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.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
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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