At last! Dear Reader, Underdog Anthology XIV: The Dark Ides of March has finally been published and is now available for purchase…
*Wrong book, Clicky, although finking about it… /lights up and smokes… I did write my anthology story over the Easter weekend…*
After writing ‘What Time Do You Finish?’ and following that up with ‘Christmas Death Wish’, I’d decided I would write a third installment in what is turning out to be a ‘Ronageddon’ series. If you haven’t read those stories yet, Dear Reader, please avail yourself of the links, below…
Synchronicity provided me with the title of the story you are about to read. That and Cade Fon Apollyon: I’d been mulling over story ideas for weeks, wracking my brains for an angle, when I hit upon an idea. I was very excited and headed straight to Twitter DMs to tell my best bud, but what I saw when I arrived was a poem, waiting. One that Cade had just written for me…
*/flicks ash… And on mum’s birthday too…*
Anyway, Dear Reader, I hope you enjoy ‘Walk I, With You’. See you at the bottom of the post for a Song 😉
Walk I, With You
By Roo B. Doo
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking umpteen…
God paused at the end of the first sentence on the first page of the battered book in her hand.
Disconcerted yet curious, God checked the cover of the book to make sure that the title and author’s name were correct before continuing to read on.
The Grim Reaper, skull nuzzled deep within the cowl of his robe, silently glided up to the bench closest to the duck pond in Victory Park. The ‘Do Not Use’ warning tape adorning it had deterred everyone from sitting there, but not Death. The Grim Reaper climbed up onto the bench and waited.
On a tree nearby, a coloured poster, too large for the display, had been tacked up. It simply depicted an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a middle-aged man, with tousled, blond hair, baggy eyes and jowly jawline. It was one of those pictures which are designed so that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BRO IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
God snapped the book shut and sighed.
I knew it! Somebody is monkeying about with Nineteen-Eighty-Four. Again!
She called for the fat, smug goose who administered the comings and going in the vast area known as the God Lobby.
Come with me, Brian. We need to make a site visit.
Spring was in the air and Victory Park was packed with people exercising in the pale April sunshine. Despite the brightness, the air remained frosty cool from both the transition of the seasons and the earliness of the hour. Death sat on a bench close to the duck pond and watched the hordes walking, running and star jumping in socially distanced formation. All their faces were dutifully masked.
Why are they torturing themselves? Death wondered as he watched a stream of hot breath pour through the sweaty face-mask of a passing jogger. They may as well be carrying a bundle of posies in front of their faces for all the protection those things give. Ah, the Black Death. Now that was a proper pandemic.
Death pulled a slim, black rectangle from the depths of his robe and flipped open the cover to reveal a bright, smooth screen decorated with coloured icons. Following the disastrous crash of the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net (CCNN) that occurred on Halloween in 2020, God had resolved that an upgrade in tech was very much required, and the PsiPad was born. The Psion organiser, which had been gainfully employed by the Grim Reaper Service up until that point, was finally relegated to the Scrapheap of Obsolescence. There it languished alone; the hourglass having escaped the same fate by presciently forging a long-standing relationship with eggs.
Tapping the screen of the PsiPad with a bony digit, Death opened the PsiCalendar and studied his schedule for the day. He had arrived a little early for his next appointment but didn’t mind waiting. Having existed throughout all of time, Death was not opposed to occasionally killing the bastard.
A message flashed up on the screen which simply read ‘Molly’, and although the Grim Reaper shouldn’t be able to feel anything, Death experienced a sense of apprehension and anticipation prickle his bones.
Molly Darling was the pure soul child, whose poorly spelled letter to Santa had inadvertently instigated Armageddon and had caused Death nothing but trouble. Her letter, and her sincere Christmas wish contained within it, to end war, famine and pollution for the benefit of mankind, had fallen into the hands of Satan, and Old Scratch never wasted an opportunity for some devilment. Whether or not he’d had a hand in the CCNN crash that occurred at the same time was as yet unknown. Investigations into the matter were said to be ongoing.
On the whole, Death was against the making and granting of wishes of any kind; however, he’d been manoeuvred into making a wish of his own, with Molly as the beneficiary. He’d been presented with a choice; God always provides a choice: the removal of Molly Darling from life before she could send her letter, thus averting the end of the world, or rectify the matter in some other way. Death’s ethics forbade him from taking the first course of action, so he had plumped for some other way. Death’s wish had been granted by Father Christmas and subsequently Molly Darling had been born with the innate ability to correctly spell.
And that should have been the end of the matter, but for the unintended consequence rider that accompanies every wish granted, one that practically no one considers when making one. In this case, the very act of wishing had inextricably linked Molly to Death and attracted deaths to Molly.
Death scrolled back through the years on the PsiCalendar, counting the number of ‘Molly alerts’ that littered them. By definition, Death was only concerned with the dead, paying scant attention to the living around them. Now, courtesy of the newly issued bit of tremendous tech under his distal phalanges, Death was aware of just how many times his path and Molly’s had crossed during her short life so far. It was sporadic but not inconsiderable.
He found the date of the first Molly alert: 1st January 2013; the day Molly Darling was born. She had arrived in the early hours of the morning as Death was transitioning the soul of one Barry Munroe, a poor unfortunate struck by a speeding taxi, following a night of heavy drinking in celebration of the birth of the new year. The speeding taxi had been delivering a screaming woman to hospital, who was making a rapid delivery of her own on the back seat of the cab.
Death had given no consideration to the wailing bundle of new life at the time – why should he? – but in hindsight, the significance of Molly’s place of birth was not lost on Death, as it was in the back of a taxi on Halloween in 2020 that the savage deletion from existence of his good friends, War, Famine and Pestilence had occurred and Armageddon began. Death had changed Molly’s past to affect mankind’s future, yet he still retained the memory of that terrible night. For Death, Halloween 2020, both with and without that fateful taxi ride, existed at the same time, and within the same space.
It’s like Schrödinger’s Cab, Death mused deeply.
The PsiPad had also revealed to Death what lay behind a strange incident that coincided with one of the Molly Alerts, an incident that had baffled him until now. On 16th July 2016, Death had sat on this same bench, watching swaths of people roam across Victory Park. The insufferably hot weather had done little to deter the excited crowd from hunting virtual monsters augmented with their reality; it was the latest fashion. Instead of face-masks, mobile phones and electronic devices of all kinds covered peoples’ faces, which now caused Death to ponder upon the origin of the phrase ‘Track and Trace’.
On that day, Death had been awaiting the arrival of one Davy Keith, an otherwise healthy lad of 14, except for the undiagnosed hole in his heart and an all-consuming passion for collecting simulated Japanese monsters. Death watched passively as a pudgy toddler rushed along the path toward the bench upon which he sat, a tired looking woman pushing a stroller followed in the child’s wake. The little girl had all the grace of a drunken sailor and Death had assumed her wide milk-tooth grin and incoherent babble was aimed at the sun blazing high in the sky above Death’s head. That was until she tried to hug him.
A thought which had occurred to Death in that moment, on that day had haunted him ever since. Am I a monster?
Now Death knew that child had been Molly Darling and she had seen him. Following the aborted hug, and before her mother had whisked her away, Molly’s hand gestures had been her attempt to communicate with him: ‘Hello. My name is M-O-L-L-Y. I am deaf.’
It’s augmented reality, alright, Death decided with a sigh. He closed the cover on the PsiPad and returned it to the folds of his robe. Not long to wait now.
“Keep it up squad. Pump those arms,” the long-legged woman barked, as she strode purposefully among the regimented lines of exercisers performing push-ups beneath her gaze. She was a colossus of female physical perfection: full, round breasts, a washboard stomach and thighs so muscular they looked capable of pulverizing anyone’s head fortunate enough to be caught between them.
Lockdown had been very good for Wanda Warren. Before the arrival of the Rona and the restrictions that ensued, she’d struggled to attract many clients to her fledgling business: Fighting Fit. Whilst it was true that the small number of clients she did have were dedicated to not only her tough methods but also to Wanda herself, she was only a one woman band and the indoor gym in town, with its flashy machines, coffee shop and showers, had attracted many more members.
Now the gym was closed due to the Rona and the only place to exercise was outside. Competitive advantage had shifted firmly in Wanda’s favour, and Fighting Fit scooped up a substantial amount of new devotees. All males desperate to retain their fitness, blow off the excess energy built up from their now enforced sedentary lifestyle, and the outside possibility of being crushed between Wanda Warren’s dangerous thighs.
She caught sight of a familiar figure across the park. “And once you reach a hundred, give me one full circuit of the park. Now move it!” she ordered, before sprinting off in the direction of the duck pond.
“War,” the Grim Reaper replied.
Wanda pulled down her face-mask and sprawled on the bench next to Death. The difference in stature between the two cardinal colleagues was stark: whereas War was long and rangy, the diminutive Grim Reaper was small enough to reach into all the nooks and crannies.
War smiled radiantly. “I thought it was you.”
“I see you’re building up quite an army, dear lady.”
“Pfft. Early days yet.” War punched Death on the arm. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since…” Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the last time they’d met.
Death turned to his beautiful colleague: in ancient Troy her face had launched a thousand ships; today it could launch a thousand more, all armed to the teeth with nuclear weapons. The last time he’d seen War, however, she’d been ripping Famine and Pestilence apart with carnal ferocity in the back of a London black taxi being driven by Old Scratch. “I am here waiting.”
“Oh, right. Not for any of my lot, I hope,” War inquired hesitantly.
“Possibly.” Death produced the PsiPad from his robes.
“Ooh nice kit. You got an upgrade?” War snatched the PsiPad from Death, opened the PsiCalendar and read the name of Death’s next appointment. “Really? No way!”
Death pulled the PsiPad from War’s grasp. “Yes and very much way.”
