I find it highly unlikely that this young Israeli soldier by the name of Shalit was abducted by Palestinians. In the calculus of war, it makes no strategic sense. This appears to be a classic false-flag operation. If this kid was abducted at all, it was likely by Israelis or their Palestinian dupe-agents.
The pathos is now set. Israel gets to execute its show. "Look at our suffering! We're killing those Palestinians because of their affront to decency!"
The next phase of the Great Hahperdidah Wars is started. And it was started by Israel. Just so you know...
By deception do we wage war. You too, huh?
-----
And I find it unlikely that those two American soldiers were abducted and killed by "insurgents." Israel needed them dead for the same reason.
The Eye of Sauron has alighted upon you...
Like I said, it'll be fun watching the FakeState of Israel get erased. [While it is true that an "ancestral homeland" founded solely for the taking of others' property has no right to exist, the Palestinians must allow the Jewish settlers safe passage from that territory. Otherwise they will have no moral standing to reclaim that land.]
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Chris King Pop Icon's Greatest Hits
This one from the "cocksucking and killing" line of jokes. (I maintain that the two essential elements of post-9/11 comedy are cocksucking and killing; they describe everything that's happening in the world.)
Originally delivered about six months ago:
------------
[Visualize me seated at a grand piano on stage, with patriotic bunting all 'round, me dressed with a bow tie, doing my political commentary.]
TV commercial opens with a voiceover: "You, too, can own this special collection of Chris King Pop Icon's Greatest Hits."
[Shot of me with a Donnie Darko look on my face, fists banging down on the keys in some discordant train wreck. The most perfect manifestation of collective American derangement, I sing:]
"George. Bush. sucks. cocks. and. takes-it in-the-ass!"
"I. am. in-sane; can't-get-down. with-your-bullshit!" [I grin at the camera with a "Mommy, mommy, look at me!" kind of expression on my face. I had long since lost the ability to get down with my host society's madness, so I took it up myself. "I can play the piano!"]
[Scene transitions to me at another performance. Still wearing the bow tie. Different shirt, though. Standing at the piano this time, my feet are dancing, playing is skilled and professional, some kind of ragtime number or whatever:]
"Camptown races sing that song. Doo dah, doo dah."
"I am so. gonna get killed, all the live-long day, hey!" [I hurry to the side of the piano and take a gracious bow as if I had just concluded an hour-long concerto. I smile triumphantly and wait patiently for applause which I will not get.]
[Transitions to another number, another performance, dark and foreboding notes, single stabbed notes that are allowed to hang in the air until they rot:]
"I. am. iron. man!"
"Bair, nair, nair, nair, nair,
dunna nunna nunna nunna nuh nuh nuh!"
"Born in a. mag-net-ic field! He is gon-na kick your ass-es!"
[Shot of a nonplussed audience. They smile nervously. Commercial ends with ordering information for this limited-time offer. Nineteen ninety-five, plus shipping and handling.]
Originally delivered about six months ago:
------------
[Visualize me seated at a grand piano on stage, with patriotic bunting all 'round, me dressed with a bow tie, doing my political commentary.]
TV commercial opens with a voiceover: "You, too, can own this special collection of Chris King Pop Icon's Greatest Hits."
[Shot of me with a Donnie Darko look on my face, fists banging down on the keys in some discordant train wreck. The most perfect manifestation of collective American derangement, I sing:]
"George. Bush. sucks. cocks. and. takes-it in-the-ass!"
"I. am. in-sane; can't-get-down. with-your-bullshit!" [I grin at the camera with a "Mommy, mommy, look at me!" kind of expression on my face. I had long since lost the ability to get down with my host society's madness, so I took it up myself. "I can play the piano!"]
[Scene transitions to me at another performance. Still wearing the bow tie. Different shirt, though. Standing at the piano this time, my feet are dancing, playing is skilled and professional, some kind of ragtime number or whatever:]
"Camptown races sing that song. Doo dah, doo dah."
"I am so. gonna get killed, all the live-long day, hey!" [I hurry to the side of the piano and take a gracious bow as if I had just concluded an hour-long concerto. I smile triumphantly and wait patiently for applause which I will not get.]
[Transitions to another number, another performance, dark and foreboding notes, single stabbed notes that are allowed to hang in the air until they rot:]
"I. am. iron. man!"
"Bair, nair, nair, nair, nair,
dunna nunna nunna nunna nuh nuh nuh!"
"Born in a. mag-net-ic field! He is gon-na kick your ass-es!"
[Shot of a nonplussed audience. They smile nervously. Commercial ends with ordering information for this limited-time offer. Nineteen ninety-five, plus shipping and handling.]
Friday, June 30, 2006
Chris, why do you do what you do?
I --like those who would enslave you-- am a fallen 4-space entity. The only way I can earn my ticket home is to defeat the HyperSmart. You don't deserve what they have in store for you.
I have no other motive. So don't think that I do.
I want to go home. I wouldn't be happy otherwise.
I have no other motive. So don't think that I do.
I want to go home. I wouldn't be happy otherwise.
Oopsie.
It's fun watching the federal legislature and judiciary make like they're relevant.
You can make noises with your mouth holes all you want. You can thrust your batons in the air as you parade around your respective chambers. It makes no difference.
Because you don't have the guns. And you've signed away your control over them.
Shhh, little ones. Go back to talking about video games. Pray tell: Whatever do you think?...
You can make noises with your mouth holes all you want. You can thrust your batons in the air as you parade around your respective chambers. It makes no difference.
Because you don't have the guns. And you've signed away your control over them.
Shhh, little ones. Go back to talking about video games. Pray tell: Whatever do you think?...
