The only question for us has ever been, will Conrad Black come licking at the feet of the Canadian government and beg for his citizenship, which did not seem too important when the prospect of a peerage in Great Whiner Britain came knocking.
Should he prostrate himself at the feet of Her Majesty's government, he will, of course, be welcomed back into the fold, to protect the sanctity of the Crown and to deprive the perfidous Americans of this one-sided, idiotic, completely Nazi, worthy of eternal terrorist extermination verdict, hand delivered as retaliation for quitting the illegal war America is waging on democracy and freedom everywhere it rears its proud head.
America is evil, and we clap for every blow against this beast, however it comes, in every conceivable way shape and form. An American death, while common and mundane, is a good death, in that an American has died.
But Conrad Black, universally hated as he is by the Canadian people, would only condemn himself to status of "afraid of America," which is worse than "child molester," which is only worse in qualitative consideration than "Daniel Hoffmann-Gill-ish," and is therefore the worst thing a Canadian can be called.
As such, and since I fucked Eva Jane numerous times, and killed Michael, whoever the hell he was, may he rot in the hell I created for him, we call upon Conrad Black to deprive the Americans of their piece of shit verdict, and at the same time to spare Her Majesty's reputation, by immediately committing ritual suicide.
When Mr. Black does this, and we expect that within twenty-four hours he will take the noble, if not fucking noble, way to the end of his treachery, we will do the very best we can for his reputation, and simply erase it from history, sparing his name everything it deserves.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Final Clarity, Farewells
First of all, let me be frank. Fuck you.
To all of you, and this includes the whiner limeys first and foremost, you all sold out because apparently, dedication to preventing war is just another fad with you.
Being so fucking shallow, I was embarrassed to have called you all friend. While you're all whoring your lives to whatever simple fancies your corporate whoremasters come up with to keep the people perpetually confined to economic slavery, I've decided to turn my "friendship" of you into a faddish thing.
It has passed, and in the same way a meal which lasts an hour ends up as shit that lasts a lifetime, my "affection" for you has run its natural course, and is a rather virile hatred of you, your fucking pompous bullshit, your arrogant thoughts that I'm the one who changed or is somehow fucking the world over, or whatever trip it is you're on.
I taught you things you will never have the chance to learn again. I introduced you to the realm of the real world, where the guns are always loaded, and people who fuck up stay dead. If you can honestly turn around and crawl back into the womb of the numb middle class, then I declare you unregenerated and heretical.
You are not good enough to live in the real world. As we fucking noble ones say, you can't hack it. Go 'way punk, you bother me.
So farewell. I have found love, and believe me, she is an eternity greater a wretch that the worst of you could hope to be. At last my heart has found someone in which it can rejoice.
Done, done with the frauds, the cowards, the lice-infested barrel rummagers in life's garbage. Onto my greatest glories and the highest planes of truth. Away, you scavengers, beauty is afoot, and all you have earned is the mud at the bottom of the puddle.
To all of you, and this includes the whiner limeys first and foremost, you all sold out because apparently, dedication to preventing war is just another fad with you.
Being so fucking shallow, I was embarrassed to have called you all friend. While you're all whoring your lives to whatever simple fancies your corporate whoremasters come up with to keep the people perpetually confined to economic slavery, I've decided to turn my "friendship" of you into a faddish thing.
It has passed, and in the same way a meal which lasts an hour ends up as shit that lasts a lifetime, my "affection" for you has run its natural course, and is a rather virile hatred of you, your fucking pompous bullshit, your arrogant thoughts that I'm the one who changed or is somehow fucking the world over, or whatever trip it is you're on.
I taught you things you will never have the chance to learn again. I introduced you to the realm of the real world, where the guns are always loaded, and people who fuck up stay dead. If you can honestly turn around and crawl back into the womb of the numb middle class, then I declare you unregenerated and heretical.
You are not good enough to live in the real world. As we fucking noble ones say, you can't hack it. Go 'way punk, you bother me.
So farewell. I have found love, and believe me, she is an eternity greater a wretch that the worst of you could hope to be. At last my heart has found someone in which it can rejoice.
Done, done with the frauds, the cowards, the lice-infested barrel rummagers in life's garbage. Onto my greatest glories and the highest planes of truth. Away, you scavengers, beauty is afoot, and all you have earned is the mud at the bottom of the puddle.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Why I Fucked Eva Jane In Her Ass
Having been fucked with by a certain control freak limey, I feel it is obligatory that I respond by explaining how I fucked his girlfriend in the ass. It was last weekend at a concert festival.
Okay, now that he's tuned out, we can talk about real brass tacks without fearing a Bono poseur's nosy interference. I was actually at a music festival this weekend, and can state the following with triple confirmed surety:
1. Folk music is dead.
2. Communism has been coopted by careerist motherfuckers.
3. Free love is a stupid slogan good only for selling junk to old hippies.
4. Heroin is Mankind's greatest achievement.
Explanations:
Folk music is supposed to be the natural expression of a people cut off from the global community, or as uppity people like to say, regionally isolated, which communicates a faithful sense of their development as an organic community.
Unfortunately, "folk music," is a stupid slogan good only for selling junk to old hippies.
Communism is supposed to be a collective struggle against the aristocratic power of the bourgeoisie, so that their historically lapsed control over the hearts and minds of the global citizenry can be put to an end. Instead, communism is little more than the establishment of job security for the phoniest cocksuckers ever to graduate from institutions of "higher" learning, and has absolutely nothing to do with the dictatorship of the proletariat over the peasantry.
In short, "communism" is a stupid slogan, good only for selling dumb fucks on thinly disguised anarcho-capitalism.
Free love does not exist, as love no longer exists, extinguished as it was by greedy careerist fucks running around feeling superior to everyone their sloganised movements is supposed to be ameliorating.
Heroin, invented in Germany in the late 1800s, is man's greatest invention. Now the true Marxists can't complain about religion being the opiate of the masses, because thanks to an unprecedented, illegal invasion of Afghanistan, we are responsible for providing those same masses with the most potent, cheapest replacement for God available, at the mere cost of a trillion tax dollars and thousands of innocent lives.
What it took revolutionaries years to minimise, not eradicate, by armed insurrection has taken the American government a mere five years to accomplish. Thanks to them, and Canada's willingness to sacrifice its soldiers to protect their Afghani grow operation, they have become the most godless bunch of confused fucks in the world in mere months.
So why am I complaining? Oh, I just hate hypocrisy, don't mind me. You'll just ignore all that moral stuff anyway on your way to trample everyone else in your stampede toward the middle. And that is why you make me retch.