War stretched her arms out along the back of the bench and flicked at a stray end of warning tape. “Pesto’s played a fucking blinder with this Rona business, eh? It’s done my little enterprise no end of good.”
Death remained silent; he was far from convinced that Pestilence had any involvement in the disease that had swept the world in the last year. He’d certainly had to deal with a rise in suicidees and murder victims, but pretty much all the usual causes of death had remained relatively stable. Certainly all the deaths solely attributed to the Rona were vanishingly small. “Have you seen Pesto recently?”
“Not since…” Once again War’s furrowed her brow.
“How about Famine?” Death asked.
“AWOL,” War snorted. “Fuck knows where he is. Have you seen how fat these cunts are?”
“Good for business.”
“Indeed, business is booming.”
War stood up and pulled her face-mask back up over the cruel smirk that marred her lips; the first of the Fighting Fit squad would be coming through soon, and as their leader, it was imperative that Wanda uphold standards for the group. “I tell ya, the buggers love being told what to do. And the harsher you are, the more they fucking love it.”
“Until pushed too far.”
“I know! Brilliant, isn’t it? A win-win,” War laughed, briefly lowering her mask to suck air noisily up her quivering nostrils. “Can you smell the resentment and aggression simmering, Death? Itsa gonna be a spicy meat ball!”
“Lacking an olfactory system, War, I am unable to concur with your assessment,” Death replied drily. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Ha ha. You do that, short arse,” she smirked, affixing her mask back into place.
Wanda turned her attention to the first of her squad to appear, smacking his backside as he ran by. “Attaboy, Malc. Only a mile to go.” As each member passed they received the same backside slap from Wanda, but her words of encouragement changed with her assessment of their individual performance.
The last straggler stopped and stooped over with hands on knees, gasping for breath.
“What’s up, Jimbo? Don’t you have the heart for it today?” Wanda stood over the bent back of James ‘Jimbo’ Collins and gave Death a double thumbs up sign. “Here, have a sit down, old fella. Take five and then catch up with us once you get your breath back.”
She steered Jimbo toward the bench. Despite his apparent distress, he still managed to give her righteous backside a firm squeeze. Wanda rolled her eyes at Death and saluted before sprinting away to catch up with the rest of her Fighting Fit squad and finish the circuit of Victory Park.
Death ignored Jimbo’s ragged breathing and continued to wait.
Jocasta Darling luxuriated in the bright spring sunshine that came as a welcome relief after the unmitigated gloom of winter and lockdown. Not that Jocasta thought lockdown would be ending any time soon, not if the government’s broken promises over the past year were anything to go by. Still it was nice to get out for a walk, and despite the cold, the sunshine was glorious and lifted Jocasta’s spirits for the first time since the start of the year.
Her daughter Molly skipped alongside, occasionally pausing to smell the newly budding flowers or point out the birds traversing the powder blue sky. The pair made their way toward the pond at the heart of Victory Park, where Molly liked to serve breakfast to the ducks each morning. Jocasta just liked to see her daughter happy. Molly had been in and out of hospital since birth with one thing or another, and it broke Jocasta’s heart at what Molly had had to endure. And now her schooling had been disrupted, all because of the Rona, which appeared to ignore kids like a bad parent. Jocasta often wondered just exactly where the blessed government’s priorities actually lay.
Although the park was busy with exercisers, the pond area looked to be empty to Jocasta, except for a jogger sitting slumped over on a bench. As they drew closer, Molly eagerly grabbed the plastic bag from her mother’s hands and pulled out a crust of bread.
“Okay be careful. Don’t fall in,” Jocasta instructed her daughter.
Molly beamed at her mother, flashing an ‘OK’ sign, and made her way to the shady side of the pond where the ducks and swans were congregated, all the while ripping the crust into smaller, bite-sized pieces.
Jocasta wasn’t sure what the government’s guidelines were this week on the usefulness of benches, but this one was still clearly marked as out of bounds. She wondered if she should go and say something to the jogger: it really didn’t pay to attract the attentions of the Rona marshals that now patrolled the park. Even the slightest infraction was pounced upon, and she herself had been lectured several times on the essential need to wear a face-mask, despite both she and Molly holding medical exemptions due to her daughter’s deafness. At her age, Jocasta was finding it hard enough to master a new language, without being hampered by half of it being obscured by face coverings; sign language was so much more than just hand signs. But try telling that to the oiks in uniforms with quotas to fill. At least Jocasta assumed the marshals had quotas to fill; everything today appeared to be run on targets, quotas and guidelines.
Jocasta approached the bench. “Excuse me. Do you know if it’s okay to sit here?”
The jogger looked up at her, giving Jocasta a fixed stare whilst the fabric of his face-mask ballooned in and out with every whooping breath. “What?”
He thinks I’m a Karen, Jocasta thought, shocked at the aggression in his eyes. “No, I’m asking if you know whether we’re permitted to sit on the bench yet. It’s still taped off,” Jocasta explained. “I’d love a sit down too if it’s allowed.”
“Oh… I see,” the jogger replied, as he attempted to control his breathing. “Yes… yes, I think so… since the start of the week… I’m sure of it.”
Jocasta smiled at the jogger; her smile was as bright as the morning but much warmer. “That is good news. I wonder why the council haven’t removed the tape yet.”
“They’ll get… around to it… eventually.”
Still, the forbidding tape unnerved Jocasta and she hesitated to sit down. “I’m with my daughter Molly. She’s over there feeding the ducks.”
The jogger nodded without removing his gaze from the floor, as he focused on this laboured breathing.
“Are you feeling alright?” Jocasta asked anxiously.
“Fine… thank you,” the jogger replied. “Over-exertion… I’ll be okay…”
Jocasta didn’t think the man looked okay at all. Apart from his breathing, he was sweating profusely and massaging his left arm. From what she could see of his face and neck, the jogger was coloured puce, and Jocasta was certain that wasn’t a good sign for a man his age. “You know it might help if you remove your mask,” she tentatively suggested.
The jogger gave Jocasta another fixed stare, but the aggression had gone from his eyes. He reached up with his right hand and unhooked the mask from his ears. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he said, sucking in a great gulp of air.
Jocasta recognised her local MP immediately but didn’t acknowledge that she knew who James Collins was. Although she had never once voted for him, he’d been her representative in Parliament for what seemed like forever. He’d also been very vocal on the importance of lockdowns, mask-wearing and, now, mandatory vaccinations. That was something else Jocasta disagreed with him over, but if James Collins was using the bench, then she felt sure it was okay for her to use it too.
Jocasta felt an icy blast at her back as she lowered herself onto the bench seat, at the farthest end from where her Member of Parliament sat. “Gosh, that feels very cold,” she said with a shiver. She felt the cold settle into her but, strangely, it did not feel unpleasant.
Fishing into her handbag, she pulled out a covered ashtray, which she placed on the arm rest of the bench, before lighting a cigarette. She dragged deeply and let out a satisfying whoosh of smoke, blowing it in the direction away from the bench. Jocasta had really missed not being able to sit down and smoke outside, and felt particularly aggrieved at the ban on sitting in public. For the longest time, outside had been the only place the public were allowed to smoke, and now she was expected to stand up to do it.
“I say… Could you put that out?” James Collins asked gruffly and gripped his left arm tighter. “Having trouble breathing… here.”
The sudden icy blast Jocasta had felt at sitting down now migrated to her eyes. She turned both barrels on her MP.
“No,” she stated, flatly.
“That’s… not very courteous…”
Jocasta took another puff of her cigarette and tapped the loose ash into the the ashtray. Again, she blew the smoke away from the bench. “We are appropriately socially distanced, are we not? I am not blowing smoke in your direction and there is no law against smoking outside.”
James Collins started coughing and waving his hand limply in front of his nose. Fat droplets of sweat poured from his grimacing face. “Can’t you see I’m… in trouble?”
“Yes you are.” Jocasta wasn’t sure what had come over her, but she felt very certain that the words coming out of her mouth were being said with the confidence of another’s voice. “You, James Collins MP, are a sell out. Not only are you a liar, a lecher and a rubber-stamp for oppression, but you’ve caused dis-ease, and I am sorry to tell you, but you will be going to hell.”
Jocasta looked over at Molly busily feeding the noisy ducks and waved. Molly waved back, tilting her head to one side with a curious look on her face. ‘Having fun?’ Jocasta signed to her daughter.
Molly nodded vigorously and signed back, ‘There’s a goose and he’s eating all the bread. Come and see.’
Jocasta chipped the end of her cigarette off in the ashtray and returned both to her handbag. She stood up, squared her shoulders, giving her MP a final withering stare. “Good-bye.”
She walked away, back along to the path to join Molly, leaving James Collins with a look of abject terror on this face.
“Hello, Jimbo,” Death said, pulling the PsiPad from the folds of his robe.
“So this is Hell?” Jimbo Collins asked, as Death guided him into the vaulted expanse of the God Lobby and placed him at the end of a queue of souls. Like Jimbo, they were all dressed in white and wore face-masks. “Looks like Heaven to me.”
“For some it is both,” Death replied. “Just follow the white line. You’ll get there eventually.”
The queue shuffled forwards, taking Jimbo along with it.
Death took the express elevator up to the Office. From there he could look across the vastness of the God Lobby, and see just how long the queue he’d placed Jimbo Collins in was. It snaked back and forth, up and down and crossed itself in numerous places.
Looks like a commercial for toilet paper, does it not, Big D? All that’s missing is a great, big, playful puppy.
Death turned to the voice of God whispering over his shoulder and bowed. “It’s certainly the most appropriate place to deposit little shits, Ma’am.”
God tittered; she did appreciate Death’s sense of humour.
“I take it you were there,” Death said.
How did you know?
“Molly’s ‘Come and see’ was a dead giveaway. That and Brian’s disguise. He put no effort into it at all.”
On the reception desk Brian, who was forever eavesdropping, ruffled his feathers and hissed.