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
My Proper Name
When it comes time for my enemies to attempt to engage me, I would ask that I be referred to as "Chris King Pop Icon." I have spent a lot of time and effort legitimizing that name. And its selection was deliberate.
My enemies have no complaint with Chris King; he would have passed unnoticed, working as a cable man or as a gas station clerk. It is Chris King Pop Icon they have a problem with. And that is how I will be known.
My enemies have no complaint with Chris King; he would have passed unnoticed, working as a cable man or as a gas station clerk. It is Chris King Pop Icon they have a problem with. And that is how I will be known.
Yahoo! Music: Stem/Long Stem - Transmission 2 by DJ Shadow
Chris King Pop Icon (nowhere@ckpi.com) has sent you a page from the Yahoo! Music Engine. Stem/Long Stem - Transmission 2 by DJ Shadow
http://yme.music.yahoo.com/ymeNav/ymu/song/1238658
Personal message:
Use the Yahoo! Music Engine to discover and buy new music, listen to radio and more. Don't have the Yahoo! Music Engine? Get it Now. It's free. http://music.yahoo.com/musicengine
Why are you talking?
As you now likely understand, your society is under attack by those who employ government. Under the pretext of prosecuting a War on Terror, they have spared themselves the burden of public trials of their enemies; they reserve the right to arrest and detain whomever they wish, for as long as they like. The justice system in this country no longer exists. All trials are media showpieces. Evidence is not relevant.
It is a dire state of affairs when your society's defense attorneys are comedians.*
Look how far you've come... It's probably safe to take down the tattered American flag from your car antenna, sit down, and shut the fuck up.
Those of us who know better now have to clean this shithole out...so that your type will have something worth hooting and hollering about as you wave your ninety-nine-cent flag.
----------
*It is true that the heavy lifting is done by journalists in the modern media, and that your defense comedians take their cue from them. It is we who must popularize it by casting those truths in entertaining forms, however.
It is a dire state of affairs when your society's defense attorneys are comedians.*
Look how far you've come... It's probably safe to take down the tattered American flag from your car antenna, sit down, and shut the fuck up.
Those of us who know better now have to clean this shithole out...so that your type will have something worth hooting and hollering about as you wave your ninety-nine-cent flag.
----------
*It is true that the heavy lifting is done by journalists in the modern media, and that your defense comedians take their cue from them. It is we who must popularize it by casting those truths in entertaining forms, however.
Bar Joke
[I've decided that it's fun to trot out some old jokes. This one was originally delivered as part of my first text-based show, "One-Man Sleeper Cell." This show was delivered to a small audience in Orlando. I didn't have a blog then, so I sent all the material for this show to a contact at the Orlando Weekly. That show propagated outside that newsroom and went who-knows-how-far. We'll use this in the "Here I Am" show.]
There is the type of joke known as a "bar" joke. "Guy walks into a bar..." I never trafficked in them, but I understand it's a rite of passage, so here's my first stab at it:
Two niggers,... a kike and a fag walk into a bar. The bar is already populated with broads and spics, but they don't really figure into this joke.
The fag says, "Bartendress, I'd like a Cosmo, and my friends here--"
"Shut up, bitch," says a nigger, "Get on my dick! And you [waving at the ho behind the bar] get me a gin and juice."
"Now that's hardly any way to talk to the wait staff," tutors the kike. "I think--"
"Who gives a shit what you think, you hook-nosed Hebe," says the other nigger with his splayed-fingered, cross-bodied hand gesture, "You've always got your claws into everything. And you poisoned my crown air freshener. So shut the fuck up before I twist your balls off and shove 'em up your ass. With a nice new shiny penny!"
"Listen, you filthy niggers," interjects the fag, "can we at least get our drinks?"
"I hate fags," a background broad whispers. "Yeah? I hate kikes _and_ niggers. It's true about the air freshener, you know," replies the spic.
Joke ends unceremoniously to dead air. Ta Da! A nonplussed audience smiles nervously...
There is the type of joke known as a "bar" joke. "Guy walks into a bar..." I never trafficked in them, but I understand it's a rite of passage, so here's my first stab at it:
Two niggers,... a kike and a fag walk into a bar. The bar is already populated with broads and spics, but they don't really figure into this joke.
The fag says, "Bartendress, I'd like a Cosmo, and my friends here--"
"Shut up, bitch," says a nigger, "Get on my dick! And you [waving at the ho behind the bar] get me a gin and juice."
"Now that's hardly any way to talk to the wait staff," tutors the kike. "I think--"
"Who gives a shit what you think, you hook-nosed Hebe," says the other nigger with his splayed-fingered, cross-bodied hand gesture, "You've always got your claws into everything. And you poisoned my crown air freshener. So shut the fuck up before I twist your balls off and shove 'em up your ass. With a nice new shiny penny!"
"Listen, you filthy niggers," interjects the fag, "can we at least get our drinks?"
"I hate fags," a background broad whispers. "Yeah? I hate kikes _and_ niggers. It's true about the air freshener, you know," replies the spic.
Joke ends unceremoniously to dead air. Ta Da! A nonplussed audience smiles nervously...
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Turf War
[This isn't quite timely anymore, but I think it's a decent proto-joke that deserves to be seen.]
So Bill Kristol thinks that George Bush would make a good "Supreme Leader." Of what? Cucka Land?
Umm, hell-o?... I'm the Supreme Ruler of 3-Space? There's going to be a conflict here...
So Bill Kristol thinks that George Bush would make a good "Supreme Leader." Of what? Cucka Land?