Having been fucked with by a certain control freak limey, I feel it is obligatory that I respond by explaining how I fucked his girlfriend in the ass. It was last weekend at a concert festival.
Okay, now that he's tuned out, we can talk about real brass tacks without fearing a Bono poseur's nosy interference. I was actually at a music festival this weekend, and can state the following with triple confirmed surety:
1. Folk music is dead.
2. Communism has been coopted by careerist motherfuckers.
3. Free love is a stupid slogan good only for selling junk to old hippies.
4. Heroin is Mankind's greatest achievement.
Explanations:
Folk music is supposed to be the natural expression of a people cut off from the global community, or as uppity people like to say, regionally isolated, which communicates a faithful sense of their development as an organic community.
Unfortunately, "folk music," is a stupid slogan good only for selling junk to old hippies.
Communism is supposed to be a collective struggle against the aristocratic power of the bourgeoisie, so that their historically lapsed control over the hearts and minds of the global citizenry can be put to an end. Instead, communism is little more than the establishment of job security for the phoniest cocksuckers ever to graduate from institutions of "higher" learning, and has absolutely nothing to do with the dictatorship of the proletariat over the peasantry.
In short, "communism" is a stupid slogan, good only for selling dumb fucks on thinly disguised anarcho-capitalism.
Free love does not exist, as love no longer exists, extinguished as it was by greedy careerist fucks running around feeling superior to everyone their sloganised movements is supposed to be ameliorating.
Heroin, invented in Germany in the late 1800s, is man's greatest invention. Now the true Marxists can't complain about religion being the opiate of the masses, because thanks to an unprecedented, illegal invasion of Afghanistan, we are responsible for providing those same masses with the most potent, cheapest replacement for God available, at the mere cost of a trillion tax dollars and thousands of innocent lives.
What it took revolutionaries years to minimise, not eradicate, by armed insurrection has taken the American government a mere five years to accomplish. Thanks to them, and Canada's willingness to sacrifice its soldiers to protect their Afghani grow operation, they have become the most godless bunch of confused fucks in the world in mere months.
So why am I complaining? Oh, I just hate hypocrisy, don't mind me. You'll just ignore all that moral stuff anyway on your way to trample everyone else in your stampede toward the middle. And that is why you make me retch.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Let's Talk
Hello, you're on the air with El. Col. Dr. Tonight's discussion: Daniel Hoffmann-Gill--overly sensitive whiner or pushy hypocrite? Let's go to the phones.
On the line we have Ethel from Omaha. You're on, Ethel.
"Hi, Col. Dr., love you, love your show. Let me first say that, as an American, I am evil. And I want to know just who the hell Daniel thinks he is telling you to stop parodying his sellout self while he remains unapologetic about suddenly turning against you and everything good and pure in the world."
Exactly, Ethel. Next, we go to Miami, and we have William on the phone.
"Hi, Col. Dr, long time listener, first time caller. I'm American, and as such am a murderer and deserve to die. I want to know what crawled up your pretentious ex-friend's ass that he's acting like a prima dona British cocksucker who doesn't know where he came from."
Exactly. Next.
"Hi, this is whoever from wherever. Daniel Hofmann-Gill is only alleviating his hypocritical conscience by pretending that he extended you an olive branch, when in reality what he did was a form of assault. And all Americans should die."
Exactly. Anyone else?
"Just me, Col. Dr., and I want to know what you would say to Daniel Hoffman-Gill if he were reading this right now."
Oh, that's easy. I'd wish him all the best in his new career as an American mouthpiece.
Now, on to something more interesting. Like dirt mites. Fascinating creatures, cleaner than anyone from Scotland OR Nottingham, and STILL cause major diseases in the weak and needy.
Well, that's all the time we have. Until next time, when about seven more Canadians will have been killed protecting America's heroin from the Taliban, this is Col. Dr., and you are slightly less stupid than you were fifteen minutes ago.
Secret bonus materials available only on DVD: I'm Dan, motherfucker.
On the line we have Ethel from Omaha. You're on, Ethel.
"Hi, Col. Dr., love you, love your show. Let me first say that, as an American, I am evil. And I want to know just who the hell Daniel thinks he is telling you to stop parodying his sellout self while he remains unapologetic about suddenly turning against you and everything good and pure in the world."
Exactly, Ethel. Next, we go to Miami, and we have William on the phone.
"Hi, Col. Dr, long time listener, first time caller. I'm American, and as such am a murderer and deserve to die. I want to know what crawled up your pretentious ex-friend's ass that he's acting like a prima dona British cocksucker who doesn't know where he came from."
Exactly. Next.
"Hi, this is whoever from wherever. Daniel Hofmann-Gill is only alleviating his hypocritical conscience by pretending that he extended you an olive branch, when in reality what he did was a form of assault. And all Americans should die."
Exactly. Anyone else?
"Just me, Col. Dr., and I want to know what you would say to Daniel Hoffman-Gill if he were reading this right now."
Oh, that's easy. I'd wish him all the best in his new career as an American mouthpiece.
Now, on to something more interesting. Like dirt mites. Fascinating creatures, cleaner than anyone from Scotland OR Nottingham, and STILL cause major diseases in the weak and needy.
Well, that's all the time we have. Until next time, when about seven more Canadians will have been killed protecting America's heroin from the Taliban, this is Col. Dr., and you are slightly less stupid than you were fifteen minutes ago.
Secret bonus materials available only on DVD: I'm Dan, motherfucker.
Crazy? I'll Tell You Who's Crazy
It has recently been suggested to me that certain circumstances under which I am forced to live my life are the cause of my recent freakouts and name calling, even though this site is declaimed as pure entertainment, and the offended are getting the wrong idea.
Let's examine the rants, and cut to the chase. I hate this war, and at this point, anyone who has anything other than complete contempt for it. And this is, what, insane? Troubled? Confused?
How insane is allowing an unprovoked war of dominance and theft to continue a single day, let alone five fucking years? The People have more than enough ability to shut down the function of their government with one gigantic, all encompassing, moral strike.
But instead they ramped up on propaganda and trampled someone who is proven even more innocent of the war's causal circumstances with each passing day. Reactionary terrorism, as it has been confined to the arena of combat, is what dictionaries call National Defense.
You are crazy.
Let's examine the rants, and cut to the chase. I hate this war, and at this point, anyone who has anything other than complete contempt for it. And this is, what, insane? Troubled? Confused?
How insane is allowing an unprovoked war of dominance and theft to continue a single day, let alone five fucking years? The People have more than enough ability to shut down the function of their government with one gigantic, all encompassing, moral strike.