Yes, we were there. The situation looks grim.
“Indeed it does.”
God moved away from the balcony overlooking the God Lobby. Death glided along behind at a respectful distance.
“Ma’am, I’m worried about the disappearance of Famine and Pestilence. I can’t find any trace of them since…”
Halloween? Yes, it is concerning.
“War’s nose is never wrong. Without Famine and Pesto to provide balance, I fear for the future of humanity.”
Then you must find them, Big D.
“Me?” Death felt a sense of déjà vu; he’d been in this position before.
Of course. You find everyone. Eventually.
God smiled at Death and her smile was a bright as an April morning.
*You fink I should feature Famine in the next one, Clicky? …/stubs butt… Maybe…*
So, please do consider buying a copy of Underdog Anthology XIV. It has 13 top notch stories and 2 poems to delight and terrify you…
Have a Song, Dear Reader… ❤
Good news, Dear Reader 😀 I have finally, finally finished and submitted my story for Underdog Anthology XIV…
*Something like that, Clicky…*
… I still have to find a dead poet’s poem to mutilate for the Afterword, but Leggy is hoping to publish the new volume in the next week or so, and I will then post ‘Walk I, With You’ for you here at the LoL…
*Yeah, I used an image from the story for that tweet…*
…Right now, however, we have a new missive from Cade Fon Apollyon, the Okie Text Us Devil, on the subject of synchronicity/synchromysticism. If you have any interest in the subject whatsoever, it’s not to be missed. And even if you don’t, it’s a bloody good read anyway.
Scroll on, Dear Reader, scroll on…
… And enjoy! ❤
Captain….CAPTAIN, Jack Sparrow.
- - -
E-STIR E-STIR E-STIR
| · |
·| · |·
| · |
- - -
Did you know that, according to Google Translate, “tur” is German for “door”?
Did you know that “TUR” is the NASDAQ ticker for some fund based on Turkish equities?
Welp...now you know.
Open some doors.
A holy crusade should be started. A holy crusade to eliminate all evildoers on the entire planet. That way, when all evildoers are dead, only the good will remain. So, if I survive these purges, that means I too, am good.
Well, there will still be murderers left because the good who killed all the bad are still alive. And I guess there will still be thieves because the murderers took something that did not belong to them. And there will be liars because all of this murder and theft was predicated upon there being no more evildoers left in the world.
We're right back to where we started.
Hrm… maybe it would be best to skip all those shenanigans and just leave things more or less as they are?
This time a year ago (April 2020/when the lockdown started) oil dropped to $11.26 per bbl and gasoline prices fell through the floor. Now, it’s back up to over $60 per bbl, and it’s being projected that by summer/fall of 2021, oil will be up to around $80 per bbl. Oil hasn’t been over $80 per bbl since October of 2014.
Hrm…relying on nCoV-2019 vaccinations, to rally demand for oil. I wonder what other types of things those in the market are relying upon nCoV-2019 vaccinations to rally. Further have to wonder if people aren’t getting vaccinated, does that mean the rallies aren’t gonna happen? I wonder if rich people/powerful people get rowdy when they want they want a rally to happen, but it doesn’t. Do they riot, and if so, how and where do they riot/tear shit up?
The concept of teaching Synchronicity is an interesting one. Teach people how to recognize and observe the phenomena. My experience has been that Synchronicity cannot be taught. If you start pointing weird shit out, people are initially going to query you as to how you saw such a small and insignificant event. Over time, they will start to look at you really fucking strangely.
They may go so far as to accuse you of being the engine that is driving this phenomenon because it only seems to happen when you are around. Or at least, you are the only one that seems to be able to see this stuff, no one else seems to catch it, although yes, once you point it out, they see it too. Maybe at this point it’s important to point out that “seeing” (to me anyway) is one of the more overrated parts of the experience. It may sometimes be a smell, or a sound, or a feeling, or even an aggregate of sensory input that generates a deja vu type of vibe, except with synchronicities the feeling is more like you’re experiencing something that has already happened in the future rather than re-experiencing a something that has happened in the past.
I’m getting off-track…lemme get back on topic. It is likely possible to teach one to recognize Synchronicity, but I’d think an interest on the part of the learner is gonna be necessary.
Seriously…who in the hell wants to be an observer?
A: Fucking no one.
You don’t wanna be in the stands, you wanna be on the field, be in the game. You wanna be making things happen, not be at the whims of chance and just standing their helpless as events unfold because of those who are actually participating and driving things.
Glory. Glory!!! BUCKETLOADS OF GLORY!!!
You want it. You want them.
This is really just me vocalizing my ineptitude at figuring out how one teaches another to be a good observer. How to develop your communication skills so as to be able to be accurate in expressing yourself and relating events to 3rd parties. But to be honest, when it comes to synchronicity, anyone who seeks you out for help is likely to already be either a novice or perhaps even intermediate due to the nature of synchronicity. You were just minding your business one day, and suddenly, the Universe grabbed you by the nape of the neck and chunked your sorry ass into the deep end, and that was the first and last time you could ever be qualified as a “beginner”. Its all uphill from there, and chances are you possess tools you didn’t even know you had before this journey even started.
It is with all that in mind that I reiterate…the concept of teaching Synchronicity is an interesting one. Maybe its not about teaching as much as it is about learning. Maybe even sharing. Maybe there’s an equality type of trait nested within where the teacher and student hats are always and forever interchangeable. There are no masters, there is only mastery.
Some people are probably gonna REALLY dislike such a concept.
No room for advancement.
No way to become a name.
No way to become a face.
What does your face look like anyway?
DATABASE FOR HUMAN TRAINING a glimpse into the databases used by artificial intelligence-Animated Gifs
Hey…you’ve always wanted to get to know people. That must also mean you want people to get to know you. Welp, they are. Problem is, there may not be a whole lotta reciprocation going on.
They, know you. You, are not them.
You may have to suspend disbelief if you listen to this next song.
Just hang in there...you will reach the “wtf?!?” part soon enough.
SO! For those who journeyed into that video, and stuck with it long enough to reach the “wtf?!?” moment, lets us see some of the more or less boring mechanics of how some sweet little soft-spoken pixie learns to summon and master the dark vocal forces of hell.
Is that misogynist of me? Sexist? Referring to a person who I do not know nor have any sort of relationship with as “a sweet little soft-spoken pixie”? To be fair, she was/is singing to me. Or at me.
Prolly not that much different than anything else. You want to learn to do something, you see how others do it, then you practice, practice, practice.
I admit that when I watched that Jinjer/Pisces video, I did not believe what I was hearing. The video is supposedly live, but if you are as old as I am and have been around the musical block a few times, you learn that a “live” recording is…well, not necessarily as “live” as they say it is. Most of the time a “live” recording has been sent back to the engineers for cleanup, and many of the nuances of a live performance have been removed. Also need to point out that electronic vocal processing has reached the point to where there is virtually nothing that one cannot do digitally. So I had to ask myself…
”Wait, let’s say that they are heaping a shitload of vocal processing on her voice in order to make her sound like a man. Is that really any different than some pop diva using autotune, so that she never hits any sour notes? Or even putting a reverb or delay or EQ or compression or some other effect on a more or less clean voice?”
I used to sometimes run my own voice straight into a distortion pedal to get my voice to sound like I wanted. Yep, plugged the microphone directly into a distortion pedal made for guitar. Lolz (true story) Screaming is hard on the voice. Talk to any USMC drill instructor, and chances are their voice sounds like rocks in a woodchipper from all of that screaming.
With all this in mind, I went back and watched the Jinjer/Pisces video again, and I watched nothing but her lips and her throat, and tried to keep her posture in my periphery so I could see what her diaphragm was doing. I also tried to listen for any hints of more or less “female” sounding tones embedded within the signal I was hearing. I heard some. Also, the video angles and cuts are as such that it is damn rough to look for those tiny accentuations in the face and neck which reveal connections to certain tones. I still doubt as to whether she is actually producing these sounds.
So let’s do this…lets see if we can find a something where they are live live…like on-stage live at a concert, and see if it still looks disconnected.
FUCK!!! She’s now got a goddamn huge neck tattoo obscuring everything!!!
That certainly doesn’t help seeing whether or not veins are popping out in her neck, nor does it make it easy to see what the larynx is doing. So now I have to go back and listen to both the studio live and concert live versions, bounce back and forth and see just how similar the screamed/growled parts are. They do sound similar, but not in a Milli Vanilli/lipsyncing kind of way as much of a “how does the vocal tones of the live studio version sound so damn close to the on-stage live version?” kind of way. Are we learning to learn how to learn about strange coincidences yet?
Fuck this…let,s get the straight dope right out of the growler’s mouth.
Formed a new band last week.
Avant Garde Fart Cracklings
Our first album “Crispy Burnt Leftovers In The Bottom Of The Pan” should drop soon. Which reminds me…
if Sulfur smelled like apple blossoms, would farts be more popular?
Do you prefer to know the secret behind the magician’s tricks, or are you just here for the magic? Or both?
It is nice to be able to control others. Especially to control the magician.
The fog days of summer are rapidly approaching.
Frog days of summer...that is.
Ever since this “Q” or “QAnon” stuff has fallen on its face and its followers have gotten all grumpy and discombobulated, it has been quite amazing to see just how quickly the “Disclosure” peeps have also turned on their own masters.
Which reminds me, I watched a documentary the other day called “Alien Reptilian Legacy”.
I’m not exactly big on pointing out certain physical features nor making derogatory type comparisons, but holy FUCK! As soon as David Icke appeared, I was like…”damn, that dude appears to be physically turning into the very thing that he hates…a Reptilian.” Besides that, the documentary was pretty fucking boring tho. Not to mention that the whole Reptilian thing is muddy as fuck since some seem to think that the Reptilians are the good guys, Greys are the bad guys, and others think the opposite. (Greys = Good, Reptilians = Bad) Um…I’ve never seen a Reptilian. Nor a Grey. Nor any other fucking extraterrestrial as far as that goes. Seen some goddamn freaky-assed human weirdos come out of the Ufology community, but never seen an alien. Cept via the wizardry of books, film and television. Which reminds me, its been a while since I checked to see how many alien species are now said to reside on Earth/Terra. I think last time I checked, there was around 78 different aliens visiting from 78 different planets. Lets see if any new aliens have landed.
