Excerpts from the “Book of Rand” (i.e. the Right Winger’s central religious text)

Thus, it was said in The Book of Rand “The trees shall become timber and grass shall be laid in concrete and the air shall smell of gasoline. In this way shall your greed be satisfied. Thus, shall you build up your mansions, as you rob the widow and the orphan. In this way, shall the beasts of the field become runway purses and wall ornaments.” – The Book of Rand

“You shall pay no heed to the earth, nor shall you work towards its conservation. You shall not heed the word of the conservationist. You shall hunt the beast of the field to extinction. You shall lay the flesh of these beasts before yourself. You shall take the flesh of these beasts and grill it medium-rare. You shall take the first portion of the flesh and lay it at your own table. You can gorge yourselves. You shall call yourselves gluttons and gloat on your gluttoness” – The Book of Rand

On The Unconscious Mental-Circuit-Insurgent

I often put he when I should put she or even they. When I come across a gender ambiguous name or one I am ambiguous about I tend to write-guess gender. I make a conservative guess on the gender. I always need to go back and correct this mistake. I do not think I am the only one.

I have a theory of why this happens. I think there is an insurgent-neural-circuit-agent in my brain. I think he is hiding amongst the other neural-circuit-personal. He sabotages and manipulates specified synapses to his will, when I am at the keyboard.

This insurgent is against progressive change. He is a rebel against the other liberal members.

The insurgent-neural-agent is undercover. He goes undetected. He hides in the neural trenches. He makes guerrilla attacks when I am writing.  He creeps through hidden neural passages into synapse-fire towers. He soft-shoes to the control panel. He starts to play.

The insurgent mixes in the mental mix of ideas and opinions the other neural-circuit-personal have synapsed fired. He sabotages the planned keyboarded-liberal-responses of the other members.

The conservative guerrilla-neural-circuit-agent is a better spy than a top-level CIA personal. The competition between top-level-CIA and the conservative-neural-insurgent is not even proportionate.

I want to know the insurgent’s secret. I need to know his whereabouts. I must gas him out. He must be eliminated.

The other neural members of my brain must develop new neural technology to deal with the insurgent. I will be put-out, if they do not.

DAMN THE BASTARD! IT IS MY NEURAL NETWORK DAMN IT! WHAT RIGHT DOES HE HAVE TO SABOTAGE IT?

A Plea for Equal Human v. Beast Combat

man-vs-bear
Kabardino-Balkaria v. Bear – The Guardian

Mankind should hunt creatures capable of putting up a good fight. A two-foot rabbit is not a match for a six-foot man. I would hardly call the game fair. This is bully play. The fight is less equal than a heavy weight pounding a toddler.

A good match-up would be a samurai soldier v. bear fight. I am not so crazy, as to say, a man should go naked.

A bear is covered in fur. A bear is bigger and stronger. The sword, armor, and the superior intelligence of the man should equal the match and should place the game on equal ground. I would call the set-up match true sport.

Man-or-woman-behind-bushes or trees v. unsuspecting deer on-all-fours-licking-salt-off-dirt is not sport. It is murder.

The man or woman is shooting the opponent, while their back is turned.

If the match-up arrangement were a man or woman in the position of the deer, new stations, print or web publications would claim the arrangement a coward’s set up.

We must insist this field set-up arrangement is a case equal here.

Beasts and humans are related. They share, at least, a tiny portion of the same DNA down the evolutionary line. So, beast and humans are distant cousins. So, they should be given equal credence.

The United States must attempt to implement fairness in our national sport event pastimes.

The U.S. must say the arrangement is at least equal to man shooting an unarmed man or woman behind a bush, while his or her back is turned.

American’s must insist the person does not even have the guts to face the deer aware and in an open space.

I think unfair sporting arrangements should be outlawed. I think only fair play should play out. I think an article should be penned and placed in the U.S. Constitution embedding this concept.

The Romans, while brutal, at least knew how to arrange a fair set-up against human and beast.

Old Spain was more progressive in arranging equal mammal matches than the United States.

The Spanish knew how a human v. beast match should be laid down – Matador v. Bull – now, that is a good set-up, when not tampered with.

What could show an individual’s toughness and sportsmanship more than charging and maneuvering against the horns and stamina of a bull?

The match is more fair and entertaining – dare I say more humane – than a slaughterhouse.

In the Roman arena, a gladiator was placed in armor and carried a sharp and deadly object.

The gladiator could face the swifter beast, bearing claws and teeth, with their superior intelligence; while slicing, whacking, and stabbing the animal with this sharp object.

I say if a man or woman wants to hunt a beast, they should step into a modern gladiatorial ring or like sporting grounds with a beast of equal power.

I say let the best mammal win. I say let the match begin.

A Case for the Smart-ass

Smart-asses are visible in contemporary culture. Smart-asses are broadcasted on TV. We see them in the supermarket. We all have a few in our family.

A lot of puritanical individuals and business CEOs frown on the smart-ass. He questions their authority with smirk-light-commentary. He levels them. He is uppity. Often, he is far more intelligent. He is always more entertaining. 

Primitive Smart-asses

Smart-assess date back to humanities earliest days. I speculate smart-asses within the ranks of primitive man.