But instead they ramped up on propaganda and trampled someone who is proven even more innocent of the war's causal circumstances with each passing day. Reactionary terrorism, as it has been confined to the arena of combat, is what dictionaries call National Defense.
You are crazy.
Panjawaii Blues
The war is illegal and must end immediately.
Here's how life works: either you get to invade and kill people, or you get to live in peace, exhibiting moral leadership in an increasingly violent world. You don't get to do both.
Here's how life works: either you get to invade and kill people, or you get to live in peace, exhibiting moral leadership in an increasingly violent world. You don't get to do both.
Called Out
Scooter Libby copped out. Bush copped out. Everyone has copped out. And yet, you are all still responsible for people being murdered daily.
Er, do you all think that you can blink and make promises to stop murdering the women and children sometime in the near future and just exonerate yourselves of this mess? Anyone who does is stupider than an English Prime Minister who hops into bed with George Bush over an illegal war.
Statement: The Iraq war was an act of premeditated, aggravated murder, which in criminal terms is commonly known as a "triple threat." First was the intent to destroy Iraq's defenses and invade. Second was to reap material benefit from said act. Thirdly was to kill innocent people during the comission of said act. And in Texas, felony murder is capital murder.
Bush should know. He executed dozens of people for doing the same thing.
While the TV-attention-spanned people who mostly populate the Internet seem to have forgotten there is an illegal war going, and turned to completely selfish complaints which sound fucking ridiculous in the midst of global warfare, the fact remains simple and chronic that the once-sensible governments of the West are now fully complicit either in finding relish in a bloodbath of Biblical proportion, or providing high tech military security for the world's largest heroin grow op.
There is only one issue which should be filling blogs, and causing anxiety among you thrill seeking TLC watching bunch of wet noodle douchebags. The Fucking War is being lost, and it ain't the winning kind.
It is insane beyond all comprehension that people have become so gullible, as to believe Islamist elements would fuck up the British withdrawl, when the only people who can benefit from bombing London or the drunken Scots is America. Not "The Coalition of the Willing," not NATO, not the Masons, or any other conglomispiracy out there.
America is the only party who gains from terrorism in Britain, and is therefore the distant frontrunner in the lineup of usual suspects.
To clear the air permanently, I state and restate for the millionth time, laughing off your abuse which is sure to come screaming in yet again, that if you are not being abused yourself for going way too far over the line in trying to bring attention to the illegality of the war, then you are a coward who has put his selfish interest ahead of all them cute little children you weep over in U2 propaganda videos.
Unless you are risking jail, death, poverty, accusations of mental defect, or any of the fun I get to go through on a daily basis--including summary detention and random violent police harrassment in public--then you have no right whatsoever to suggest that I'm being inappropriate.
Don't like being told your country deserved it? Stop the fucking war.
Don't like having wet weasel shit associated with your name? Stop the fucking war, or at least end your support of it by becoming radically opposed to it.
Don't like having to deal with the shit your nation caused? Stop it from causing it.
I am.
And I am.
Daniel: Your "guests" are fucking assholes and you protect them. Have fun with them, and just so somebody's told you, that hollow feeling you get, like everyone around you is lying to you and you can't trust anyone...that's the paranoia that comes as a result of taking the easy way out of a war.
Your "plea" below leaves me short. It doesn't address the problem, and even tells me you don't have time for whatever that pesky thing could be. Whatever sentimental trip spurred the comment could use a little retrospect, a lot of introspect, and a fucking ton of basic respect.
Fuck, I'm noble.
Er, do you all think that you can blink and make promises to stop murdering the women and children sometime in the near future and just exonerate yourselves of this mess? Anyone who does is stupider than an English Prime Minister who hops into bed with George Bush over an illegal war.
Statement: The Iraq war was an act of premeditated, aggravated murder, which in criminal terms is commonly known as a "triple threat." First was the intent to destroy Iraq's defenses and invade. Second was to reap material benefit from said act. Thirdly was to kill innocent people during the comission of said act. And in Texas, felony murder is capital murder.
Bush should know. He executed dozens of people for doing the same thing.
While the TV-attention-spanned people who mostly populate the Internet seem to have forgotten there is an illegal war going, and turned to completely selfish complaints which sound fucking ridiculous in the midst of global warfare, the fact remains simple and chronic that the once-sensible governments of the West are now fully complicit either in finding relish in a bloodbath of Biblical proportion, or providing high tech military security for the world's largest heroin grow op.
There is only one issue which should be filling blogs, and causing anxiety among you thrill seeking TLC watching bunch of wet noodle douchebags. The Fucking War is being lost, and it ain't the winning kind.
It is insane beyond all comprehension that people have become so gullible, as to believe Islamist elements would fuck up the British withdrawl, when the only people who can benefit from bombing London or the drunken Scots is America. Not "The Coalition of the Willing," not NATO, not the Masons, or any other conglomispiracy out there.
America is the only party who gains from terrorism in Britain, and is therefore the distant frontrunner in the lineup of usual suspects.
To clear the air permanently, I state and restate for the millionth time, laughing off your abuse which is sure to come screaming in yet again, that if you are not being abused yourself for going way too far over the line in trying to bring attention to the illegality of the war, then you are a coward who has put his selfish interest ahead of all them cute little children you weep over in U2 propaganda videos.
Unless you are risking jail, death, poverty, accusations of mental defect, or any of the fun I get to go through on a daily basis--including summary detention and random violent police harrassment in public--then you have no right whatsoever to suggest that I'm being inappropriate.
Don't like being told your country deserved it? Stop the fucking war.
Don't like having wet weasel shit associated with your name? Stop the fucking war, or at least end your support of it by becoming radically opposed to it.
Don't like having to deal with the shit your nation caused? Stop it from causing it.
I am.
And I am.
Daniel: Your "guests" are fucking assholes and you protect them. Have fun with them, and just so somebody's told you, that hollow feeling you get, like everyone around you is lying to you and you can't trust anyone...that's the paranoia that comes as a result of taking the easy way out of a war.
Your "plea" below leaves me short. It doesn't address the problem, and even tells me you don't have time for whatever that pesky thing could be. Whatever sentimental trip spurred the comment could use a little retrospect, a lot of introspect, and a fucking ton of basic respect.
Fuck, I'm noble.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Why Americans Deserve It
George Bush should have been physically prevented from cooching Scooter Libby's sentence with two shots to the cerebreal cortex, but instead was called "decisive," by the Nazi press.
Bush also deserves death for the London bombings of the past several years, plus the deliberately-amateurish attack on a Scottish airport phone booth. These were American operations designed to keep the bitch English in the war, and unfortunately they've worked.