Fucking hell…that list sucks balls.
That’s from over three years ago, and it don’t help me much.
That’s more along the lines of what I’m looking for in that it’s timely, but that’s just projections from a more or less legit entity in the scientific community (SETI). I need an updated list of the honest-to-God extraterrestrial beings that are currently hanging their space hats on Earth.
GAH!!! That’s more capitalist wet market bullshit. I need aliens with space ships and phasers and warp drives and cloaking devices and chicks with three tits and other assorted technological advances.
Black, Grey and Watch Lists of alien species in the Czech Republic based on environmental impacts and management strategy
More markets? Blacks and Greys?
If anything, that list is missing aliens.
I cannot read much of that article because it is behind a paywall. Which, hey…remember at carnivals where a certain amount of money would get you inside of the tent, but if you wanted to keep going to the various shows inside, you had to pay additional? They tempt you with all those banners, but the truth is that the fee to get in the door is only one fee of many. You then get shown the exit, your funds are depleted, and you’re not exactly sure what in the fuck just happened nor what you actually got for your cash.
I got yet another question for you to chew on…
Q: Where do the disaffected go?
A: ?? ( o ) ( o ) ??
They’ve rebelled, gone their own way, found their own path…but are they welcomed back and nestled into the bosom of mamma’s embrace when everything collapses? Make no mistake, “they” want you as part of their team. They’ll split, divide and set you assunder via any and all means in order to get you into the fold. Build a something up, and tear it right the fuck back down so you have nowhere else to go. Has an air of demonstrating and reinforcing who the rightful owners are…eh? Have any idea what I’m talking about here?
Q: Who owns the Universe and everything in it?
A: ? ó¿ó ?
You’re on your own in answering this one. Maybe if you weren’t fighting like hell to get these fuckers on a pedestal, you wouldn’t find yourself fighting like hell to get them off.
Get them off…the pedestal. Not like get them off get them off. Although…you are getting off getting them on, and, getting off getting them off.
Sounds like you are getting the better end of the deal.
Lets us take a spin around The Synchrosphere, yeah? Been a long time since I’ve done that, so lets see if we can see what the synchromystics/synchronauts are up to.
NOTE: Just because you aren’t one of the popular kids in the popular cliques doesn’t make what you do any less important. There are likely metric-mega-fucktons of people out there doing their thing who have no idea that “The Synchrosphere” is even a thing. They just keep on chugging, keep digging, keep learning, irrespective of what the cool kids are doing. Many of them prolly aren’t trying to carve out their own niche either. Just slogging through the craziness and trying to figure out what they are doing right and what they are doing wrong.
Lemme break out of that “note” and give a coupla examples of what I mean.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of stuff like that over time. They seem to be under the impression that they are completely alone, the only source of “truth”, and all this stuff they are seeing is driving them bonkers because they are shouting into the void and no one seems to be heeding their warnings. But at the same time, this individual does appear to be trying prove something, as well as trying to carve out their own niche because they seem to think that getting “Twitter Verified” will make everything they say and do OK. Validation by the very system(s) they seem to be at odds with, will, I guess, make their predictions more mostest trueerist of all because the message is getting out to millions instead of just a few hundred and people are actually listening! Or something. Maybe its a matter of money. Getting paid to do what you do is a helluva validation in our world and times.
The Moose, or BuckoTheMoose. I cannot speak for them, but I would imagine they would almost assuredly NOT consider themselves a Synchronaut. It’s probable he doesn’t even know what in the hell Synchromysticism even is (not that anyone else does either…heh). Hell, they could be the high priest of synchronicity for all I know.
I do kinda know “The Moose”, however. He’s a cool cat, but also very outspoken/pulls no punches. I’ve never really spoken with him about anything “spiritual”, nor have I seen him mention anything along the lines of more mainstream types of spiritual stuff. He appears to like cars, good beer, good cigars, is laid back, astute, has a great sense of humor, so yeah I guess he’s all about spiritual stuff. Just maybe not the same spiritual virtue signaling type bullshit that the herd considers to be spiritual. You know, spiritual virtue signaling…
- like getting all dressed up in your religious uniform(s);
- going to virtue display barn (church or maybe a political rally);
- join in enthusiastically with the virtue signaling chants;
- nod approvingly (but otherwise keep your piehole shut) as the messages from on high are delivered;
- fall on your face and cry and wail for acceptance by the pure and holy;
- maybe even get to rub palms with a few of the elite…
you know, virtue signaling.
The Moose may not be your typical Synchronaut, but they’re a cog in the wheel. Not only that, they are their own wheel. A voice. Their voice. To exclude them would be tragic.
OK!!! So, enough of trying to figure out the synchronistic forces and dynamics at work on our planet, and lets off to see what the big guns are up to.
Up first is…
Yes, that’s right…the Synchromysticism Forums are BACK!!!
I admit that I’ve known for some time that these forums were there, but I further admit I’ve not given it much of a look. It appears that only one person posts there (Peg from the old whatchacallit forums), and a lot of it appears to be only reposts of news stories…all of which are separated by the same ad over and over where someone is plugging “astrological mini-readings” for $50 via cellphone text message. The forums layout is confusing, the giant pictures in the Table of Contents make no sense, and the whole place seems to be more about “Q” and “Truthers” than they seem to be about Synchronicity and/or Synchromysticism.
Now, is it possible that the one person who is making all the posts over there is actually a community account shared by several people? Sure. Maybe they’ve decided to take a 4Chan type approach to administration in order to bundle everything under a single moniker, so that the reader has no idea who is posting what. But even if that is so, as of the time of this writing, the forums only has 1046 posts in 575 topics, and there are only 11 registered members.
Not gonna be much discussion going on with only 11 registered members when only one of those registered users appears to speak. The forum layout also seems to be structured in such a way to discourage discourse. Topics are WAY to detailed and specific, there’s no readily apparent and coherent parent-child type of inheritance, and I assume the thought process here was to make moderation easier by putting all of the burden of staying on-topic on the posters.
Don't stay on topic? BANNED!!! Simple.
Very authoritarian, hopelessly rigid and completely counter-intuitive to the erratic and unpredictable nature of Synchronicity. I can only assume that the goal is to amass useful and usable information. Actionable lists of worthwhile data.
Oh well, it’s their forums, they can do whatever they please with them. As to the Evergreen Consulting/Jen Psaki thing, controlling the shipping lanes and intercepting freight is how you make money in the datastreams. Just gotta add your own node to the existing infrastructure(s).
Let’s move on to…
Spirals are syncy in my own sphere(s) as of late. This post is kinda interesting because only yesterday I crossed paths with that image above, and there’s been lots of holes and sinkhole types of things appearing on my radar. But what I’ve been mainly thinking about is a particular axis/view that is usually required to identify a spiral. Take for example the rifling within a barrel of a firearm/gun. You really need to be able to look up/down the barrel in order to best see the twist of the rifling. From the side you get more of a sine wave type of impression. But in the case of say a spiral galaxy, a side view will give the impression that there is no spiral at all. Just a cloudy more or less flat blob of a murky mess with maybe some wedge-shaped properties.
Kinda weird how the up/down of the z-axis changes based upon observer perspective in those two instances. Whatever this weird “edge” is I keep seeing tho? I can’t quite put my finger on it. I cannot tell if it’s a reset type thing where the reset somehow carries conditional types of properties over in order to exist in two places at the same time, or if there is simply a dimension that I’m missing. Perhaps there is always an inverse to the more forward types of dimensions so as to preserve information when one reaches the edge where dimensions cease to exist.
EX: The edge of the Universe.
Maybe I’m thinking too much in the micro scale and thinking too much about shrinkage instead of expansion and/or macro scale(s). Maybe the dimensions do not shrink when one reaches the edge. Maybe they expand. Maybe they both expand and shrink. Whatever it is, the typical 3/4/5/8+ types of dimensions that create our reality seem to become incoherent as a specific and succinct set. Perhaps the existence of an inverse carries an accurate enough stack of data in such a way that matter which becomes corrupt in our Universe/reality can and will remanifest itself elsewhere, all while giving the appearance of existing in two places simultaneously. Spooky action kinds of stuff that is not easily identified as such. We are, afterall, talking about more or less zero-times between extraordinarily remote/distant objects.
I can't quite put my finger on it.
Let us off to downunderland where their fall is just getting cranked up in anticipation of winter…
Brizdaz can always be counted on for having some interesting shiz, and today is no different. Looks like there’s some Synchronistic learnin’ going on there, and even tho I wrote the top bits of this post several days ago, its still kinda weird to see the connections. But hell, who am kidding. Synchronicity is nothing new, and the concept itself has likely been around since long before Jung got his hands on it. So…
Q: Where is the new?
A: Right here.
Me, you, him, her, it, they, them, us…all of this shit may be as old as dirt, but it’s new as fuck to us.
Looks like Rune Soup has a new podcast series type thingie or something…
Those vids are about an hour each so I’ll prolly forgo for the time being. Prolly won’t watch them later either because I’m lazy af.
Which reminds me…a certain someone who I shall not name (RooBeeDoo) noticed recently that a someone who hasn’t posted a blog post in a very long time had a new post up. Let’s saunter over there.
SynchoMiss has posted on her blog for the first time in like 4 years…
I have no idea where she’s been. Actually, that’s not true because I bumped into her on Twitter several years ago and I guess she’s kinda more active there.
I have no idea who she is.