Umm, hell-o?... I'm the Supreme Ruler of 3-Space? There's going to be a conflict here...
New York Times versus the HyperSmart
So the New York Times has struck a nerve...
George Bush was on TV, moving his mouth hole in denunciation of this affront to "National Security" and wags on FreeRepublic.com are calling for the arrest and deaths of Times editors and writers.
Come with me, young ones... Allow me to show you an underworld, your knowledge of which comes only from stories...
There exists an enormous underground, one that lies beneath that of respectable society. As members of the above-world, you are not allowed to go there --lest you lose your credentials to move in polite society. But because I am not respectable --as I have long labored to convince you-- I travel there routinely.
It's much like an underground rave. Everyone's on something. The music is loud and the pulsating, spinning spotlights are blinding. Everyone's copping a feel from everyone else. In the tortured or beatific faces of those who travel in this forbidden world, you will see both God and the devil. And there's always drugs to help you along. You can have a great time there, but be careful what you ingest...
Oh, you can buy psychic pills and free energy machines and UFOs and the reptile people and massive conspiracies and time travel and remote viewing and innumerable other forms of mind-blowing information. Some will lead to epiphanies, allowing you to glimpse the very face of God. Others are designed to destroy you with their falsity. I've tried many, but not all; I haven't had time yet. And I won't tell you which are true and which are lies. Let's just say I'm lucky to be alive. So take my advice...
You may regard the human population of the earth to be always threatened by enslavement by the HyperSmart. The HyperSmart use government to do this. They use their sophistic arguments to convince you to abandon a minimalist form of government. They then convince you to build armies and a big government and give them powers to eavesdrop on your communications and to monitor your movements of money and to ship you off to be tortured and killed. By themselves, they are absolutely powerless. You give them all the power they have.
Their agents walk among you. They speak like they are members of your tribe, but they are not. They are paid shills of the HyperSmart. They sometimes occupy positions in newspapers, to the detriment of their host. The Times has had its share of these. And television is full of them. They attempt to guide popular opinion by issuing what appear to be "organic" sentiments. They are not organic; they were not generated within the tribe. They come from without --from their HyperSmart employers.
You won't ever identify the HyperSmart. So don't bother. It's a fool's errand. So don't you ever think that you can have your big government and have it remain safe in your own hands.
The website known as freerepublic.com is populated by agents of the HyperSmart. Their job is to churn out what purports to be organic sentiment. It's not. So don't listen to them. And for all you know, the comments on that site could be posted by the same twenty-year-old know-nothing housed in a small room at the NSA.
Why, even little old me was once smeared on freerepublic, back when I did my pop-up war video. The comments are predictable in their attempts to portray me as "liberal." Have I told you that Democrats are dipshits? Or that Republicans are retards? I advocate a return to the Ten Commandments, for chrissake; I out right-wing the right wing. Come on, guys; come up with a better smear. Don't I warrant it? This is a slap in the face:
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/fr/1143601/posts
Let me tell you how the HyperSmart and their shills operate. Because what they're up to is no good, they cannot function in the light of day. They are completely powerless when exposed as liars. You must call attention to yourself, and then engage them... They can't fight a clean fight. Do not debate the merits of the lies. Expose them as the lies that they are.
There may be some journalistic spirit in those papers yet. But you don't travel in that underworld. That's where I come in. I'm here to tell you what you're truly up against.
So if you choose to remain in the ring, you had better make lots of noise, call the tribe's attention to yourselves, and then set about disarming those shills. It's as easy as that. But if you don't fully commit... if you don't kick the door down and come out guns a-blazin, destroying every lie in sight... you're dead meat. And you'll be dead meat because the tribe will not be aware that they're being lied to...because you didn't have the balls to call a lie a lie.
Forgive the presumption, but I've been studying the HyperSmart for some time now. I'll whisper in your ear now and again. I'm morally obligated to; you are about to enter a very dangerous underworld. You will want a guide...
And you... Have I told you that I'm coming for you?
George Bush was on TV, moving his mouth hole in denunciation of this affront to "National Security" and wags on FreeRepublic.com are calling for the arrest and deaths of Times editors and writers.
Come with me, young ones... Allow me to show you an underworld, your knowledge of which comes only from stories...
There exists an enormous underground, one that lies beneath that of respectable society. As members of the above-world, you are not allowed to go there --lest you lose your credentials to move in polite society. But because I am not respectable --as I have long labored to convince you-- I travel there routinely.
It's much like an underground rave. Everyone's on something. The music is loud and the pulsating, spinning spotlights are blinding. Everyone's copping a feel from everyone else. In the tortured or beatific faces of those who travel in this forbidden world, you will see both God and the devil. And there's always drugs to help you along. You can have a great time there, but be careful what you ingest...
Oh, you can buy psychic pills and free energy machines and UFOs and the reptile people and massive conspiracies and time travel and remote viewing and innumerable other forms of mind-blowing information. Some will lead to epiphanies, allowing you to glimpse the very face of God. Others are designed to destroy you with their falsity. I've tried many, but not all; I haven't had time yet. And I won't tell you which are true and which are lies. Let's just say I'm lucky to be alive. So take my advice...
You may regard the human population of the earth to be always threatened by enslavement by the HyperSmart. The HyperSmart use government to do this. They use their sophistic arguments to convince you to abandon a minimalist form of government. They then convince you to build armies and a big government and give them powers to eavesdrop on your communications and to monitor your movements of money and to ship you off to be tortured and killed. By themselves, they are absolutely powerless. You give them all the power they have.