You should see Daniel Hoffmann-Gill's cute little rant about how the big bad Islamists have struck again, just another dim bulb in a nation of weak lights who can't accept that their "friend" George is a murdering pig.
Funny how it was mad king George who lost the Americas to the nutbars, and dumbfuck George who's come back to haunt England for its criminal negligence.
Lots of funny things about all this, and none moreso than it could all have been avoided by simply telling the United States they were crazy, that Iraq had no WMD (like everyone tried, but gave up on because they smelled money), and there was going to be no multilateral war, no coalition, and go fuck yourself.
Funny, I can't stop laughing.
Bush also deserves death for the London bombings of the past several years, plus the deliberately-amateurish attack on a Scottish airport phone booth. These were American operations designed to keep the bitch English in the war, and unfortunately they've worked.
You should see Daniel Hoffmann-Gill's cute little rant about how the big bad Islamists have struck again, just another dim bulb in a nation of weak lights who can't accept that their "friend" George is a murdering pig.
Funny how it was mad king George who lost the Americas to the nutbars, and dumbfuck George who's come back to haunt England for its criminal negligence.
Lots of funny things about all this, and none moreso than it could all have been avoided by simply telling the United States they were crazy, that Iraq had no WMD (like everyone tried, but gave up on because they smelled money), and there was going to be no multilateral war, no coalition, and go fuck yourself.
Funny, I can't stop laughing.
Canadians As Friends
Being a German National has helped me in many ways. As a lifelong Canadian citizen, I tend toward patriata, but even the most avid countryman cannot, when he is obligated to simple truth, ignore the limp noodle which is, for the most part, the main component of the national character.
It is at such times that my country goes crazy, when there is nothing about it that I can want to be associated with, that I fall back on the heritage which courses through my pure genetic code, and by birthright I am able to respectably transport myself away from the mess Canada has become.
Take, for instance, the kind of opportunistic, slime ball people Canadians become in the context of something we Germans call, "friendship."
Admittedly, we are historically guilty of fucking over our friends, although technically, we had always planned to knock them over when Britain's eyes were diverted by its poverty and general insufficiency. However, when Germans enter a covenant in good faith, the exact terms will be executed upon their exact dates of termination.
I had a friend once who, after I discovered Gmail (in its infancy, when only cool people knew about it), and shared the miracle with him, immediately went around forcing everyone to think it was, in fact, he who had brought it to the social circle of which he was a privileged guest (on my generosity) in the first place.
What word immediately springs to mind about this? Of course, poseur. Mind you, the moment he reads this, and believe me, he will read this jealously, burning in his pudgy little French head, he will stop spelling it "poser," and pick up on the lingo.
I also discovered haloscan, blogging, Matthew Good (who I immediately sent to the canister because only whiners and poseurs listen to him), St. Catherines, sexy chicks with nice tits named Chantelle, and everything else this dweeb expresses as unique aspects of his personality (except I'd be banging the sexy chick named Chantelle), only to watch the person soak them up like a wannabe sponge.
This is the reason Canadians cannot fight off American culture. If my ex-friend would have listened to me, during the days when I tried to show him he had (stress on the PAST tense) potential as an intense, introspective musician and artist, and pursued a course which, while it would have removed him from mainstream life, and thus empty, useless popularity (which still avoids him), he would be well on his way to self knowledge, and either receiving joy from his life, or, being a miserable son of a bitch, having found new and dangerous ways to be miserable.
I do not subscribe to the damaged goods theory put forth by other former friends, and state clearly that this person copped out, and is hiding behind a pair of white plastic glasses and a seventeen-year-old's haircut.
He thinks I hate him, which I do, because he somehow betrayed me by sabotaging his own life. I reply that is not why I hate him, but rather because he went from possible cool person, of which there are exactly twenty eight in all of Canada, to regular fucking schlub for whom being the real thing never really meant anything.
I hate anyone who is content to be whatever it takes to get along, and respect only those who are part of the insane struggle to live as who they are in their thoughts, their dreams, their potential, and their hope.
Until my country gets its head out of its ass, and sloughs off the American butt fucker which has dragged us into the mud, I am German, and shit on the Maple Leaf, forever.
It is at such times that my country goes crazy, when there is nothing about it that I can want to be associated with, that I fall back on the heritage which courses through my pure genetic code, and by birthright I am able to respectably transport myself away from the mess Canada has become.
Take, for instance, the kind of opportunistic, slime ball people Canadians become in the context of something we Germans call, "friendship."
Admittedly, we are historically guilty of fucking over our friends, although technically, we had always planned to knock them over when Britain's eyes were diverted by its poverty and general insufficiency. However, when Germans enter a covenant in good faith, the exact terms will be executed upon their exact dates of termination.
I had a friend once who, after I discovered Gmail (in its infancy, when only cool people knew about it), and shared the miracle with him, immediately went around forcing everyone to think it was, in fact, he who had brought it to the social circle of which he was a privileged guest (on my generosity) in the first place.
What word immediately springs to mind about this? Of course, poseur. Mind you, the moment he reads this, and believe me, he will read this jealously, burning in his pudgy little French head, he will stop spelling it "poser," and pick up on the lingo.
I also discovered haloscan, blogging, Matthew Good (who I immediately sent to the canister because only whiners and poseurs listen to him), St. Catherines, sexy chicks with nice tits named Chantelle, and everything else this dweeb expresses as unique aspects of his personality (except I'd be banging the sexy chick named Chantelle), only to watch the person soak them up like a wannabe sponge.
This is the reason Canadians cannot fight off American culture. If my ex-friend would have listened to me, during the days when I tried to show him he had (stress on the PAST tense) potential as an intense, introspective musician and artist, and pursued a course which, while it would have removed him from mainstream life, and thus empty, useless popularity (which still avoids him), he would be well on his way to self knowledge, and either receiving joy from his life, or, being a miserable son of a bitch, having found new and dangerous ways to be miserable.
I do not subscribe to the damaged goods theory put forth by other former friends, and state clearly that this person copped out, and is hiding behind a pair of white plastic glasses and a seventeen-year-old's haircut.
He thinks I hate him, which I do, because he somehow betrayed me by sabotaging his own life. I reply that is not why I hate him, but rather because he went from possible cool person, of which there are exactly twenty eight in all of Canada, to regular fucking schlub for whom being the real thing never really meant anything.
I hate anyone who is content to be whatever it takes to get along, and respect only those who are part of the insane struggle to live as who they are in their thoughts, their dreams, their potential, and their hope.