Actually, that’s true. I have no idea who any of these fucking weirdos are. Just a buncha freaks being weird and doing strange stuff. Like…writing. And like I guess…reading. And then like…writing some more (all of which are pretty damn strange).
Aight…enough of that shit. It’s not that I don’t like cruising around and checking out people’s blogs, because I do. I almost never view any blogs anymore. Not UnderdogBitesUpwards, nor Frank Davis, nor Merovee Frank and not even Miss Ivannah The Topless Psychic.
heh heh heh heh heh heh
Anyway, yeah I like reading people’s blogs, just have completely lost the heart to do it. I don’t drop in with an encouraging hi, nor howdy, nor keep going, nor kiss my ass, nor fuck off and die…nothing. Nada. My heart just ain’t in it currently.
/queue sad music
Me me me me me em mem mememememememememememememe
Yeah, this post is already 9 pages long and I should likely get it over to Roob before Doomsday gets here.
We’ve got 800 fucking billion forms of communication available to us on this planet, and not a single motherfucker on this entire rock seems to be able to figure out how to communicate with one another.
Am currently suffering from a wicked case of flabbergastritis.
Perhaps I should go.
(no pun intended)
*Good idea, Clicky…*
The comment section is open, Dear Reader, so don’t be shy to use it if you have any questions or comments for Cade, myself or Clicky. Have a Song 😉
Good news, Dear Reader! Double good news in fact, as there is a Missive From ‘Merica in the works from the Okie Devil of Text US, and that will be ready for you tomorrow.
But first, we were excited to hear on Tuesday that the Library of Libraries has been inducted into an online gang of scribblers…
*LoL, Clicky… /rolls eyes… It’s a dream come true…*
… Called Martin Scriblerus…
*Exactly, Clicky. Satire’s booming…*
*It’s a sign of the times…*
…You’ll find a permanent link to the Martin Scriblerus site on the sidebar, to your left. It has some excellent bloggers, Dear Reader. Do go take a look…
*You do know that if Dear Reader takes your advice, Clicky… /flicks ash… they might not come back for the rest of the post…*
The other equally surprising and delightful occurrence on Tuesday was the movie Cade and I remote viewed. I came across it quite by accident…
… The only ‘Professor and the Madman’ I’ve heard of before were a couple of wonderful podcasts from my favourite online philosophy lecturer, Wes Cecil…
… But a historical biopic about the labours of birthing the Oxford English Dictionary? With a glorious cast, studded with Oscar winners? Sounds like my kind of movie; why had I never heard of it before?!
… So Cade and I remote viewed ‘The Professor and the Madman’ and then discussed it afterwards, sparking all sorts of connections as we went…
*Yeah, I had to stop at that point to mop up the tears and blow my nose…*
*Lashy reckons the ancient Gnostics described the Aeon Sophia as a plasma entity… /final drag… Before she turned herself into the Earth that is…*
*Whoa, that U Tuba’s avatar is Spider-man? What’s the name? …/stubs butt… Sounds familiar…*
… So, three LoL recommendations for you today: One – visit Martin Scriblerus and check out the bloggers there; two – ‘The Professor and the Madman’ is an absolute gem of a movie of some fascinating history, and most definitely worth seeking out. Finally, three – come back tomorrow for a brand new missive; Cade has sent a corker 😀
We’ll see you then, Dear Reader. Have a Song…
*Leggy wrote a post on nanobots, Clicky? /lights up and smokes… I heard mention of those in a new vid from Lashy just last night…*
We have a little treat for you, Dear Reader, on this cold January day. My good friend Leggy, a.k.a H.K. Hillman, has agreed the LoL can post a story from Fears Of The Old And The New, his collection of short horror yarns. It’s relatively tiny but really packs a punch 😉
*True – Leggy does live in the Scottish Highlands… /thinks… And he’s got swords…*
by H.K. Hillman
Nigel sat at the remains of his desk, idly twirling the paper-knife in the fingers of his left hand. With a swift motion he grasped it and thrust it through the palm of his right hand. His head pressed the high back of the chair as his body stiffened against the pain, his teeth clamped shut to avoid biting the end of his tongue. With a gasp, he forced his body to relax and looked at his shaking right hand.
Bright red life oozed from both sides, running along the blade and handle of the knife and forming crimson lines along his wrist. His face set into a grimace as he quickly pulled the blade free, then he sat sobbing as he watched the wound close, the flow trickle to a stop. As the last traces of his self-inflicted injury faded, he roughly wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers. Standing, he walked to the shattered window, wiping the tears from his eyes with a wrinkled, filthy sleeve.
It had been his invention, his own work. Why should he share it? If he had told his supervisors they would simply have taken his idea and left him behind, alone and forgotten. He couldn’t let that happen. He had decided to keep his success secret until he could announce his invention himself. He would wait until the time was right.
He had tested his invention on himself, of course. Nigel recalled that day, months ago, when he had injected his microscopic robots into his veins. He remembered that first thrill as they set to work. His chest pains had vanished as his heart was healed. He had discarded his spectacles as his vision was restored. The arthritic ache in his shoulder simply disappeared. What an invention! He would be famous, or would have been.
Nigel felt tears returning to his eyes as he surveyed the desolation of the city. Four days ago – maybe more, Nigel wasn’t sure – nuclear Armageddon had arrived and everyone had left in a flash of radiation. Nigel could recall the pain as the wave of gamma-rays had followed the edge of the blast through his beautiful suburban house. His carefully tended garden had turned into a desert of brown, twisted stalks, although still in their perfectly ordered rows in the sterile soil.
He watched as the bulging wall of a distant building suddenly gave way, showering bricks and mortar onto the dust-obscured street below. The sound traversed the distance easily, unhindered in the silence of this dead world.
The flash had killed him, but it hadn’t killed his robots. He had no idea how long it had taken them, but they had repaired him. They had brought him back to life. He had invented more than just a medical dream. He had invented immortality.
If only he had told someone else.
*Fantastic book, Clicky… /stubs butt… So’s ‘is uvver one…*
Catch you later, Dear Reader… And have a Song 😉
*Hello, Clicky… /pats snout… Gonna post my Underdog Anthology Christmas story. Wanna help?*
*Whoa there, easy tiger… /lights up and smokes… Just chill out and put your fins up. I’ll do it…*
Dear Reader, I couldn’t leave my Halloween story ‘What Time Do You Finish?‘ to end where it did, so I wrote a follow up for the Christmas Underdog Anthology. With only six days left until the big day, Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas would make an ideal stocking filler present, and in an effort to persuade you, I reproduce ‘Christmas Death Wish’ for you, below. Enjoy! ❤
Christmas Death Wish
by Roo B. Doo
Death grimaced at the receptionist, who paid scant attention to the Grim Reaper sitting patiently in the God Lobby. The cavernous reception area was named the God Lobby as that was where those that wished to lobby God congregated in the hopes of an audience. The enormous space tended to be packed out with petitioners from either of the beseecher categories – the ‘Please God’ and ‘Dear God No’ – but at that precise moment, and apart from the goose manning the reception desk, Death was the God Lobby’s only occupant.
“Quiet here today… today… oday… ay…” Death’s voice echoed across the vast expanse between himself and the reception desk. The only response was a faint sound of scritch-scratching from the nib of the receptionist’s quill pen.
How long he had been waiting, Death knew not; it could have been any amount of time between a second and eternity. The God Lobby contained no clocks or shadows to mark the passage of time, only the oblique Mists of Time and even they appeared to have gone AWOL. At best, the most anyone could rely on in this place was their own body clock, but as Death had no body to speak off, he was already at a distinct disadvantage.
Hello, Big D.
Death didn’t need to turn in the direction of the friendly voice to know that God was filling the seat next to him. “Ma’am. I was just saying, it’s very quiet in here today.”
Quite. You wanted to see me?
Death shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “No, you wanted to see me.” Death turned to look God in the face; she was wearing a serene countenance, covered by a floral print face mask.
The scratching of the receptionist’s quill ceased and was replaced by the sound of chair legs scraping against the highly polished floor, followed by slaps of webbed feet as the goose receptionist approached, clutching a piece of parchment.
Thank you, Brian.
God took the proffered page and scanned it.
Ah. Apparently there was an unauthorised Armageddon occurrence on 31st October 2020. Do you know anything about that, Death?
The pause that followed could have been pregnant with octuplets, as Death felt the weight of God’s silence and Brian’s suspicious gaze fall upon him. Death was indeed intimately acquainted with the events that transpired on the Halloween in question. He shuddered at the memory of the brutal slaying of his occasional companions Famine, Pestilence and War in the back of a London black cab, driven by Old Scratch, the Devil himself. It was an abomination, an aberration, a fluke or trick, although Death had not as yet settled on which.
“Um, yes… some,” Death replied slowly. “My understanding is that the whole event was triggered by a misaddressed Christmas wish made by a pure soul. One Molly Darling, aged 6.”
A letter to Santa?
God swung her attention towards the receptionist. Death watched in amazement as Brian’s plumage turned from snow white to an embarrassed shade of pink. A big glob of goose fat trickled down one of his legs.
Brian, I thought we’d patched the Santa/Satan glitch.
The God Lobby’s haughty receptionist replied with a mournful honk.
Oh dear. It seems we have a bit of a boo-boo on our hands.
Death jumped down from his chair and bowed deeply before God. “Surely the situation can be remedied, Ma’am?”
God waited until Death straightened from obeisance to his full height of three foot three, before gently patting him on the the shoulder.
But of course. I have every faith in you, Big D.
“Me? …Me? …me? … e?” Death waited for the reverberation of his outburst to disappear before continuing in a more measured tone. “You would like me to, um, remedy the situation?”
You are the ideal candidate.
“But I only have one method at my disposal.” With a flick of his bony wrist, Death produced a retractable scythe from the armhole of his robe. He struck the ground with its shaft causing a death knell boom to thunder around the God Lobby.