Their agents walk among you. They speak like they are members of your tribe, but they are not. They are paid shills of the HyperSmart. They sometimes occupy positions in newspapers, to the detriment of their host. The Times has had its share of these. And television is full of them. They attempt to guide popular opinion by issuing what appear to be "organic" sentiments. They are not organic; they were not generated within the tribe. They come from without --from their HyperSmart employers.
You won't ever identify the HyperSmart. So don't bother. It's a fool's errand. So don't you ever think that you can have your big government and have it remain safe in your own hands.
The website known as freerepublic.com is populated by agents of the HyperSmart. Their job is to churn out what purports to be organic sentiment. It's not. So don't listen to them. And for all you know, the comments on that site could be posted by the same twenty-year-old know-nothing housed in a small room at the NSA.
Why, even little old me was once smeared on freerepublic, back when I did my pop-up war video. The comments are predictable in their attempts to portray me as "liberal." Have I told you that Democrats are dipshits? Or that Republicans are retards? I advocate a return to the Ten Commandments, for chrissake; I out right-wing the right wing. Come on, guys; come up with a better smear. Don't I warrant it? This is a slap in the face:
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/fr/1143601/posts
Let me tell you how the HyperSmart and their shills operate. Because what they're up to is no good, they cannot function in the light of day. They are completely powerless when exposed as liars. You must call attention to yourself, and then engage them... They can't fight a clean fight. Do not debate the merits of the lies. Expose them as the lies that they are.
There may be some journalistic spirit in those papers yet. But you don't travel in that underworld. That's where I come in. I'm here to tell you what you're truly up against.
So if you choose to remain in the ring, you had better make lots of noise, call the tribe's attention to yourselves, and then set about disarming those shills. It's as easy as that. But if you don't fully commit... if you don't kick the door down and come out guns a-blazin, destroying every lie in sight... you're dead meat. And you'll be dead meat because the tribe will not be aware that they're being lied to...because you didn't have the balls to call a lie a lie.
Forgive the presumption, but I've been studying the HyperSmart for some time now. I'll whisper in your ear now and again. I'm morally obligated to; you are about to enter a very dangerous underworld. You will want a guide...
And you... Have I told you that I'm coming for you?
Monday, June 26, 2006
What's with all the N-words?!
[Originally written about six months ago, when some television watchers in my audience started to cluck at my use of the word 'nigger.' This bears trotting out again.]
My apartment building in Harlem was of post-war construction, brick, six floors. The lobby led to an elevator, or to stairways at either side, left and right. The rickety economics of the time did allow a few architectural flourishes: The balusters of the railings may have been a bit ornate, and the floor was nicely tiled.
In the winter, I would hang out in the stairwell and smoke and pretend I was dangerous. (My roommate didn't let me smoke in the apartment. And I certainly wasn't going outside. Inconsiderate to smoke in the stairwell? Maybe... but the odor was nothing compared to the fish heads and curry that normally polluted the place.)
When it was bitterly cold, sometimes a homeless person would take refuge in the stairwell. If they didn't cause a problem, I think no one really minded.
I came home one evening to find a guy seated on the lower step of the stairwell of the third floor. "Oh, ah...I'm just waitin for Jimmy," he explained. No he wasn't. There was no Jimmy lived there. I knew most everyone in the building. He just wanted to hang out for a while. And I didn't have a problem with that, as it was about ten below zero outside.
(You need to understand stairwells: The building had six floors, each of which was a long hallway. Apartments on either side of the hallway. Stairs at each end. To ascend a floor, you went up one stairway with a dozen steps, stopped, turned left on this four foot-wide landing, and went up another dozen steps.)
This guy was hanging out on the bottom step --and not the more secluded landing-- for a reason: If someone wanted to jump you, they could take you from above while their buddy came at you from below. But if you stayed on the bottom step, you had three possible avenues of escape: Up the stairs, down the stairs, or down the hallway. This guy was no dummy.
"Hey, no problem," I said. "Take it easy." I went into my apartment.
It wasn't long before I would want a cigarette. I came out of my door with a pack of cigarettes and two beers. I walked down the hallway toward this guy. He eyed me, not knowing what I was up to. Most white dudes would have gone to the other stairwell. 'What's this dude want with me?' [Threat assessment begins.]
"Aw, man, I need a cigarette," I lamented. "And I thought you might enjoy a beer." He seemed surprised, but he took it anyway. Already we had something in common: Never turn down a free beer, especially a quality Czech model. (Not that I think he knew or cared.)
He still eyed me suspiciously because, as he had learned, and as I would come to know, white people lie. They're always up to something.
Oh, I was up to something all right: I wanted the company. I fancied myself the loneliest person in the world. This was a comfortable, self-indulgent pastime of mine. He soon understood that conversation was all I wanted, and he relaxed.
He told me of how he had been in the Army, and then later tried to make it as a civilian, and had been busted with some coke, and went to jail. I'm guessing he couldn't afford the competent representation that would have gotten your typical snot-nosed yuppie out of jail in six hours.
And now that he had a prison record, he couldn't work. He couldn't work because your litigious society has made it an economically unappealing prospect for an employer to hire him. He's got a record... You people file lawsuits like they're some novel invention... And so the employer doesn't want the trouble. "Your employee spat in my latte! He's an ex-felon, and you should have known this! I'm suing you because he's wounded my latte-drinking ability for the rest of my life! How will I ever pass the time with my mall-shopping friends?!"
You might say: "Hmm! He shouldn't have been doing coke in the first place. Serves him right." Yeah, you're right... We should all pay for a prescription first... Gotta go through the gatekeepers, you know... Can't cheat someone out of their cut...
.