Until my country gets its head out of its ass, and sloughs off the American butt fucker which has dragged us into the mud, I am German, and shit on the Maple Leaf, forever.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Col. Dr. Isms
1. I'm paranoid about anyone who is not paranoid about me.
2. Life in America is like rohypnol. You know you got fucked, you just can't tell by whom.
3. Two wrongs don't make a right. Three wrongs make an American auto industry.
4. They tell you I'm insane for criticising wage slavery. They tell each other you're crazy for submitting to it.
5. A communist should be like a stem cell, entirely human, but ready to be assigned to its special function in the body. Unfortunately, most communists are like foreign sports cars that come with unintelligible instructions, no spare parts, and rich, pretentious owners.
6. To an American, sharing is evil, unless it is a disease for which they have a reasonably priced cure.
7. America is pure evil. Period.
2. Life in America is like rohypnol. You know you got fucked, you just can't tell by whom.
3. Two wrongs don't make a right. Three wrongs make an American auto industry.
4. They tell you I'm insane for criticising wage slavery. They tell each other you're crazy for submitting to it.
5. A communist should be like a stem cell, entirely human, but ready to be assigned to its special function in the body. Unfortunately, most communists are like foreign sports cars that come with unintelligible instructions, no spare parts, and rich, pretentious owners.
6. To an American, sharing is evil, unless it is a disease for which they have a reasonably priced cure.
7. America is pure evil. Period.
At Long Last! Victory!
Our future king has signalled the end of the Amer-Anglo aggression pact!
Now that my every prediction about the course of this war has come to pass with one hundred percent, fucking noble accuracy, it is clear that Mother Britain is in the process of putting distance between itself and Cocksuckers Incorporated.
It was suggested Harry was interested in the governor generalship of Australia. The Australian PM denounced it. AFTER the denouncement, the Queen herself remarked how "keen" Harry is about the position.
Interpretation:
Australia, or as we say in royal circles, "Little America of Traitorous Criminal Intent," is, of course, the closest Commonwealth ally to the United States. Yes, some claim it is Canada, but we actually hate America with a passion that exceeds words, and therefore will not be attempted here.
That a royal would even allow the implication of a Crown family member to occupy the very position upon which the legal construct of Constitutional Monarchy rests says one, very clear thing. Representation isn't working.
Since the end of the Second World War, England has been systematically prevented from maintaining its proprietary rights to trade throughout the Empire. This has been perpetrated by the United States, and its economic allies, Imperial Japan, and Nazi Germany (without portfolio).
It is common knowledge that America refused to intervene in WWII until England had been crippled, and would not be able to defend its God-given right to collonial rule. The constant struggle was so great, a Cold War had to be invented to keep people distracted from the real battle, that of England attempting to regain its proper position as the non-Daniel Hoffmann-Gill economic leader of the world.
The entire world.
They were, of course, prevented by aggressive American imperialism, which is better described as buffoonery with Nazi weapons.
But Col. Dr., you moan, because you know little, we thought you were a communist. Well, the truth about that is, there is no such thing as a communist. To prove it, go to the Communist Party website, where you will read the most warped, illogical interpretation of the pure truth of Marx-Engels, mixed with an apparent misunderstanding of Lenin.
All this aside, the important thing is, Harry wants to be GG of Australia, which means happy time is over for the Yanks.
God Bless The Queen.
Now that my every prediction about the course of this war has come to pass with one hundred percent, fucking noble accuracy, it is clear that Mother Britain is in the process of putting distance between itself and Cocksuckers Incorporated.
It was suggested Harry was interested in the governor generalship of Australia. The Australian PM denounced it. AFTER the denouncement, the Queen herself remarked how "keen" Harry is about the position.
Interpretation:
Australia, or as we say in royal circles, "Little America of Traitorous Criminal Intent," is, of course, the closest Commonwealth ally to the United States. Yes, some claim it is Canada, but we actually hate America with a passion that exceeds words, and therefore will not be attempted here.
That a royal would even allow the implication of a Crown family member to occupy the very position upon which the legal construct of Constitutional Monarchy rests says one, very clear thing. Representation isn't working.
Since the end of the Second World War, England has been systematically prevented from maintaining its proprietary rights to trade throughout the Empire. This has been perpetrated by the United States, and its economic allies, Imperial Japan, and Nazi Germany (without portfolio).
It is common knowledge that America refused to intervene in WWII until England had been crippled, and would not be able to defend its God-given right to collonial rule. The constant struggle was so great, a Cold War had to be invented to keep people distracted from the real battle, that of England attempting to regain its proper position as the non-Daniel Hoffmann-Gill economic leader of the world.
The entire world.
They were, of course, prevented by aggressive American imperialism, which is better described as buffoonery with Nazi weapons.
But Col. Dr., you moan, because you know little, we thought you were a communist. Well, the truth about that is, there is no such thing as a communist. To prove it, go to the Communist Party website, where you will read the most warped, illogical interpretation of the pure truth of Marx-Engels, mixed with an apparent misunderstanding of Lenin.
All this aside, the important thing is, Harry wants to be GG of Australia, which means happy time is over for the Yanks.
God Bless The Queen.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Movie Review
World Trade Center is an American piece of crap that lacks the moral courage to depict each and every American victim of the Project For The New American Century's attack of Sept. 11, 2001, on the Port Authority in New York, New York, targetting the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center complex as global traitors, stinky people, and eaters of wet weasel shit.
The film lacked the moral courage to show the Halliburton jet slam into Tower #1, because Americans are cowards, and can only attack women and children in civilian neighbourhoods.
The film lacked the moral courage to commit suicide, shortly after eliminating the American nation from my planet.
The film lacked the moral courage to travel back in time, and remove the taint of American anything-ism from history, including Twinkies and the fucking Mormons.
I give it a zero out of a million, and it loses points for starring some guy named Coppola.
The film lacked the moral courage to show the Halliburton jet slam into Tower #1, because Americans are cowards, and can only attack women and children in civilian neighbourhoods.
The film lacked the moral courage to commit suicide, shortly after eliminating the American nation from my planet.
The film lacked the moral courage to travel back in time, and remove the taint of American anything-ism from history, including Twinkies and the fucking Mormons.
I give it a zero out of a million, and it loses points for starring some guy named Coppola.
I'm Pretty. Honest.
Being a pioneer in body modification guaranteed two things. The first was that people would think I was so fucking cool.
The second was that those same people, being untalented dolts, would copy what I was doing and compete to be the best little body manglers on the block.
I knew this going in, having previously spent a lifetime as a blues musician. Several decades ago I became sick with watching middle class working stiffs go to places, and spend enormous money on watching poor black men play music, then turning the entire ordeal into some kind of empathetic reunion of souls.
