear one of them mention a 'golden apple'. This, of course, piqued my interest, so I began to listen to the two.
It turns out that the 'golden apple' the one man was referring to was what is commonly referred to as an 'Orange', but he is correct that at one time the fruit was called a golden apple - the conversation centered around the man holding the orange trying to convince the other man that the fruit he was holding was in fact blue, not orange.
"It's like this," said the man. "colour works in opposites. When you look at an Orange the light bounces off the Orange, and back to your eye. But, the thing is, the thing is this: the Orange absorbs all the colours of the white light, and only bounces back the colour orange to your eye. So, really, the Orange is any colour BUT orange."
"I don't get it." said the other man. "Why does it look orange to us, then?"
"Because that's the only colour bouncing back to your eye. It looks orange because orange is bouncing back. The eye works on opposites. We actually see things upside down, but our eyes correct the image so that we see it normally. And, we usually see in negative, but the eye corrects for that too."
"That's fucked." the other man answered aptly.
It was at this point that I turned to the two men. "I'll tell you what's more fucked. Colour doesn't exist at all."
They both just stared at me. I continued: "Think about this: Everything is made from molecules, right? Well, what colour are molecules?"
The one man shrugged, and the other said: "I don't know."
I winked. "Exactly. That's because molecules don't have any colour. And, if everything is made from molecules, and molecules have no colour, than de facto NOTHING has colour."
Before either man could respond I disappeared into a puff of smoke.
It turns out that the 'golden apple' the one man was referring to was what is commonly referred to as an 'Orange', but he is correct that at one time the fruit was called a golden apple - the conversation centered around the man holding the orange trying to convince the other man that the fruit he was holding was in fact blue, not orange.
"It's like this," said the man. "colour works in opposites. When you look at an Orange the light bounces off the Orange, and back to your eye. But, the thing is, the thing is this: the Orange absorbs all the colours of the white light, and only bounces back the colour orange to your eye. So, really, the Orange is any colour BUT orange."
"I don't get it." said the other man. "Why does it look orange to us, then?"
"Because that's the only colour bouncing back to your eye. It looks orange because orange is bouncing back. The eye works on opposites. We actually see things upside down, but our eyes correct the image so that we see it normally. And, we usually see in negative, but the eye corrects for that too."
"That's fucked." the other man answered aptly.
It was at this point that I turned to the two men. "I'll tell you what's more fucked. Colour doesn't exist at all."
They both just stared at me. I continued: "Think about this: Everything is made from molecules, right? Well, what colour are molecules?"
The one man shrugged, and the other said: "I don't know."
I winked. "Exactly. That's because molecules don't have any colour. And, if everything is made from molecules, and molecules have no colour, than de facto NOTHING has colour."
Before either man could respond I disappeared into a puff of smoke.
Comedy in Cinema is More Realistic Than Drama
In a word? Defecation.
Defecation is a large part of daily life, even if most of us would prefer to imagine it isn't. In fact there are those of us who would prefer to pretend it doesn't even occur. These people make the majorities of the dramas we see today.
In Ulysses James Joyce portrayed a man who urinated and defecated as any normal person would, in what was possibly the first truly realistic novel. The lesson, however, was not learned by the rest of the entertainment industry. It would still be at least thirty years until even a fart was heard on a movie screen, let alone any actual movements of bowels.
Today, defecation is still very taboo in films, unless it is a comedy. So, in this way, comedy is more realistic than the average drama. However, it should be noted that the only type of defecation allowable even in comedies is of the 'explosive diarrhea' type.
Planet YoYo
On this day, in 1854, a boy named Fudgio Montobono succeeded in securing a string all the way around the circumference of this glorified ball of mud we call Earth.
He then proceeded to use the planet like a yo-yo, for a record time of twenty-three seconds before the string broke, and he careened off into interstellar space.
The vast population at the time wasn't aware of this astounding feat, and as a result, to this day, most people are still unaware of what Fudgio Montobono achieved.
