Did that fall flat?

Just feckin’ with yez, I’ve been out for a week, there’s no Yonas and the USB thing never happened.  Previous three days’ content plagiarized from the Eritrea Profile, a fine publication that cuts through the foreign media bias about events in East Africa.

I brought this post forward as I reckoned I was taking things too far.  To prove that I’m the real McCoy: Luis, San Mig Light tastes like shit.  Dicky: yes, the Hole is terrifying.  College Reactionary: I banned you because you suggested genocide and speculated about where I was.  Now I have unbanned you.  Go in peace and do not sin again.

And Isaias fucks pigs.  I shall not name the pig unless provoked.

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Doxxed

Comments are back on

Yesterday at work I lost my USB.  It had a bunch of my blog post drafts on it.  Why did I have that at work, you wonder?  Well my normal work USB got a virus so I had to use my home one.

I had it at the printer, left it there, then realized and went back and it was gone.

Finally, a colleague who I will call Bitchface Fascist Cunt announced that she had it, that she’d found some of my less than complimentary posts about her country (I think I may have referred to the administration as a ‘special needs government’ at one point), and declared that she’s going to denounce me to Read More

Immaturity

I have always been immature, in every respect.

Teachers noted it on my report cards, though academically I was fine.  At my thirteenth birthday dinner, my parents asked the Chinese waiter to guess my age and he went with ten.  Still got a free fried ice cream with a sparkler on it, but.

As a teenager I was behind my same-age peers in all respects – cried too easily, late to fill out, never had girlfriends, didn’t have a part-time job.  I lacked confidence, was skinny and spotty, and these factors prevented me from grabbing opportunities that would have helped me to grow up.

Things became alarming when Read More

Unified left, dissenting right

The left is unified.  Anyone, no matter how unimpeachable her leftist credentials, who dares go against the Cult-Marx catechisms shall be cast out, humiliated and destroyed.  The left eat their own, as they always do, but there are no competing streams of thought within their milieus.  A wag might suggest there is not presently a single stream of thought.  In any case, there is only one Left, it is called Baizuo, and I need not repeat its many and contradictory shibboleths to my venerable readers.

The right is entirely different.  There is the mainstream, pro-immigration, pro-business, pro-globalism and pro-war (any war!) right of the old-school conservative parties in each Anglophone country.  Among those are the social conservatives who would happily approve Lenin for the Supreme Court if only he were pro-life.  There are the libertarians who focus mostly on taxation, regulation and free trade.  There are the paleo conservatives, who care much less about the role of government in the economy than they do about immigration and foreign interventionism.  And there is the hard right, perhaps defined as those wanting new, separate ethno-states rather than just the maintenance of what fragments remains of the old ones.

The groups fight each other, but none seems to Read More

Freedman

Pessoa wrote:

Freedom is the possibility of isolation.  You are only free if you can withdraw from men and feel no need to seek them out for money, or society, or love, or glory, or even curiosity, for none of these things flourish in silence and solitude.  If you cannot live alone, then you were born a slave.  Though you may be possessed of every superior quality of spirit and soul, you are still nothing more than a noble slave or an intelligent serf, you are not free.  But that is not your tragedy, for the tragedy of being born like that is not yours but Destiny’s.  Woe betide you, though, if the very weight of life itself makes you a slave.  Woe betide you if, having been born free and capable of providing for yourself and leading a separate existence, penury forces you into the company of others.  That tragedy is yours alone, which you alone must bear.

Some people are suited to work.  Almost everybody, in fact, but good luck getting them to admit it.  A UBI would destroy the average man, turn him into a criminal, a drug addict, a member of the Underclass.  At the very least make him fat.  Most people get meaning, social connection and a sense of accomplishment from work.  They get promotions and go up levels and receive new desks and baubles and recognition, just like in a computer game.  For that matter, I don’t enjoy computer games much either.

As a young man, like every other troubled young man with more brains than sense, I read Notes From The Underground and it, like, really spoke to me, man, I really got it.  And all that nonsense.  We were supposed to view the narrator with contempt, but I kinda liked him.  He’s a lot like me – weird, oversensitive, unpopular, arrogant and he probably smells bad too.  He says at the start that he’d inherited a little money from an aunt and that it was just enough for him to retire and live a frugal life without needing to go out into the world and do any more work.

I thought, I’d kiss a cow’s arse for that.  I’d give my left ball for that.  I’d draw my Gran’s beating heart and present it to munificent Kali for that.  Think of it!  Never needing to work, ever again!  Being free!

The reader might here be misunderstanding me.  I’m not especially lazy – having things to do is fine.  Rather, what I abhor about work, and I think here I’m as one with Pessoa, is needing to deal with people.  All day, every day.  All those workplace dramas, politics and stresses, faux pas, lunatics, angry people, disappointed faces, mistakes, inadequacies, insecurities, and on and on.

To be free of it . . .

Not free to necessarily sit on a beach and drink cocktails, or to work on magnificent projects, or to chase magnificently nubile ladies.  Just free to not have to deal with all of that trouble.  Not rapture, not ecstasy; just a mild and reasonable freedom, like what an eccentric English gentleman might once have had when he collected stamps or shrunken Papuan heads.

I think this is what my life has always been leading to, though I did not always know it.  From the first moment I became aware of this concept of freedom, it has had an allure for me like that which gold, power, fame, fast cars or beautiful women have for other men.  Saving money instinctively, without budgeting, is a natural outgrowth of this underlying desire to be at peace.

Work is not the same for all of us.  For some it is a daily horror.  Any job would be so for us – perhaps aside from home-based stenography – because it involves being out there in a world we would prefer to avoid as much as possible.

I like to go out sometimes – once or twice a week is good – but that is enough.  The rest of the time I prefer to be secluded.  I live like that on my breaks and it is not glorious, it is just . . . peaceful.  Quiet.  After holidays colleagues say I look different – cheerful, relaxed; my face gets fatter and I sometimes even smile.  Yes, me – smile!  Might I one day become one of those smiley people, like Jonty Rhodes?  Oh, that might be going too far.  Way too far.  I generally wear a beset and mournful expression.  But perhaps I might one day look less beset and mournful.  I guess that would be an improvement.

Luisman worries I’ll blow all my money.  Adam reckons I’ll get bored.  Well . . . soon we shall know.  For whatever goes wrong in my new life, you can expect to encounter reams of whining about it here on the People’s Blog.  So you’ve got that to look forward to.

Brave New World and the Last Man

Book review of Brave New World by Aldous Huxley with reference to Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Frederick Nietzsche and 1984 by George Orwell.

In 1984, the world is ruled by a totalitarian, self-perpetuating system that brutalizes its own upper echelons most of all.  In Brave New World, Huxley paints a different picture of the future, one where human interactions are mandatorily shallow, where casual sex is expected, and where bad feelings have mostly been bred and conditioned out of the docile, fun-loving population.

It is too easy to make fun of science fiction that is already out of date.  There are anachronisms such as scientists taking notes with pencil and paper, manual laborers who are still required in large numbers, liftmen (elevator operators), and English women who are slim and attractive.

But good science fiction aims to comment, not to predict, because the latter is impossible.  Huxley envisions what some of his contemporaries might have considered an ideal society: one where the family has been done away with, children are born in test tubes and raised in nurseries, trained from infancy to enjoy their assigned roles in society, and kept happy throughout their lives by generously provided rations of the feel-good drug soma.

Bernard Marx (yes, I yawned too) doesn’t fit in.  He doesn’t want to be happy all the time.  He wants to Read More