"Johnny," says Mommy as she coaxes a dollop of potatoes from the serving spoon, "I don't want you listening to that Chris King Pop Icon. He is...profane...and he...uses the n-word. I understand what he's trying to say, but I don't like the n-word. Isn't that right, Honey?"
"That's right, Darling," says Honey, not really sure what his wife just asked him. He's watching television. He's watching the news. Something about mandatory minimum jail sentences.
Mommy/Darling takes note of the news, too. She starts muttering... "Put those fuckin niggers in jail where they belong, those fuckin animals." A niggerface appears on the TV, shackles on his hands. She springs to her feet as if she's going to hurl venom at her most hated professional wrestling star. She spills the gravy. "Kill that fuckin nigger! Fuckin apes! One of them spit in my latte!"
.
Yours is, I would argue, at once the most morally bankrupt and the least intellectually discerning society the world has ever known. Couple this with your economic and military might and your desire to tutor the world in matters of rightness, and you have the most farcical display ever, were it not so dangerous.
You talk a good game, I'll give you that.
Your society will destroy me. I get that part already. I've known that from the moment I first took to a stage, intent to do the material that I felt needed doing. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I would rather be destroyed by your degenerate society than to be judged complicit with it. So I can't lose...
And know that the Future People and I are laughing our asses off at you. So thanks for the material... You make this pretty easy.
My apartment building in Harlem was of post-war construction, brick, six floors. The lobby led to an elevator, or to stairways at either side, left and right. The rickety economics of the time did allow a few architectural flourishes: The balusters of the railings may have been a bit ornate, and the floor was nicely tiled.
In the winter, I would hang out in the stairwell and smoke and pretend I was dangerous. (My roommate didn't let me smoke in the apartment. And I certainly wasn't going outside. Inconsiderate to smoke in the stairwell? Maybe... but the odor was nothing compared to the fish heads and curry that normally polluted the place.)
When it was bitterly cold, sometimes a homeless person would take refuge in the stairwell. If they didn't cause a problem, I think no one really minded.
I came home one evening to find a guy seated on the lower step of the stairwell of the third floor. "Oh, ah...I'm just waitin for Jimmy," he explained. No he wasn't. There was no Jimmy lived there. I knew most everyone in the building. He just wanted to hang out for a while. And I didn't have a problem with that, as it was about ten below zero outside.
(You need to understand stairwells: The building had six floors, each of which was a long hallway. Apartments on either side of the hallway. Stairs at each end. To ascend a floor, you went up one stairway with a dozen steps, stopped, turned left on this four foot-wide landing, and went up another dozen steps.)
This guy was hanging out on the bottom step --and not the more secluded landing-- for a reason: If someone wanted to jump you, they could take you from above while their buddy came at you from below. But if you stayed on the bottom step, you had three possible avenues of escape: Up the stairs, down the stairs, or down the hallway. This guy was no dummy.
"Hey, no problem," I said. "Take it easy." I went into my apartment.
It wasn't long before I would want a cigarette. I came out of my door with a pack of cigarettes and two beers. I walked down the hallway toward this guy. He eyed me, not knowing what I was up to. Most white dudes would have gone to the other stairwell. 'What's this dude want with me?' [Threat assessment begins.]
"Aw, man, I need a cigarette," I lamented. "And I thought you might enjoy a beer." He seemed surprised, but he took it anyway. Already we had something in common: Never turn down a free beer, especially a quality Czech model. (Not that I think he knew or cared.)
He still eyed me suspiciously because, as he had learned, and as I would come to know, white people lie. They're always up to something.
Oh, I was up to something all right: I wanted the company. I fancied myself the loneliest person in the world. This was a comfortable, self-indulgent pastime of mine. He soon understood that conversation was all I wanted, and he relaxed.
He told me of how he had been in the Army, and then later tried to make it as a civilian, and had been busted with some coke, and went to jail. I'm guessing he couldn't afford the competent representation that would have gotten your typical snot-nosed yuppie out of jail in six hours.
And now that he had a prison record, he couldn't work. He couldn't work because your litigious society has made it an economically unappealing prospect for an employer to hire him. He's got a record... You people file lawsuits like they're some novel invention... And so the employer doesn't want the trouble. "Your employee spat in my latte! He's an ex-felon, and you should have known this! I'm suing you because he's wounded my latte-drinking ability for the rest of my life! How will I ever pass the time with my mall-shopping friends?!"
You might say: "Hmm! He shouldn't have been doing coke in the first place. Serves him right." Yeah, you're right... We should all pay for a prescription first... Gotta go through the gatekeepers, you know... Can't cheat someone out of their cut...
.
"Johnny," says Mommy as she coaxes a dollop of potatoes from the serving spoon, "I don't want you listening to that Chris King Pop Icon. He is...profane...and he...uses the n-word. I understand what he's trying to say, but I don't like the n-word. Isn't that right, Honey?"
"That's right, Darling," says Honey, not really sure what his wife just asked him. He's watching television. He's watching the news. Something about mandatory minimum jail sentences.
Mommy/Darling takes note of the news, too. She starts muttering... "Put those fuckin niggers in jail where they belong, those fuckin animals." A niggerface appears on the TV, shackles on his hands. She springs to her feet as if she's going to hurl venom at her most hated professional wrestling star. She spills the gravy. "Kill that fuckin nigger! Fuckin apes! One of them spit in my latte!"
.
Yours is, I would argue, at once the most morally bankrupt and the least intellectually discerning society the world has ever known. Couple this with your economic and military might and your desire to tutor the world in matters of rightness, and you have the most farcical display ever, were it not so dangerous.
You talk a good game, I'll give you that.
