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.
Monday, July 2, 2007
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.
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