Hermit Day
Today is the day when all intelligent aspiring hermits remember the life of Paul of Latrus, and vow never to repeat his mistakes. Paul had always wanted to be a hermit, ever since he was knee-high to a pariah, and had been hording hermitty things in preparation for years: lanterns, furs, nuts and berries, pornographic etchings for those long winter solstice nights . . . not to mention dreaming up strange and glorious manifestations of his chosen deity's awesome powers; truly an important part of a hermit's repertoire.
He was more than ready for life in solitude when he finally waved goodbye to his family and friends and trudged up the mountain to the cave which would be his home, sanctuary, and bathroom for the rest of his life; but he hadn't anticipated the biggest problem that every prospective hermit faces: fame.
Paul found it very difficult to rinse his socks out in the nearby River Hotsauce without hordes of curious onlookers watching his every move; he was unable to meditate while standing on his head -as was his wont- without fans asking "does it make your face hot?" or "can you hear China now?"; he wasn't able to chant through the Trumps of the Tarot without people shouting out cards which didn't exist (like 'Halitosis' and 'Stubbed-Toe') in a deluded attempt to help him out. In short, his new career as a hermit was already the pits.
Paul had an idea. He decided the best way to get rid of the crowd of gawkers was to frighten them away with his awesome connection to the Higher Beings, and promptly began to start vomiting blood everywhere and anywhere he went. True, he was dizzy, but he felt that he would finally have the solitude he had constantly craved.
Did it work for Paul of Latrus, I can almost hear you ask . . . of course it didn't, did you read the opening sentence? His stardom, of course, rose to heights he had never dreamed of, and he was a constant attraction in his part of the land for the rest of his life, with an entire industry built up around him: selling candy apples, pony rides, face-painting, etc.
So, let this day be a lesson to all prospective hermits: if you are planning to walk off into the woods to become holy, KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, dammit!
He was more than ready for life in solitude when he finally waved goodbye to his family and friends and trudged up the mountain to the cave which would be his home, sanctuary, and bathroom for the rest of his life; but he hadn't anticipated the biggest problem that every prospective hermit faces: fame.
Paul found it very difficult to rinse his socks out in the nearby River Hotsauce without hordes of curious onlookers watching his every move; he was unable to meditate while standing on his head -as was his wont- without fans asking "does it make your face hot?" or "can you hear China now?"; he wasn't able to chant through the Trumps of the Tarot without people shouting out cards which didn't exist (like 'Halitosis' and 'Stubbed-Toe') in a deluded attempt to help him out. In short, his new career as a hermit was already the pits.
Paul had an idea. He decided the best way to get rid of the crowd of gawkers was to frighten them away with his awesome connection to the Higher Beings, and promptly began to start vomiting blood everywhere and anywhere he went. True, he was dizzy, but he felt that he would finally have the solitude he had constantly craved.
Did it work for Paul of Latrus, I can almost hear you ask . . . of course it didn't, did you read the opening sentence? His stardom, of course, rose to heights he had never dreamed of, and he was a constant attraction in his part of the land for the rest of his life, with an entire industry built up around him: selling candy apples, pony rides, face-painting, etc.
So, let this day be a lesson to all prospective hermits: if you are planning to walk off into the woods to become holy, KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, dammit!
Agamemnon and the Ill Wind
Some time after the ORIGINAL SNUB, which started the Trojan War, but before the war actually began, Agamemnon son of Atreus had collected his fleets at Aulis in Boeotia but found himself unable to sail for Troy due to a contrary wind.
Agamemnon clutched his long ivory scepter forged by the god Hephaestus who gave it to Hermes, who dropped it in a fountain when plonked at one of Dionysus’ parties, where it was subsequently found by Agamemnon’s grandfather Pelops, and was then grudgingly passed down to him. He clutched the scepter and shook with rage. He was consumed with revenge and honour, two ingredients which--when mixed--can become poison in a man’s blood. In desperation he called out for Calchas, who spoke with the gods.