The blues, that is to say the REAL blues, is not something white middle class working stiffs should be listening to. It was not invented, nor were there "great minds," at work during its development. Instead, the music was borne out of history's worst episode of human-versus-human, as a means to keep a people who, should they ever realise communally just how truly fucked they remain to this day, would kill themselves.
The blues gives vent to the kinds of feelings middle class people simply do not experience. You are not downtrodden because your boss makes you stay late and won't pay you overtime. You're not deprived because the Benz doesn't come in the same pink as your iPod.
You are a prince in a nation of phony princes, overprivileged, and deserving of a fate very similar to what those from who the gift of blues music came from endured while you were becoming so.
Body modification, sorry, REAL body modification is a similarly doomed statement of disenfranchisement, and freedom through rejection of all that is, by your clueless standards, good and pure.
To take what "god" hath made, and to stamp upon it one's own personal certificate of ownership is perhaps the most primitive, and humanly sincere form of expression. Permanent destruction is, after all, outmatched only by human sacrifice in proving just how fucking serious you are about the whole matter.
Of course, this purity, this fucking noble control over one's own self is misinterpreted by, first and foremost, the codependent self-loathing whiners who think the world should be staring at them, regretfully, at all times, and in all circumstances.
At that point, real people tend to make the mistake of believing their own hype, and commit the high crime of letting bonehead losers endure a little cosmetic pain in order to gain what fucking morons term, "street credit."
Thus, is the truth of clique rejectionist behaviour hijacked and prostituted by middle class working stiffs, and turned into just another American economic resource. And that way lies perdition for the soul of the entire nation.
The sign that a scarred and/or tattooed person is a fucking moron is very easy to detect. The word "aesthetic," enters the language surrounding the behaviour, and suddenly it is all about looking good.
Note to world: anyone who destroys their flesh, but insists it looks good should be shot immediately, and fed to zoo tigers.
In the same way that blues music, and Harley Davidson culture were "reconfigured" to make them palatable, and thus marketable, to white middle class dolts, body modification now exists in two grossly mismatched camps. There are "rubs," which term comes from biker culture to describe "rich urban bikers," and there are "human beings."
A rub is not, in fact, a human being. Its decision to participate in abberant behaviour is based in a calculation of how much personal gain can be returned on the "investment." You will not catch many bankers who drive to a Rolling Stones concert stamping around violently pissed off about what the a) white b) British c) wealthy sons of nobles are peddling as "the blues."
You will not see the managerial consultant under a bridge shooting heroin and pouring caustic chemicals on his forearms in order to scream at the world the he knows it's a fucking asshole. He'll be fashionably smoking crack, or bragging about the THC content of his government-grown pot, making sure everyone thinks that God took a shit and rolled him out the Almighty ass.
Art is not aesthetic. It is the method by which the human animal, cursed with higher awareness and analytical cognition is able to maintain composure in its individual circumstances. What are the circumstances of someone who can afford a five thousand dollar tattoo? I'd say pretty goddamned good.
There are a very few who remain faithful to purity, with incidence rates that could make pancreatic cancer look like a pandemic. The greater problem is, that agony over the commercialisation of abberant behaviour has itself become chic, and the traitors are often the very people who, mimicking me, are vocal about why poseurs should be killed, immediately.
The blues are not raw, or gritty, or rock 'n' rolly, or Delta, or High Delta, or dirty, and nor do they belong to the rainbow of flavours record producers have engineered in order to maximise the diversity of the market. The blues are a fucking guy telling the world who he is.
Period.
Put your fucking sleeves down. You're not cool. Go back to work and leave the suffering to we who rule the world.
The second was that those same people, being untalented dolts, would copy what I was doing and compete to be the best little body manglers on the block.
I knew this going in, having previously spent a lifetime as a blues musician. Several decades ago I became sick with watching middle class working stiffs go to places, and spend enormous money on watching poor black men play music, then turning the entire ordeal into some kind of empathetic reunion of souls.
The blues, that is to say the REAL blues, is not something white middle class working stiffs should be listening to. It was not invented, nor were there "great minds," at work during its development. Instead, the music was borne out of history's worst episode of human-versus-human, as a means to keep a people who, should they ever realise communally just how truly fucked they remain to this day, would kill themselves.
The blues gives vent to the kinds of feelings middle class people simply do not experience. You are not downtrodden because your boss makes you stay late and won't pay you overtime. You're not deprived because the Benz doesn't come in the same pink as your iPod.
You are a prince in a nation of phony princes, overprivileged, and deserving of a fate very similar to what those from who the gift of blues music came from endured while you were becoming so.
Body modification, sorry, REAL body modification is a similarly doomed statement of disenfranchisement, and freedom through rejection of all that is, by your clueless standards, good and pure.
To take what "god" hath made, and to stamp upon it one's own personal certificate of ownership is perhaps the most primitive, and humanly sincere form of expression. Permanent destruction is, after all, outmatched only by human sacrifice in proving just how fucking serious you are about the whole matter.
Of course, this purity, this fucking noble control over one's own self is misinterpreted by, first and foremost, the codependent self-loathing whiners who think the world should be staring at them, regretfully, at all times, and in all circumstances.
At that point, real people tend to make the mistake of believing their own hype, and commit the high crime of letting bonehead losers endure a little cosmetic pain in order to gain what fucking morons term, "street credit."
Thus, is the truth of clique rejectionist behaviour hijacked and prostituted by middle class working stiffs, and turned into just another American economic resource. And that way lies perdition for the soul of the entire nation.
The sign that a scarred and/or tattooed person is a fucking moron is very easy to detect. The word "aesthetic," enters the language surrounding the behaviour, and suddenly it is all about looking good.
Note to world: anyone who destroys their flesh, but insists it looks good should be shot immediately, and fed to zoo tigers.
In the same way that blues music, and Harley Davidson culture were "reconfigured" to make them palatable, and thus marketable, to white middle class dolts, body modification now exists in two grossly mismatched camps. There are "rubs," which term comes from biker culture to describe "rich urban bikers," and there are "human beings."
A rub is not, in fact, a human being. Its decision to participate in abberant behaviour is based in a calculation of how much personal gain can be returned on the "investment." You will not catch many bankers who drive to a Rolling Stones concert stamping around violently pissed off about what the a) white b) British c) wealthy sons of nobles are peddling as "the blues."
You will not see the managerial consultant under a bridge shooting heroin and pouring caustic chemicals on his forearms in order to scream at the world the he knows it's a fucking asshole. He'll be fashionably smoking crack, or bragging about the THC content of his government-grown pot, making sure everyone thinks that God took a shit and rolled him out the Almighty ass.