God waved her hand over the scythe blade, allowing the lightning sparks that careened from it to latch on to her fingertips. She directed their chaotic dance along its keen edge.
Don’t underestimate yourself, Big D. Short of stature you may be, but in terms of resourcefulness, you are a giant.
Death had been around; he knew flannel when he heard it. “Ma’am, there would be dire consequences for moving a soul along before its time.”
Indeed, so it would be best if that were to not happen.
God stood up and Death bowed again; his audience was over. God started moving toward the reception desk but then paused.
You might speak with dear Soda Pops. He’s jolly resourceful too and, as the intended recipient of Molly’s wish, he may care to have a say in the matter.
“An excellent suggestion, Ma’am. I shall seek out Father Christmas immediately.”
Just keep it on the down low, Big D. Things can get very tricky when one’s fallibility is called into question.
By the time Death had straightened from his bow, God had disappeared. He was alone in the cavernous reception room, save for a now somewhat chagrined Brian, who was once again safely ensconced behind his desk, furiously scratching away with a quill pen and doing his utmost to avoid unnecessary eye contact.
Death sighed; he would have to go to Lapland; he hated visiting Lapland. Not for the first time, it occurred to Death that the ‘God Lobby’ had been extremely well named.
The entrance to Lapland wasn’t obvious at first glance, set as it was in a shady alcove, next to a garishly lit 24-hour Kwiki Mart on a less than salubrious back street of London. The muted thump of drum and bass music playing loudly somewhere vibrated in the air.
Death rapped smartly on the bland and undistinguished door and waited. The flap of the letterbox, set high up the door, opened and quickly closed.
Death knocked again, this time standing back from the door to afford the lookout a better view of his personage. Again, the letterbox flap opened and a pair of beady eyes appeared to scan the street before alighting on Death.
“No children allowed,” the gruff voice behind the door barked, as the letterbox flap once more clattered shut.
Death flourished his retractable scythe and lifted the flap to the letterbox open with the tip of its crackling blade. “I am not a child. Let me in.”
The eyes, now wide with fear, reappeared through the gap. “What’s the password?”
“Ho. Ho. Ho.”
There was a clunk and a click before the door quickly opened, allowing Death admittance to Father Christmas’s main residence. Once inside, Death made his way up a short flight of stairs to what appeared to be the source of the residual music thumping in the street outside: Lapland lap dancing club – adulterating Christmas 364 days of the year.
“Hi, I’m Sally. May I take your cloak?” The beautiful elf that greeted Death was dressed in only a few strands of tinsel, strategically placed to leave everything and yet nothing to the imagination.
“No thank you, Sally. I need to speak with Soda Pops.”
“Sure, come this way.”
Sally led Death through a throng of tables that were laden with drinks, ashtrays and Christmas poinsettia, and banks of couches hosting drunken patrons enjoying all manner of attentions and gyrations from Lapland’s scantily clad hostesses. The air was so thick with smoke, sweat and noise that Death’s route through the crowd could be seen clearly, carved into the fug by the blade of his scythe. They crossed the dance floor and passed a stage set with a shiny North Pole, from which a simply stockinged elf clung, spun and straddled, throwing revealing shapes for the audience.
“He’s through here,” Sally simpered, pulling a beaded tree light curtain aside, and ushered Death into a large side room. The room was ambiently lit, and filled with a mass of sparsely clothed elven bodies, both writhing and languishing synchronously in what sounded like an ecstasy of delight. In the corner sat Soda Pops, a.k.a. Father Christmas, his face buried deep into the backside of a gently bleating reindeer, whose nose pulsed and glowed.
Death cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Soda Pops, may I have a word?”
“Bugger off!” Soda Pops bellowed, without looking up.
The reindeer appeared to catch a sudden glance of Death’s scythe and backed away nervously, hooves skittering.
“Fuck me, you’re keen!” Soda Pops pushed at the animal’s quivering hindquarters as they squashed further against his sweaty face. He caught sight of Death standing impassively in the doorway. “You! So, this is how I am to end?! Suffocated whilst pleasuring a reindeer!”
Death shook his head. “No, this is a strictly informal visit, I assure you. I need to speak with you. Alone.”
“Okay.” Soda Pops nodded and slapped the backside of the reindeer, sending the clearly terrified creature careering past Death and out through the door. “Listen up people. I need you all to get the fuck out of here. Now!”
The mangle of bodies rose up, slowly untangling itself. Death held the door’s beaded tree light curtain side, allowing the disappointed and sullen elves to troop out, until only he and Soda Pops remained.
Soda Pops pulled his vest out from his trousers and used it to wipe his face and dry his beard. “So, what can I do for you, Big D?” He patted the couch seat beside him.
Death eyed the stained couch cushion and decided to decline. “That’s okay, I’ll stand.”
“A short visit, is it?”Soda Pops gibed with a mean chuckle.
Death moved his head from side to side, taking in the whole room before replying. “One can hope.”
“Heh. What is it you want?”
Quick as a flash, Soda Pops’ massive bulk shot from his seat, grabbed Death by his cloak, and slammed his small form up against the wall. His face, barely inches from the impenetrable void of Death’s cowl, was contorted with rage. “Now let’s get something straight between us, mush. I don’t deal in kids.”
Death gulped. “I-”
“I don’t care whatever smear the bastard tabloids have cooked up. My only interaction with children is the occasional Santa mall gig if I’m short on readies. That’s it. As far as kids are concerned, I don’t fucking exist.”
“If you… could… put me… down,” Death croaked and pawed at Soda Pops’ clenched hands with his free arm. “Have… scythe… not afraid… to use… it.”
The razor-sharp point of Death’s scythe slowly hove into view of Soda Pops’ angry eyes, lighting his face with fizzing, electric blue. He blinked and slowly slid Death back down the wall, his eyes never leaving sight of the blade hovering in front of his face. “Talk.”
Death straightened out his robe and indicated to Soda Pops to take a seat. “I’m not looking for a child. I’m looking for a specific child. A pure soul. She wrote a letter to you, but you didn’t receive it.”
Soda Pops rummaged through the detritus on the table in front of him until he found the butt of a cigar. He wiped it clean and lit it. “Don’t tell me. Santa/Satan?”
Death answered with an expressive shrug.
“I thought they’d fixed that!” Soda Pops settled back into his seat and puffed on his cigar. “For fuck’s sake. What a fucking joke! What happened?”
Death ran through the events that had occurred on the night of 31st October 2020. How the Devil had connived to enact a false flag Armageddon that had resulted in the savage expulsion from existence of Famine, Pestilence and War.
Soda Pops was aghast. “What the fuck! War’s gone?”
“I’m afraid so,” Death advised solemnly. “I took the liberty of googling ‘middle east peace treaties’ and found a number of them have recently been signed. Shortly after Halloween in fact. It’s strange though that there’s not been much of a hullabaloo about them in the press.”
“And Pestilence, poor sod.” Death shuddered in horror at his memories of that evening. Poor, sweet Pesto who never had a nasty UGH! to say about anybody. “With Pesto gone, you can bet your life Covid has too. Yet they’re still locking people down. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if there’s no more Famine.” Soda Pops banged on the arm of the couch and it lifted up to reveal a refrigerated opening filled with beaded cans of liquid sugar. “Red Bull?” he offered.
“No thank you. How do lockdowns make sense if Famine is gone?”
Soda Pops cracked open a can and chugged the entire contents before answering. “People are stuck in their homes with nothing to do but watch telly, eat and get fat.”
Soda Pops belched loudly. “All people have to look forward to is a weekly food delivery from their supermarket of choice. I tell you, kids aren’t excited for a delivery from Father Christmas this year. Now it’s Amazon. As far as kids are concerned, I don’t exist.” Soda Pops suddenly wailed and broke out into noisy, wet sobs. He wiped the snot and tears that streamed from his face along the headrest of the couch.
Death waited for Soda Pops to calm down. “Can you help me find the child?”
Soda Pops wiped his face again with the front of his grimy vest. “Do you have a name?”
“Molly Darling. Old Scratch told me he received the letter from her last year, but the letter wasn’t dated; I saw it. All I know is that Molly was six when she wrote it.”
“Wait.” Soda Pops sat forward, frowning. “You know Molly’s name, her age and that she’s a pure soul. Why can’t you find her? You’re Death, you find everyone.”
“Eventually,” Death sighed and risked perching on a corner of the couch, “and that’s the problem. The Grim Reaper Service is very much run on a just in time delivery model these days. Only a handful of us are needed to service the entire world. It’s really quite efficient until a major spanner, like 2020, is thrown in the works. It’s been chaos. We’ve been inundated with lonely deaths this year and we just don’t have the resources to transition these souls properly.” Death paused and leaned in closer. “And I’ll tell you something else, the God Lobby is completely empty. I’ve just come from there.”
Death stood up primly. “Yep. Not a soul there. Something isn’t right.”
“Still, that doesn’t answer my question to you: why don’t you find Molly yourself.”
It was a good question, one that Death had thought deeply on. “Because I don’t want to.”
“Ah.” Soda Pops thumped the arm of couch once more and retrieved two cans of chilled nectar. “Ethics?”
“Ethics.” Death accepted a can from Soda Pops and tucked it into the folds of his robe. “I can only interact with souls the one time. Thank you. I’ll save this for later.”
“Good man!” Soda Pops drew in an almighty breath and released it with great gusto. “Well, there’s only one thing for it.” He reached behind him and pulled on a silver cord. The tinkle of sleigh bells had hardly stopped before a reindeer stepped through the doorway. “Don’t worry, Big D, we’ll sort you out.”
“Er, thank you no, that isn’t necessary.” Death had not had much dealings with reindeer; the only one before had just charged past him in a state of shock at the length of his scythe.