‘Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods,’ Agamemnon said. ‘tell me which god is it who is pissed with me and has asked the ill wind to blow against the long-haired Achaeans so that they may not sail against the wife-robbing bastard people, the Trojans, who stole the completely foxy Helen from my brother Menalaus, King of Sparta?’
Calchas was not a stupid man; he knew that those who gave bad news to kings soon became deprived of what was most dear to them: their lives. Hades did not have a good rep at that time, some would argue it still doesn’t, but it beats Toledo Ohio in a pinch. Conversely, everyone knew that lying about the gods could get you in worse places than either Hades or Toledo. The choice was obvious. ‘Good King Agamemnon, it makes me sick to say it, but there are five gods angered at you.’
‘Five gods?’ sputtered Agamemnon. ‘But how? But why? But when?’
Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that swift and sleek Artemis is angered with you because she overheard you boast that you were a better marksman that she.’
Agamemnon said ‘Shit. It’s true. I did boast to be a better marksman than Artemis the swift and sleek. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Artemis ask in return?’
Calchas quivered in the hips as he said, ‘Only your first born daughter Iphigenia, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from her thighs burned in respect.’
‘Ach,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Gag. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’
Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that beautiful and nubile Aphrodite is angered with you because she heard you vowed to sacrifice the most beautiful treasure in your life in exchange for victory against the little Trojan shits.’
Agamemnon said ‘Aw fer fu-. Mmm. It’s true. I did vow to sacrifice the most beautiful treasure in my life in exchange for victory against the little Trojan shits. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Aphrodite ask in return?’
Calchas shivered in the groin as he said, ‘Only your wife Clytemnestra, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from her thighs burned in respect.’
‘Feh,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Gak. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’
Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that Zeus lord of the sky, had sent an omen to you of two young studly eagles meant to represent the Atridae, which tore to pieces a pregnant hare. White-armed Here, big mama of all the heavens and gueen of all the mothers was beyond pissed.’
Agamemnon said ‘Great Googly Moogly! Grr. It’s true. Zeus did send an omen of two young studly eagles meant to represent the Atridae, which tore to pieces a pregnant hare. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Here ask in return?’
Calchas jiggled in the gizzard as he said, ‘Only all your children, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from their thighs burned in respect.’
‘Bah!’ said Agamemnon. ‘Yuk. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet bitch, who speaks with the gods, tell me which other god is it who is pissed with me?’
Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that flashing-eyed Pallas Athene, unsleeping daughter of Big Daddy Zeus was offended by your father Atreus. He vowed to sacrifice a lamb to aegis-bearing Athene in exchange for success in battle, this he did not do.’
Agamemnon said ‘Mother fuck! Mmm. It’s true. My father was a complete dipshit, he did stuff like that all the time, one time he promised me half of Caledon- aw fuck it . . . Tell me Calchas, what does wise Pallas Athene ask in return?’
Calchas trembled in the pancreas as he said, ‘Only all your only son Orestes, sacrificed on an alter, the fat from their thighs burned in respect.’
‘Homina homina homina’ said Agamemnon. ‘Retch. That I cannot do. Calchas, you sweet slut, who speaks with the gods, tell me which is the last god who is pissed with me?’
Calchas said, ‘It is the truth Agamemnon son of Atreus that Eris also called Strife is offended by your feeding of hot dogs to your troops. Her only sustenance when she went into self-imposed exile after THE SNUB was the hot dog bun, it is an affront to the goddess of Discord and she smites you in bitter and somewhat petty retaliation. It’s boring on Mt. Olympus.’
Agamemnon said ‘Rats. It’s true. I feed my soldiers Armor Hot Dogs, they’re the dogs long-haired Achaeans love to bite. Tell me Calchas, what does wise Eris ask in return?’
Calchas twitched in the pineal gland as he said, ‘Only all the soldier’s hot dog buns, torched on an alter, in respect.’
‘Uh uh.’ said Agamemnon. ‘No way. That I cannot do. They would eat me alive. Besides, it is never that easy.’