Art is not aesthetic. It is the method by which the human animal, cursed with higher awareness and analytical cognition is able to maintain composure in its individual circumstances. What are the circumstances of someone who can afford a five thousand dollar tattoo? I'd say pretty goddamned good.
There are a very few who remain faithful to purity, with incidence rates that could make pancreatic cancer look like a pandemic. The greater problem is, that agony over the commercialisation of abberant behaviour has itself become chic, and the traitors are often the very people who, mimicking me, are vocal about why poseurs should be killed, immediately.
The blues are not raw, or gritty, or rock 'n' rolly, or Delta, or High Delta, or dirty, and nor do they belong to the rainbow of flavours record producers have engineered in order to maximise the diversity of the market. The blues are a fucking guy telling the world who he is.
Period.
Put your fucking sleeves down. You're not cool. Go back to work and leave the suffering to we who rule the world.
Friday, June 29, 2007
The Biology Of Love
People die. Get used to it. You're people. You're going to die.
Unless you're Daniel Hoffmann-Gill, however, you probably won't die of autoerotic asphyxiation induced by stuffing wet weasel shit down your throat while a horse fucks you in the ass in a urine-filled cistern.
Still, the reality of death, and its instinctually constant presence in the human mind, is the cause of all fear. As such, it is the cause of what moralistic pricks, those hypocrites who tell everyone why they're evil while hiding their own fetishes involving rodent faeces and horse cock, term "sin."
The most common sin is deception. Lying, by sin standards, is the most kosher of evils, as everyone does it. In fact, without lying, life could not exist, even if we realise that without pickup lines there would only be two or three hundred people on Earth today.
Love, as such, is a lie, and not in the bitter, "That whore was just waiting for something better to come along," manner. What "love," or as we fucking noble intellectuals term it, emotive commital instinct, deceives is the very fact of human mortality.
Pure biology dictates that a healthy slut should be injected with the healthiest sperm available, in order to breed the healthiest little critters possible. In all species, contests which separate the weak Daniel Hoffmann-Gills from the fucking heroic Col. Dr.s thin the bloodlines, so that no Jews ever procreate in the Natural world.
This is probably why the average cock length in animals is merely one third of mine.
Aging is the process of cell death. From the moment of conception, until the age of eighteen years, the human structure is chemically induced to repair itself while simultaneous dividing, and developing from foetus to adult. At the moment (it is an actual single momentary shift in cell metabolism) we reach "adulthood," our cells begin the long process of becoming unable to retain cell wall elasticity.
People cling to those who are old and dying because of love, for some bizarre reason. I personally blame the English, with their prudish notions of Christian charity, but most experts blame something called the myocardiac thymus.
This interesting gland produces a very specialised form of adrenaline, which causes the familiar sensation of heartache. It is literally such, as the process is embedded within the actual cardiac tissue. Thus, when someone "steals" someone's heart, it is merely a glandular problem. So is homesickness, pity, sympathy, hope, excitement about anything other than worshipping me, and pretty much every other emotion which is defined as those which characterise the quality of a fulfilling "human" life.
Thus, all you yuppie pieces of shit who watch Trading Spaces and think you're so good with your machine knits and Land Rovers are just sappy half-commital drug addicts. You weekend pot smokers make me retch.
Real drug addicts know that love is bullshit, and replace such unreliable feelings with pure chemical pleasure. I suggest heroin and cocaine mixtures, but not to the Farley/Belushi levels which cause early loss of cellular metabolism.
Love the emotion ultimately provides a vehicle by which people who are too afraid to really live, and the only way to really feel alive is to stare Death in the face constantly, never sleeping, up for days at a time driving a hundred fifty miles per hour, a way to enter a chemically induced state which helps them forget the fact that they're worm food.
Love is a lie whose effect is directed at disbelieving mortality, and is thus based in fear. Those of us who are too fucking brave and good for losers like you codependent motherfuckers don't need love. We live.
That doesn't stop us from fucking everything that moves, it just makes us all the more cool because we don't limp around thinking our own mortal ends are all that different from every single human death in history.
Stop glorifying your stupid selves. You're just another person. Drop your stupid fucking pretentions and learn to live. Or die, I don't fucking care because I hate you for your weakness.
Unless you're Daniel Hoffmann-Gill, however, you probably won't die of autoerotic asphyxiation induced by stuffing wet weasel shit down your throat while a horse fucks you in the ass in a urine-filled cistern.
Still, the reality of death, and its instinctually constant presence in the human mind, is the cause of all fear. As such, it is the cause of what moralistic pricks, those hypocrites who tell everyone why they're evil while hiding their own fetishes involving rodent faeces and horse cock, term "sin."
The most common sin is deception. Lying, by sin standards, is the most kosher of evils, as everyone does it. In fact, without lying, life could not exist, even if we realise that without pickup lines there would only be two or three hundred people on Earth today.
Love, as such, is a lie, and not in the bitter, "That whore was just waiting for something better to come along," manner. What "love," or as we fucking noble intellectuals term it, emotive commital instinct, deceives is the very fact of human mortality.
Pure biology dictates that a healthy slut should be injected with the healthiest sperm available, in order to breed the healthiest little critters possible. In all species, contests which separate the weak Daniel Hoffmann-Gills from the fucking heroic Col. Dr.s thin the bloodlines, so that no Jews ever procreate in the Natural world.
This is probably why the average cock length in animals is merely one third of mine.
Aging is the process of cell death. From the moment of conception, until the age of eighteen years, the human structure is chemically induced to repair itself while simultaneous dividing, and developing from foetus to adult. At the moment (it is an actual single momentary shift in cell metabolism) we reach "adulthood," our cells begin the long process of becoming unable to retain cell wall elasticity.
People cling to those who are old and dying because of love, for some bizarre reason. I personally blame the English, with their prudish notions of Christian charity, but most experts blame something called the myocardiac thymus.
This interesting gland produces a very specialised form of adrenaline, which causes the familiar sensation of heartache. It is literally such, as the process is embedded within the actual cardiac tissue. Thus, when someone "steals" someone's heart, it is merely a glandular problem. So is homesickness, pity, sympathy, hope, excitement about anything other than worshipping me, and pretty much every other emotion which is defined as those which characterise the quality of a fulfilling "human" life.
Thus, all you yuppie pieces of shit who watch Trading Spaces and think you're so good with your machine knits and Land Rovers are just sappy half-commital drug addicts. You weekend pot smokers make me retch.