“Vixi darling, can you get me some paper and a pen?” Soda Pops asked the reindeer as it nuzzled his neck. “And tell Rudy she can come back once our guest has gone, okay?” he whispered, as he nuzzled the reindeer back. “There’s a good girl.”
After Vixen left, Soda Pops turned his attention back to Death. “You need to make a Christmas wish. Write it down. Pass it to me, which I will accept and grant. Guaranteed.”
“Now wait a moment.” Death bristled. “Wishes are dangerous. We’re in this disastrous situation precisely because of a wish.”
“True!” Soda Pops laughed. “There’s always an unintended consequence with wishes, but I don’t see that you have much of a choice, chum. Look, make it simple and on point. In English if you must, but be warned, that language has built-in wiggle room, so be careful. Also, your wish can’t be about you; it has to be for Molly.”
Death sat stock still and recalled the childish scrawl of Molly’s handwritten note. She too had made a wish not for herself. “I know.”
When Vixen returned, Death wrote down his wish for Molly on a sheet of paper, folded it and passed it over to Soda Pops. “Please Father Christmas, grant my Christmas wish,” he intoned.
“Yeah, the speech was unnecessary.” Soda Pops opened the folded page and read what Death had written. “Heh. I can see all kinds of potential, but for your purpose, that should do nicely. Wish granted.”
Rudolph re-appeared, shyly edging forward, giving Death a wide berth. “Come here my little Rudy red nose,” Soda Pops cooed. “There’s no need to be scared. Let Pop-Pop kiss it all better.”
Death decided it was high time he left Lapland; he’d had quite enough hind sight in 2020.
The Mists of Time were back and so were the beseechers. A queue of souls snaked endlessly throughout the God Lobby. Death watched its progress, inching from one side of the great expanse to the other; backwards and forwards, guided only by the barrier ropes that directed the queue’s path.
Death approached the reception desk. It was empty, which was unusual. Probably a shift change, Death thought.
No, no. I’m here. Working. Doing my bit.
The empty chair behind the reception desk suddenly spun round of its own volition.
Hello Big D. Have you come to see me?
“I have indeed, Ma’am.”
Oh goody, I’m now one for two, although, I’m afraid I’m having to go incognito. One glimpse of me could cause a stampede.
Death approved. He had seen the aftermath of many a stampede; they were to be avoided. “And you’re not wearing your mask.”
No. Well, I can hardly go unnoticed wearing one of those, dressed like this. Very uncomfortable things, but that’s fashion for you.
Death gazed once more across the great expanse of queuing souls. “I believe the Halloween 2020 situation has been suitably remedied, Ma’am.”
Excellent. What did you wish for?
Death whirled back toward the empty reception desk. “You knew I would make a wish?”
No, but I hoped.
“Yes, well the alternative was too unpalatable. I wished that Molly Darling, aged 6, had been born with the innate ability to spell correctly.” If Death had lips, they would have been tuned in to smug-mode.
So you foresee a career in witchcraft for young Molly? I see.
“Ah…” Death hadn’t thought of that.
Or maybe she’ll be an actress or a singer then. Or writer. They also cast spells. Innate ability, you say?
Well, whatever passion path you’ve cut for young Molly Darling, she’ll probably be jolly good at it. Well done, Big D. I can always rely on you.
Death felt his rib cage expand with joy at the compliment, and watched in amazement has his pinky phalanx turned from bone ivory to a delicate shade of blush.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Death delved into the depths of his robe and pulled out a still dewy can of Red Bull. He held it aloft. “Merry Christmas, Ma’am.”
The can of soda levitated out of Death’s grasp, flying smoothly through the air until landing perfectly on the surface of the the reception desk, all seemingly unaided.
Wings! No one has ever given me wings before. Thank you, Big D.
Death felt the warm blush explode out of his pulsating pinky and course throughout the rest of his being.
Merry Christmas 😀
*Oh you’re back are ya? I hope you’re in a better mood now, Clicky…*
I will be writing a further follow up story for the Spring 2021 anthology, as well as a new Harry Egg story because… Well, quite unbelievably, I have had a couple of requests for one…
*People seem to like Harry, Clicky… /shrugs and stubs butt…*
… Join us again next time, Dear Reader, and… Have a Song 😉
*Woo Hoo! …/punches air… Finally…*
Dear Reader, Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas is now available to buy in Kindle or ebook formats…
*No, that’s a coronal mass ejection, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… Sure is pretty looking though…*
*Oh. Butt that wasn’t caused by a coronal mass ejection, Clicky…*
*Agreed… /flicks ash…*
*So, you’re tell me that within hours of Coronamas being published, all that ‘appened, Clicky?*
*Blimey. Well, it is number 13, I suppose… /stubs butt…*
… And, for those that prefer a tangible, hold in the hand, book-shaped book, the paperback version will be available later today or tomorrow…
*Ah, blocking the space for a later link… /pats snout… Good thinking, Clicky…*
Dear Reader… Have a Song…
Dear Reader, we now have a name and book cover for Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas…
… It should be published and available to purchase within the next couple of days. There are some damn fine stories in it; you will not be disappointed…
*That’s called a pomander, Clicky… /lights up and smokes…*
Here, now, is a spanking new missive from Cade Fon Apollyon. It’s the first installment of a two parter. Enjoy! 😀
Lawn Ging Fore Thuh Passed
Lon Geeng For Theep Assed
Lahng Eng Foar Thup Pah Stuh
Long In Four Thee Passed
Longing For The Past
^The Beatles – The Long And Winding Road (Remastered 2009)^
We do it.
No seriously, we do it.
We long for long gone things. We long for long gone times. We long for long gone places. Maybe its when we long for long gone things AND long gone times AND long gone places, all at the same time…history repeats (or, repeats-ish).
What a nightmare. Not only that, but what a waste of energy. You spend all that time fighting tooth and nail to get away from where you are and what you are, only to do a 180° turn, and scramble to become what you were. I guess maybe things didn’t turn out as you’d hoped. You do not like what you have become. What you were is somehow better than what you are, and of the two, you choose…were. I guess you think that “were” will make “are” go away.
If “were” still is, then I think its safe to say that “are” will still exist when you get back to “were”. You can never go home again.
^Massive Fire Breaks Out In NYC Destroying Historic East Village Church | NBC News^
Third Monolith Appears atop Pine Mountain, California after Mystery Objects in Utah and Romania Removed
Pine…long. Kinda funny that the monolith in California didn’t last long. I sometimes have that problem with my own monolith not lasting very long.
Pining a mountain. Pining for a mountain. Sounds challenging. Pining for two mountains? Whew! Sounds exhausting. I love mountains, and love climbing them, but I’m a valleyman too. Ain’t no mountains without the valleys.
^Breaking Bad OST 12/20 – “The Long Walk Alone (Heisenberg’s Theme)” [Dave Porter] [HQ/HD]^
Kinda weird that during the writing of the previous whatever, I was thinking about that pot plant fire in Los Angeles (heh…pot plant fire), the Notre Dame fire, that giant explosion in Beruit, the Oregon fire(s), that passenger plane getting shot down in Iran. Then yesterday, I sat for an hour or so and watched a live stream of various banks (and other stuff) getting torn up and parts of them burned in Paris (France) as I guess some people there are upset about something.
Now this fire in New York City, and it has me to thinking about…reinsurers. During my brief times in working as an underwriter for a general agency/auto insurance, and then later as an underwriter for commercial insurance, I was somewhat baffled by this need that insurance companies have to pay out on claims. Even dodgy claims. Does this keep the outgoing cashflows/payouts within a certain margin? Keep a reasonable percentage of the customers happy? Justify the premiums? Keep the reinsurers happy? All of that?
Whatever the higher-ups methods and formulas are, they aren’t going to tell a lowly underwriter. So what I’m thinking about now, is all these lockdowns here in 2020AD/CE, and how they are affecting the margins for both insurers and reinsurers. SURELY rates have been affected since we don’t have the usual calamity and mayhem working together to create the same aggregate(s). Everything is shut down. There HAS to be changes, right? At home accidents skyrocketing, auto-related accidents through the floor, outdoorsy stuff doing the same. Insurance companies would almost have to be scrambling to figure out how to deal with these changes.
Lets us dig.
(that one there is a real gem...it's from 1997...23 years ago reporting on what 2020 will look like..heh)
(that page says it was last reviewed on 13 Nov 2020, but all the data looks fairly old)
That last link may not work. I found it via a Google search on Oregon wildfires, top result, but I can’t get the page to load. Keep getting an error that says…
The http://www.statesmanjournal.com page isn’t working
http://www.statesmanjournal.com redirected you too many times.
No matter, Google has a “snippet” that pulled this from the article…
Oregon’s 2020 wildfire season brought a new level of destruction. … Severe drought, extreme winds and multiple ignitions fueled the most destructive wildfires in state history. Roughly 1.07 million acres burned during the 2020 season, the second-most on record. The cost to fight the fires was also high — $354 million. Oct 30, 2020
Source = Google 06 Dec 2020
You didn't click on a single one of those links above, did you?
Heh, I don’t blame you. This is my path, not yours. Unless of course it’s our path…in which case, welcome aboard, sailor.
^Tea Dance: 1920s, 30s, 40s Vintage Tea Party (Past Perfect)^
Yesterday, saw George Soros referred to as “Uncle George”, and it got me to thinking about shady practices that keep money people positioned where they are or where they are comfortable. Nobody likes to be uncomfortable, and in order to maintain that comfort level you’ve become accustomed to, you may just have to skin a few sables or mink.
Me, as an underwriter, would sometimes be instructed to accept a premium payment, even tho the insured was only making a payment because A) their policy had lapsed, and B) they’d been involved in an accident during that period of non-coverage. More than that, I was instructed to accept the payment with no lapse in coverage. Meaning, we were willing to accept the claim that was sure to be coming. It could be said that the long-term benefits of doing as much was going to give us a customer for life. The company is being generous, understanding, and helping out someone in need. But then I started to learn more about the insurance processes, reinsurance, and I became a tad more skeptical as to the reason(s) for bending the rules or making exceptions. You bend the rules for this person, but not that one?