Your society will destroy me. I get that part already. I've known that from the moment I first took to a stage, intent to do the material that I felt needed doing. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I would rather be destroyed by your degenerate society than to be judged complicit with it. So I can't lose...
And know that the Future People and I are laughing our asses off at you. So thanks for the material... You make this pretty easy.
"Chris, why so much about the Jews? What's your problem?"
My problem is AssBananas and EarIntestines.
You can't understand the Great Hahperdidah Wars without understanding Israel and its role as a geostrategic stronghold. You can't understand Israel without understanding complex Jewish politics. And you'll never decipher those without penetrating their product positioning.
I'm dismantling their marketing --because I have a major problem with AssBananas and EarIntestines. If people burst into tears because of that, so be it. Once they realize no one's paying attention, they'll dry up quickly enough... So no harm done...
You can't understand the Great Hahperdidah Wars without understanding Israel and its role as a geostrategic stronghold. You can't understand Israel without understanding complex Jewish politics. And you'll never decipher those without penetrating their product positioning.
I'm dismantling their marketing --because I have a major problem with AssBananas and EarIntestines. If people burst into tears because of that, so be it. Once they realize no one's paying attention, they'll dry up quickly enough... So no harm done...
FoxNews = JewNews = CuckaNews = LieNews
So ratings are down twenty-two percent for Fox News in their core demographic, 25 to 54 year-old dirty-footed mouthbreathers. Maybe their core demographic's scratch-off lottery ticket winnings are down and they got the cable shut off.
Maybe AssBananas will be down twenty-two percent next quarter.
When will those Jews reclaim their dignity and jettison that whole lying bunch? Fox has succeeded in making Jew = Cucka. They don't even know who their true enemy is...
Maybe AssBananas will be down twenty-two percent next quarter.
When will those Jews reclaim their dignity and jettison that whole lying bunch? Fox has succeeded in making Jew = Cucka. They don't even know who their true enemy is...
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Chris King Pop Icon Therapy!
[I originally wrote this during the last Christmas season, during a spate of public sobbing. Here is a retooled version of "Chris King Pop Icon Therapy!"]
I was painting the hallway of my Craftsman-style Vermont home the other day. A rich, creamy brown, called "Sturdy Table." It layers nicely on top of the mossy "Gravel" of the living room, smoothly transitioning by way of a sophisticated, blackish-brown "Wendigo" trim. I'm as pleased with the names as I am the colors. A modern color scheme combined with a wood stove... Think Westin Grand Bohemian meets the Clampetts.
I had the television on in the background, tuned to Doctor Phil. I like to compare notes on our respective brands of feel-good therapy. I heard someone sobbing. I put down my brush and stood in front of the TV. Our injured party told of having been the victim of some monstrous insensitivity.
I wanted to help. "Is it okay if I handle this one?" Doctor Phil nodded his solemn consent, so I took my place on the couch and patted the hand of this poor, victimized man. "In your own words, tell me what happened."
"I was driving by the town commons and I was... [hitch in his voice] I was assaulted by... [quivering chin and a courageous, deep breath to pronounce this most unspeakable affront:] by a nativity scene!" [Gasps from studio audience. Camera breaks to shocked faces. Audience members look about for confirmation that what they just heard was just said.]
"Settle down, everybody, let's let him continue. What happened next?"
"Well I had my Jew attorney friends file a lawsuit against the town. Everyone knows those small-town rubes can't afford lawsuits over stuff like this."
Someone from the audience yells, "Just like a good little bitch!" At which Dr. Phil sprang up and strode to the edge of the stage, "Shut the fuck up, you hear me? This is our show, not yours. Now shut it! [Phil's pinkie and index fingers directed at the offending loudmouth:] You mess with the bull, you get the horns." He let it sink in, then took his seat.
I continued: "Do you think it's right to demand your way all the time?"
"Well, it's only because everyone hates us."
"We're gettin there," Phil muttered. If there's one point where we differ, it's on his confrontational style.
"We tried to shoehorn some anti-hate legislation into a school-lunch program bill or something so that no one could ridicule us anymore. We even included the niggers and fags in it because we're generous. We just want to be treated well."
I allowed myself this: "We haven't exterminated you yet." The blood drained from his face.
"Though maybe we should," affirmed Phil as he studiously plucked a piece of lint from his pants leg.
"Maybe we goyim should drown you like rats," I volleyed back.
"You _are_ more trouble than you're worth." Phil let the lint fall to the floor and sniffed.
Our therapy client's eyes had been darting back and forth between Phil and me, incredulous that this tag-team sucker punch was happening. "See? You do hate us."
Poor thing. He'll need my help. "Not really. That would take a lot of energy, and most people have far better things to do with their time. Those ideas have been placed into your head by those who seek to control your economic and political capital. You don't even know who your true enemy is." I waved my right hand at his head. His eyes took on a distinctly different look.
He had come out of his trance. "What- what just happened?"
"What just happened, everyone? [Snap and point at studio audience] He just got some..."
"Chris. King. Pop. Icon therapy! Whoo!" [Camera pans over the audience as they reply and cheer.]
"That's right. How do you feel?"
He seemed stunned. "I- I don't know."
I don't imagine you do... "But remember, we say these things because we love you. Otherwise we wouldn't expend the effort. Isn't that right, Phil?"
"Sure thing, Chris. And, as always, thanks for pinch-hitting for us."
"You got it, Phil." [Snap. Point.]
I dabbed my brush into the roller tray and smiled. One more soul saved...