Agamemnon pondered all the gods requests and wondered which would be the least disastrous for him. The easiest in the eyes of a misogynist bronze era Greek was obviously the sacrifice of his eldest daughter Iphigenia, but once she was dead and cut up for sacrifice Agamemnon and Calchas realized they had no kindling. The only thing flammable to start the pyre was the hot dog buns.
Agamemnon broke his scepter across his knee, ‘This is ridiculous! I promised my soldiers those buns, but if I must, I must . . . burn the buns, Calchas.’
The moment Calchas lit the buns the wind began to change. Agamemnon felt sick, and tried to convince himself that the fat of Iphigenia’s thighs was already starting to burn, but he knew in his heart the truth. Despite that, he turned to Calchas ‘A cheer for swift and sleek Artemis who granted muh-mercy on the long-haired Achaeans.’
A loud cackle from high above startled Agamemnon and Calchas as they toasted, but neither of them asked from whence it came.
Emotion: Intellect's Retarded Little Brother
Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary.
Mark Twain
The emotions aren't always immediately subject to reason, but they are always immediately subject to action.
William James
You are, of course, a robot. Don't bother denying it. If you weren't, you would have complete control of your entire body at all times, both physical aspects and mental. But, you do not. You are governed to varying degrees by a strange group we call 'Emotions'.
These emotions sit inside your skull watching everything you do and edit the information before processing it through your brain. No information reaches you unaltered.
For this reason all intelligence you receive from the outside world is skewed in some direction away from what we often refer to as 'objective truth'. The old adage 'garbage in, garbage out' is especially relevant in this situation, and because of this skewed view we always react to situations in a slightly off-kilter manner; some more inaccurately than others, but none are immune.
"Is there any hope of eradicating this disease and becoming like Vulcans?" I hear you ask. Probably not. In fact, I don't think I would want to live in a world completely devoid of emotions. Complete lack of emotion is just as dangerous as being completely controlled by emotion.
"So what can we do?" I hear you ask. Become aware of your emotions. Observe your emotions and how they manipulate you. Go out and get in an argument. Get into a fist fight. See how you react when a fist comes into contact with your jaw. Were you able to think clearly afterwards?
The more you observe your emotions and become familiar with them the easier it will be to identify them in a hostile situation. Once you are keenly aware of your emotions it is much easier to observe them with something close to objectivity. Once you can observe the emotions with something close to objectivity it will be much harder for them to completely take over your mind and become blinded by them.
Mark Twain
The emotions aren't always immediately subject to reason, but they are always immediately subject to action.
William James
You are, of course, a robot. Don't bother denying it. If you weren't, you would have complete control of your entire body at all times, both physical aspects and mental. But, you do not. You are governed to varying degrees by a strange group we call 'Emotions'.
These emotions sit inside your skull watching everything you do and edit the information before processing it through your brain. No information reaches you unaltered.
For this reason all intelligence you receive from the outside world is skewed in some direction away from what we often refer to as 'objective truth'. The old adage 'garbage in, garbage out' is especially relevant in this situation, and because of this skewed view we always react to situations in a slightly off-kilter manner; some more inaccurately than others, but none are immune.
"Is there any hope of eradicating this disease and becoming like Vulcans?" I hear you ask. Probably not. In fact, I don't think I would want to live in a world completely devoid of emotions. Complete lack of emotion is just as dangerous as being completely controlled by emotion.
"So what can we do?" I hear you ask. Become aware of your emotions. Observe your emotions and how they manipulate you. Go out and get in an argument. Get into a fist fight. See how you react when a fist comes into contact with your jaw. Were you able to think clearly afterwards?
The more you observe your emotions and become familiar with them the easier it will be to identify them in a hostile situation. Once you are keenly aware of your emotions it is much easier to observe them with something close to objectivity. Once you can observe the emotions with something close to objectivity it will be much harder for them to completely take over your mind and become blinded by them.
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