Hrm...what is going on here? I must know.
There are intricacies at work here with which I am unfamiliar. Why, would the powers, want elements of chaos in their rigid systems?
/me scratches chin whiskers and thinks.
^Junkie XL – Tennis / Crusher^
If one remains master of the option, one does not become slave to their own creations. You create these rigid systems, whilst reserving the option to change them. That means these rules really do not apply to you. Others? Sure. These rules absolutely apply to others, but you have the option when and when not to apply them. Those whom you delegate your authority to? Yes, they better fucking follow the rules to the letter. Or at least ask when there is a question. All this means that not only do you create the black and white, this also means you control the grey. Now all you have to do is safely navigate all those agreements you’ve made.
Sounds stormy. I'm in.
^The Re-Stoned – Crystals^
What is the feminine for sailor? Is there one?
Sounds like a product. Not that sex isn’t a product.
^The Temptations – I wish it would rain^
Speaking of products, ya know…this “cancel culture” bullshit has me to thinking. All you high and mighty social media powerhouses block the living shit out of people. Someone calls you out? Or says something you don’t like? Or maybe you wish to distance yourself from someone who is currently on the outs because of something they’ve said or done? Maybe even some in your own organization lobby you to close the social media door on a someone because it’ll be good for business?
You unfollow. You mute. You block.
You’re a bandwagon jumper as much as anyone else, a high-powered bandwagon jumper at that, so I really don’t see how you have the right to piss and moan about “cancel culture”. You’re the one setting the fucking trend(s) in the first place by making a big show of distancing yourself from things that hurt your own bottom line. You’re steering the ship, driving the bus and all the while you’re complaining about your own driving.
Thinking about this because two nights ago I made a suggestion for the upcoming Underdog Anthology 13 book name…
Can Sell Culture
I guess I coulda went with “Can’t Sell Culture”, but history has more than aptly demonstrated that, yes, you can sell culture.
You Can Cell A Culture, But You Can’t Sell A Fish
You Can Sell A Culture, But You Can’t Sail A Fish
You Can Sell A Culture, But You Can’t Sail A Sailfish
You Cancel A Culture, But You Can’t Uncancel A Fish
(playing on “you can tune a piano, but you can't tune a fish”)
Trying to stay within the “2020 = A Fucking Nightmare” motif, and thinking about UK fishing rights/EU, the way(s) these new vaccines work with respect to cells, all the throes social media has gone through this year because of lockdown, all the culture wars bullshit, all the trade wars bullshit, we’re told that this year has been a fucking nightmare. But with respect to the book title, I keep thinking that a break from the obvious might be the most shocking and horrifying title one could come up with.
It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Fear
“2020/MMXX – The Year Of The Fear” (and the Year Of The Rat) will be ending soon. 2021 is right around the corner. Year Of The Ox. Bulls and bears and wolves…oh my!
❤ XOXO ❤
^Andy Williams – It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year^
John Lamb Lash announced the other day that he will not be doing any more talks. Not for YouTube anyway. No more freebies. No more sample products. No more Gnostic Intel, no more Sophia’s Correction, no more Charlotte Working, no more data on how to navigate these turbid and tempest-tossed waters. The drug has either hooked you and you now need to pony up to get your fix, or join the kebosh or zenosh or whatever in the fuck it is and suffer the consequences of destruction and eternal damnation. Which, that reminds me of something I saw yesterday…
I tried to better simplify his simplification…
I guess I outsimpletoned him…
I’ve heard this argument before. Right vs Privilege, and “taxes are a right”. Meaning, it’s a loopy way of creating a right that demands recompense. We have the right to demand services from our government, which means that paying for this/these service(s) is also a right. The government has a right to demand taxes, and we have a right to pay them because it gives us the right to demand service. You do not have the right to not pay, and they do not have the right to refuse service.
Afterall, we paid, right?
This eventually boils down to the seed of discontent, and an argument to do away with free and open elections, and/or, abolish the party system(s). No telling who is gonna get elected, not telling who they will appoint, and no telling if all of these partisan peeps are gonna give me what I need/want. Even in the professional/more permanent government employees, they are citizens too, they are going to have political affiliations, so its possible that their political views will clash with my own and they will not give me what I need/want. Abolish the parties, and all this polarized and partisan nonsense goes away. No one is left out or punished for their political views, because there are no political views. Just one big happy family living in harmony. Pay your dues, get your booze…simple.
FYI, you need more than one sound to make a harmony. Not to mention that single unwavering frequencies can be damn destructive.
It would appear that there is something built-in/embedded into our Universe that says…I just flat do not want to exist. Or at least, I don’t want to exist for long. Not here, not now, and not like this…I, do not want to exist under these conditions. Hrm…now, where have I heard this tune before?
You belong to the state. You were born into it. Ain’t no escaping it. Unless of course you renounce your current state in order to pledge allegiance to another state. You still belong to the state. A state.
Q: You think it possible that the US Founders saw this coming?
Yeah, this. All this nonsense currently talked about with respect to two Presidents and the country splitting and civil war and all that. Republics don’t have the best of track records. Our forefathers (and mothers) had to know that divisions were going to form at some point and this nation would face endless trials. Question is, did they see it coming, and did they leave us any clues as to how we might proceed? Can we continue to follow your rules, and play your game, your way, and still enjoy a life of our own? Did you protect us with your Constitution? Leave pearly pearls of wisdom in there to guide us? Or did you enslave us, doom us to be fodder for the machine?
Tough questions for sure. Lots to think about.
^#53 Junkie XL – Brothers In Arms (Mad Max Fury Road OST) – Drum Cover^
Perhaps I’m a soppy idealist, but it never really bothered me who was in the White House. They’re an American, and that’s good enough for me irrespective of their politics. The US President is just one of many thousands of politicians in this country, and top to bottom, there ain’t a one of them who could not make my life a living hell if they really wanted to. Some jerkweed on the city council, to a piece of shit state judge, to some dickhead senior senator in the US Congress…lotta power and powers in this country.
Not all of them are elected either. Lots of professionals in the system, and they too can be sand in the engine block if they so choose. Thing is, all these elected folk they’re all sure to be…Americans. Same with the professional folks. They are either citizens, or on their way to being one. They have to have some interest in this country, otherwise, they wouldn’t be here. Could people come to this country, become citizens, and try and work their way into places in order to fuck things up? Of course. Nothing new about that. Moles of all types in all places and foreign influences of all types have been around forever, and it appears they will be around forever, so why not just accept it and deal with it. Let the processes work, and don’t tear down the whole fucking infrastructure just because shit isn’t moving along at a pace that better fits your own personal desires. A little patience might serve you. Afterall, you don’t want someone coming along and picking you up in the morning, then throwing your broken remains into a shallow hole later the same day…do ya?
Nah...I didn't think so.
^Zack Hemsey – “Vengeance”^
So…you’re telling me that the US Postal Service handles somewhere in the neighborhood of half a billion pieces of mail each and every day, and yet once every four years we somehow cannot count about 150 million ballots for a single checkmark?
Something doesn't add up here.
There have to be literally thousands of people running for various offices all over the country, and yet you cannot zero in on a single checkmark in a single column for a single race that is the only goddamn nationwide race in the whole fucking country?
Something doesn't add up here.
Most states are likely to only have two candidates on the ballot who are running for US President, so you are telling me that you have a 50/50 shot at getting it right, and you still cannot fucking get it right?
Something doesn't add up here.
BTW, how in the FUCK did a single company get a majority nationwide franchise (30 states I read) on providing voting machines?
Something doesn't add up here.
Are you really telling me that each and every state doesn’t have at least one fucking state-based service provider who could provide that state with voting machines?
Something doesn't add up here.
What’s the matter? You don’t trust the states and their people to do the right thing? Worried about franchising? Can’t you rotate the shit? Are the big companies too worried about getting dealt a small state?
Something doesn't add up here.
And what the fuck is this nonsense about voting data being sent out of the country then coming back in? Why in the bloody hell would voting data ever need to leave the country, its states, or its territories?
Something doesn't add up here.
^Vision Is A Lonely Word^
Gonna leave this space more or less blank because I need to run have a quick fap.
^Enjoy The Silence by KI Theory (Ghost In The Shell Trailer Music)^
Oh yeah, I feel much better. How about you?
So very naughty. So very, very naughty.
A prank like that might gain you a sock to the jaw, but it just may be worth it…lolz…the song that just came up in my playlist is called…Windwalker.
^Mord Fustang – Windwaker [Electro House | Plasmapool]^
I’ve watched more politics in the past 1 or 2 months than in the previous 10 – 15 years.
Nothing appears to have changed.
^Washington Post – Georgia Republicans lambast Trump for election fraud claims^
I now have three friends on Facebook.
Ironically, it’s the same three friends I have on Twitter.
I am popularity.
^White Lines – Tom holkenborg – Infinity (M F Remix)^
Have made a decision to rip the rest of this post out, and put it in the next one. That way, I’m not sending a 15+ page post to Roob, and she doesn’t have a seizure when she sees it. Nor will she be as likely to develop PTSD after having to edit/format it.
That ok with you/ya'll?
Cool…THX…you’re very sweet. Oh, and the colors theme, will continue.
Assuming you even noticed.
^I Wish it Would Rain Down ( with Lyrics ) – Phil Collins^
^Psychedelic Indian Fusion: Tikki Masala – Euphoriant^
*Indeed, that very idea was mooted at this morning’s team meeting, Clicky… /stubs butt…*
… We’ll be back later this week, Dear Reader, with Part 2 of Cade’s Missive, and a link for Underdog Anthology XIII: Coronamas. Until then, have a Song…