I was painting the hallway of my Craftsman-style Vermont home the other day. A rich, creamy brown, called "Sturdy Table." It layers nicely on top of the mossy "Gravel" of the living room, smoothly transitioning by way of a sophisticated, blackish-brown "Wendigo" trim. I'm as pleased with the names as I am the colors. A modern color scheme combined with a wood stove... Think Westin Grand Bohemian meets the Clampetts.
I had the television on in the background, tuned to Doctor Phil. I like to compare notes on our respective brands of feel-good therapy. I heard someone sobbing. I put down my brush and stood in front of the TV. Our injured party told of having been the victim of some monstrous insensitivity.
I wanted to help. "Is it okay if I handle this one?" Doctor Phil nodded his solemn consent, so I took my place on the couch and patted the hand of this poor, victimized man. "In your own words, tell me what happened."
"I was driving by the town commons and I was... [hitch in his voice] I was assaulted by... [quivering chin and a courageous, deep breath to pronounce this most unspeakable affront:] by a nativity scene!" [Gasps from studio audience. Camera breaks to shocked faces. Audience members look about for confirmation that what they just heard was just said.]
"Settle down, everybody, let's let him continue. What happened next?"
"Well I had my Jew attorney friends file a lawsuit against the town. Everyone knows those small-town rubes can't afford lawsuits over stuff like this."
Someone from the audience yells, "Just like a good little bitch!" At which Dr. Phil sprang up and strode to the edge of the stage, "Shut the fuck up, you hear me? This is our show, not yours. Now shut it! [Phil's pinkie and index fingers directed at the offending loudmouth:] You mess with the bull, you get the horns." He let it sink in, then took his seat.
I continued: "Do you think it's right to demand your way all the time?"
"Well, it's only because everyone hates us."
"We're gettin there," Phil muttered. If there's one point where we differ, it's on his confrontational style.
"We tried to shoehorn some anti-hate legislation into a school-lunch program bill or something so that no one could ridicule us anymore. We even included the niggers and fags in it because we're generous. We just want to be treated well."
I allowed myself this: "We haven't exterminated you yet." The blood drained from his face.
"Though maybe we should," affirmed Phil as he studiously plucked a piece of lint from his pants leg.
"Maybe we goyim should drown you like rats," I volleyed back.
"You _are_ more trouble than you're worth." Phil let the lint fall to the floor and sniffed.
Our therapy client's eyes had been darting back and forth between Phil and me, incredulous that this tag-team sucker punch was happening. "See? You do hate us."
Poor thing. He'll need my help. "Not really. That would take a lot of energy, and most people have far better things to do with their time. Those ideas have been placed into your head by those who seek to control your economic and political capital. You don't even know who your true enemy is." I waved my right hand at his head. His eyes took on a distinctly different look.
He had come out of his trance. "What- what just happened?"
"What just happened, everyone? [Snap and point at studio audience] He just got some..."
"Chris. King. Pop. Icon therapy! Whoo!" [Camera pans over the audience as they reply and cheer.]
"That's right. How do you feel?"
He seemed stunned. "I- I don't know."
I don't imagine you do... "But remember, we say these things because we love you. Otherwise we wouldn't expend the effort. Isn't that right, Phil?"
"Sure thing, Chris. And, as always, thanks for pinch-hitting for us."
"You got it, Phil." [Snap. Point.]
I dabbed my brush into the roller tray and smiled. One more soul saved...
That Holocaust(R) Bit
[Oh, hey... I didn't hear you come in. I was in the kitchen, whipping up a shit sandwich for those teary-eyed, do-what-we-say-or-we'll-smear-you Jews.
Hmmm... Try this hors d'oeuvre in the meantime... I wrote this on the occasion of receiving a tearful plea that I genuflect at the local Holocaust museum.]
A retooled version of "That Holocaust(R) Bit":
Periodically, some Jew on TV will bellyache (because you know it's something...) they'll bellyache about the enormity of the callousness of humanity that resulted in the horrific and palpably lamentable deaths of six million Jews! "And by the way, can we have these mineral rights, er, I mean, our ancestral homeland over here..."
By any objective count, governments worldwide killed some 100 million civilians during the 20th century.
What's your marketing? Six? Tell you what... I'll go four better... Let's make it ten. Let's say ten million were killed in this monstrous event known as "The Holocaust(R)" (As if the other ninety million poor bastards don't count...)
My question to you is this: What makes you so fuckin special? My answer: Want my pity? Turn off the waterworks and take a number. There's ninety million people in line ahead of you.
I don't give a shit about your Holocaust(R). Got it?
Ouch. Go home and lick your wounds. And then think up new marketing.
-------
[Oh, you've got my pity all right...if you can pull this number off with a straight face....tip toeing over the other ninety million corpses... Lookin good... "Bang the drum slowly! Look at our suffering! Trot out those corpses, their memories be damned!"
I rather liked this joke. Five minutes' work destroyed sixty years' worth of product positioning. Oopsie.
Jokes are forever. Enjoy it...]
Hmmm... Try this hors d'oeuvre in the meantime... I wrote this on the occasion of receiving a tearful plea that I genuflect at the local Holocaust museum.]
A retooled version of "That Holocaust(R) Bit":
Periodically, some Jew on TV will bellyache (because you know it's something...) they'll bellyache about the enormity of the callousness of humanity that resulted in the horrific and palpably lamentable deaths of six million Jews! "And by the way, can we have these mineral rights, er, I mean, our ancestral homeland over here..."
By any objective count, governments worldwide killed some 100 million civilians during the 20th century.
What's your marketing? Six? Tell you what... I'll go four better... Let's make it ten. Let's say ten million were killed in this monstrous event known as "The Holocaust(R)" (As if the other ninety million poor bastards don't count...)