Real drug addicts know that love is bullshit, and replace such unreliable feelings with pure chemical pleasure. I suggest heroin and cocaine mixtures, but not to the Farley/Belushi levels which cause early loss of cellular metabolism.
Love the emotion ultimately provides a vehicle by which people who are too afraid to really live, and the only way to really feel alive is to stare Death in the face constantly, never sleeping, up for days at a time driving a hundred fifty miles per hour, a way to enter a chemically induced state which helps them forget the fact that they're worm food.
Love is a lie whose effect is directed at disbelieving mortality, and is thus based in fear. Those of us who are too fucking brave and good for losers like you codependent motherfuckers don't need love. We live.
That doesn't stop us from fucking everything that moves, it just makes us all the more cool because we don't limp around thinking our own mortal ends are all that different from every single human death in history.
Stop glorifying your stupid selves. You're just another person. Drop your stupid fucking pretentions and learn to live. Or die, I don't fucking care because I hate you for your weakness.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Dreams As The Key To Perception
The reticular mandibular process, situated behind the pituitary gland in the brains of those of us who have one is probably a conjunctive organ which works with the limbic system in order to assist the mind in analysing the extreme amount of data which enters the brain during stimulation, in order to prioritise and sort it into a series of predetermined, comprehensible information units.
It is also the organ which helps the mind sort out mundane information from novel, relevant, or pertinent thoughts, and is probably the key to understanding both why dreams can be so vividly "realistic," and why conscious thought is so often so vividly unrealistic.
For those of us not too stupid to sit like dead-eyed cattle in front of our screens, downloading preprocessed crap from media sites, or getting fat and ugly in front of the television like Daniel Hoffmann-Gill, a lack of reticular mandibular process function would be akin to removing earphones and a thick blindfold inside a strobe-lit wind tunnel. The stimulation of everyday sounds, each of the millions of disturbed frequencies which make up even the simplest of noises, would overwhelm us, as they would require separate physical "understanding" by the data process centres of the our brains.
Even extending our hands to block the noise would become impossible, for although we reach and stretch almost "without thinking," there are actually two separate motor control centres being bombarded with millions of information units, as axial or graphed movement requires the mental negotiation of XYZ paths, with the concept of "space" bundled into a preprogrammed control unit known as "movement."
Thus, when conscious, our minds constantly stream out unnecessary information, and present the world to the individual minds, in those whose aren't so burned out from syphillis and crack like Daniel Hoffmann-Gill's, in stereotypical scenarios which allow people to go through their days as mentally efficiently as possible.
Daniel Hoffmann-Gill is mentally deficient, and is excluded for these purposes.
The dream phenomenon is a carry over of this, with the reticular, preprocessed "oughtta be" scenarios playing out what they perceive is happening with information which is chemically released prior to, and immediately following REM sleep. During REM sleep there are no thoughts in the mind, other than the fact that I, the Col. Dr., am God and should be worshipped and feared. But other than that there's various crazy shit that people think is significant.
Interestingly, how one thinks (or doesn't) about the supernatural also develops reticular processes, which play out as Near Death Experience events when their brains are severely deprived of oxygen, and secrete chemicals which trigger thoughts with (severely diminished) remaining consciousness.
The key to all this is, I figured it out, which is why I'm the one with seven PhDs, and Daniel Hoffmann-Gill and his idiot sidekick there are nobodies who don't even deserve the shit my dog wipes on them daily.
Fear me as the Creatore.
It is also the organ which helps the mind sort out mundane information from novel, relevant, or pertinent thoughts, and is probably the key to understanding both why dreams can be so vividly "realistic," and why conscious thought is so often so vividly unrealistic.
For those of us not too stupid to sit like dead-eyed cattle in front of our screens, downloading preprocessed crap from media sites, or getting fat and ugly in front of the television like Daniel Hoffmann-Gill, a lack of reticular mandibular process function would be akin to removing earphones and a thick blindfold inside a strobe-lit wind tunnel. The stimulation of everyday sounds, each of the millions of disturbed frequencies which make up even the simplest of noises, would overwhelm us, as they would require separate physical "understanding" by the data process centres of the our brains.
Even extending our hands to block the noise would become impossible, for although we reach and stretch almost "without thinking," there are actually two separate motor control centres being bombarded with millions of information units, as axial or graphed movement requires the mental negotiation of XYZ paths, with the concept of "space" bundled into a preprogrammed control unit known as "movement."
Thus, when conscious, our minds constantly stream out unnecessary information, and present the world to the individual minds, in those whose aren't so burned out from syphillis and crack like Daniel Hoffmann-Gill's, in stereotypical scenarios which allow people to go through their days as mentally efficiently as possible.
Daniel Hoffmann-Gill is mentally deficient, and is excluded for these purposes.
The dream phenomenon is a carry over of this, with the reticular, preprocessed "oughtta be" scenarios playing out what they perceive is happening with information which is chemically released prior to, and immediately following REM sleep. During REM sleep there are no thoughts in the mind, other than the fact that I, the Col. Dr., am God and should be worshipped and feared. But other than that there's various crazy shit that people think is significant.
Interestingly, how one thinks (or doesn't) about the supernatural also develops reticular processes, which play out as Near Death Experience events when their brains are severely deprived of oxygen, and secrete chemicals which trigger thoughts with (severely diminished) remaining consciousness.
The key to all this is, I figured it out, which is why I'm the one with seven PhDs, and Daniel Hoffmann-Gill and his idiot sidekick there are nobodies who don't even deserve the shit my dog wipes on them daily.
Fear me as the Creatore.
El Presento!
At last, the shackles of injustice have been torn from me, and I am again free to explain exactly why you all are insufficient cowards who are too inept to live, let alone enjoy the thrill of keeping it real.
I'd like to take this opportunity to invite the nastiest shit you can come up with, in order to prove that you're nothing, and the worst you have is tepid at best.
At worst, it's boring and trite, and while mumbling through life might swing it for some, this a blog dedicated to freeing the human soul from scavengers like you.
So, yes, the Col. Dr. is back, and you're a fucking asshole. Suck on it, bitches. At least until Google violates my freedom of expression for the 3rd time in a row, anyway.
I'd like to take this opportunity to invite the nastiest shit you can come up with, in order to prove that you're nothing, and the worst you have is tepid at best.
At worst, it's boring and trite, and while mumbling through life might swing it for some, this a blog dedicated to freeing the human soul from scavengers like you.
So, yes, the Col. Dr. is back, and you're a fucking asshole. Suck on it, bitches. At least until Google violates my freedom of expression for the 3rd time in a row, anyway.
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