My question to you is this: What makes you so fuckin special? My answer: Want my pity? Turn off the waterworks and take a number. There's ninety million people in line ahead of you.
I don't give a shit about your Holocaust(R). Got it?
Ouch. Go home and lick your wounds. And then think up new marketing.
-------
[Oh, you've got my pity all right...if you can pull this number off with a straight face....tip toeing over the other ninety million corpses... Lookin good... "Bang the drum slowly! Look at our suffering! Trot out those corpses, their memories be damned!"
I rather liked this joke. Five minutes' work destroyed sixty years' worth of product positioning. Oopsie.
Jokes are forever. Enjoy it...]
New York Times
OK. The New York Times runs a great story about that banking surveillance program run in Belgium as part of the War Against the Flying Car People. Dick Cheney moans that it places American "national security" at risk. Salesmen for the war profiteers try to make like they're comedians or something (sheesh) and try to make fun of the Times. Sophists urge that the Times be burnt to the ground for treason.
I enjoy reading the Times each Sunday. I take one off the rack at the gas station during my shift and read most of the articles. It's a good read. I am particular about replacing the sections so that it does not look like I am guilty of theft of service, and I place it back on the rack. And then I read In Touch Weekly to see what the stars are up to.
You've got a good feel for this news thing. But as a man who suffers from Cuckoo-Head Conspiracy Man Syndrome, I feel qualified to inform you of what you are up against.
Here is what has happened --regardless of whether you consider these points to be respectable topics of conversation. (No one has to know that we had this chat.)
1. People who you may safely regard as communists have stolen your government. They employ low-level functionaries to man positions in it, up to and including the President. This is not what is known as "lawful government." That entity no longer exists.
2. 9-11 was an inside job. This is beyond reasoned dispute, and is proven by the simple use of a three-dollar calculator in comparing the speed of a "pancake" collapse with the speed of a collapse of a controlled demolition. It's pretty simple, really. This attack was likely carried out by intelligence agencies and rogue elements of the US and Israeli militaries. The YuckyMen had nothing to do with it. The YuckyMen's sole offense was possessing something that a sophisticated band of thugs wanted.
3. The executive branch of what purports to be the United States Government is preparing to declare martial law. And guess who they've got AssBananas waiting for...
As long as you operate within the fake "terrorism" paradigm, it will be supremely easy to paint you as unpatriotic. You cannot run stories piecemeal. You have to come right out of the gate, guns a-blazin' and completely destroy the entire set of lies.
Yup. You'll lose your jobs alright. And you'll lose advertisers. And you may even get killed. But hey: That's what journalism is all about. It's a bracing feeling, really.
You are about to learn what journalism is...if you have the stomach for it.
As I've said before: If you do not live each and every day in fear of your very life, then you are not doing what is known as "news."
I enjoy reading the Times each Sunday. I take one off the rack at the gas station during my shift and read most of the articles. It's a good read. I am particular about replacing the sections so that it does not look like I am guilty of theft of service, and I place it back on the rack. And then I read In Touch Weekly to see what the stars are up to.
You've got a good feel for this news thing. But as a man who suffers from Cuckoo-Head Conspiracy Man Syndrome, I feel qualified to inform you of what you are up against.
Here is what has happened --regardless of whether you consider these points to be respectable topics of conversation. (No one has to know that we had this chat.)
1. People who you may safely regard as communists have stolen your government. They employ low-level functionaries to man positions in it, up to and including the President. This is not what is known as "lawful government." That entity no longer exists.
2. 9-11 was an inside job. This is beyond reasoned dispute, and is proven by the simple use of a three-dollar calculator in comparing the speed of a "pancake" collapse with the speed of a collapse of a controlled demolition. It's pretty simple, really. This attack was likely carried out by intelligence agencies and rogue elements of the US and Israeli militaries. The YuckyMen had nothing to do with it. The YuckyMen's sole offense was possessing something that a sophisticated band of thugs wanted.
3. The executive branch of what purports to be the United States Government is preparing to declare martial law. And guess who they've got AssBananas waiting for...
As long as you operate within the fake "terrorism" paradigm, it will be supremely easy to paint you as unpatriotic. You cannot run stories piecemeal. You have to come right out of the gate, guns a-blazin' and completely destroy the entire set of lies.
Yup. You'll lose your jobs alright. And you'll lose advertisers. And you may even get killed. But hey: That's what journalism is all about. It's a bracing feeling, really.
You are about to learn what journalism is...if you have the stomach for it.
As I've said before: If you do not live each and every day in fear of your very life, then you are not doing what is known as "news."
Here, watch this crap.
I laughed at seeing one wit call soccer very "Seinfeldian," in that it is a game about nothing.
Most matches end in ties, or so I understand. The players run up and down the field and fans yell like idiots at this nothingness. I was embarassed to see a photo of some bare-chested, fat American oaf in the stands with a flag painted on his face. Have a little self-respect...
I have long maintained that the world's aspiring overlords promote the game to Americans so that we could join the rest of the world in this wheel-spinning, zero-sum time-waster...instead of killing aspiring overlords.
Now that would be a sport worth watching...and uniquely American...
Most matches end in ties, or so I understand. The players run up and down the field and fans yell like idiots at this nothingness. I was embarassed to see a photo of some bare-chested, fat American oaf in the stands with a flag painted on his face. Have a little self-respect...
I have long maintained that the world's aspiring overlords promote the game to Americans so that we could join the rest of the world in this wheel-spinning, zero-sum time-waster...instead of killing aspiring overlords.
Now that would be a sport worth watching...and uniquely American...
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