I hypothesize one of the members of the group was sitting there when the rest of the tribe were doing something stupid or when whatever the band of primates were focused on bored him, he decided to hop up and down, sway arms, and grunt in mocking tone. 

This is the likely stand-up routine origin.

The Smart-ass In Literature

Smart-asses exist within a variety of literature. Mark Twain loved to make smart-ass comments on mild irritations and irrational superstitions. He said that Christian Science was “Chloroform in print.” He wrote a long essay on the subject, while chuckling and puffing on his pipe.

In the 18th century, Ireland was subject to poverty and overpopulation. Jonathan Swift said the best solution to the problem was for the Irish to eat their children. 

The Smart-ass in Sacred Texts.

Smartasses exist in sacred texts. Turn open a page of the typical, “Bible” if you doubt. Turn to the book of Kings.

Elijah was a smart ass. This is why he chose the alter-god-duel. It was the perfect setting to have a large audience and perform a stand-up comic routine, make a dosage of berating, insolent, yet humorous remarks at the expense of uppity holy men. 

Jesus was a smart-ass. When he healed the man lowered through the roof and the priests questioned why he did it. He said, “Is it better to do good on the Sabbath or do evil?” This is a total cynical / smart-ass remark.

I assure you, if this event happened, it was not done in a somber tone. Why? He was Jewish.

Smart-asses in Cultural Context

Most Jews are cynical smartasses. They admit and pride themselves of this attribute. They do not take a somber view of life and always look for a moment to liven the moment with a cynical/ perhaps insolent remark. It tends to irritate some.

Perhaps, this is why the Jews have a long history of persecution. There are some who just cannot take a joke. I guess this is why the Holocaust happened in Germany and not England.

The English also love large doses of ironic jabs and sneers, especially offered along side a good glass or ale or cup of tea. The Germans, sadly, are not known for this quality.

Not being a Smart-ass as Psychological Problem

A lack of smart-ass attributes should be an alert. It is a sign hours spent at dinner are destined to be a dull time. It is a sign you will regret sending out the invite.

A lack of a smart-ass attribute is also creepy.

Was Jeffery Dahmer as Smart Ass? Were the Columbine kids Smart-asses? Are the extreme religious-radical-extremists smart-asses?

The answer NO… NO… NO… they were/ are not. Somberness goes well with psychopathology.

Smart-ass and Politics

Hitler for instance. Hitler was a Puritan in mannerisms. He was obsessed with societal proprieties.

This was a distinguishing factor between member of the leaders of the Axis Powers and the leaders of the Allies. Churchill loved to come into a room and let the people present know that, yes, he was a total smart-ass.

Churchill loved to drink. He loved his scotch. Certain women did not share these attributes. They found his stumbling and drunken ramblings infuriating.

When a woman came up to Churchill and said “ Churchill you are drunk. If I was your wife, I would poison your tea.” Churchill responded by saying “ And you’re ugly. Madam, if I were your husband I would drink it. I may be drunk, but I will be sober tomorrow.”

Smart-asses Amongst the Founding Fathers

Smart-asses played a significant role in the founding of the United States.

Thomas Pain was a smart-ass. Paine couldn’t resist giving a few jabs to his hated rivals. When he found out about their activities-of-irritation, he was not brought up-to-date on because he was too wrapped up in a project, he immediately set to work on a scathing sarcastic bit of prose denouncing/ ridiculing them.

 In Summary

Thus, from this brief historical outline, we should learn salute the tributes of the smart-ass.

Horror Directors and Puritans

The horror film is the most filmed of low budget celluloid projects. Most of these are cliché. I find myself nodding and rolling my eyes, as images progress- cut-by-cut. Oh, crazy psychopath out to kill the sexual deviant. Oh, there goes the blond, vain pretty boy or girl. Oh, watch out black guy. 

Do horror film directors have a hidden Puritan streak? Are they Crypto Puritans? This may seem to be an odd question. I am sure many readers widened their eyes, as their orbs scanned the above line. Hear me out if you want to hear my crazed rational behind this.

Puritans are obsessed with demons, witches, warlocks and other occult monstrosities, which could lurk behind the corner. This thought pattern distributes an aura of creepy, which finds its way to my neural canal. I fidget in their presence. I think Ok, crazy person. I look for the nearest door. I hope no matches are located in my present setting. I hope there is not an ax attached to a wall or door. I hope the guy or gal does not have a shotgun. 

I believe the next moment they could see me as some kind of demon or sorcerer. I am a bit self-preserving. I tend to watch my step. I want to live. So, I do take those possibilities into consideration.

The movie “The Crucible,” which concerns the Salem Witch Trials, kept me up a few nights. Around 12:30, I miraged a Puritan stepped into my room. The shadow of their broad-brimmed hat lurked up the stairs. Their outline soon formed a dark block in the doorway. The sound of their high and buckled boots creaked up the stairs and pounded toward my bed. I am serious. I was creeped out. My light bill was high that month. 

Most horror directors I know are superstitious. They obsess over the occult. They believe in ghosts. They believe in witches. They believe in demons. They believe all these lurk in hidden corners. They believe people they meet could be possessed by them or walk among them in humanized form. They think they are out to deceive or destroy them.

Freud believed our dreams come from our unconscious desires. If this statement is true, are the directors the personification of the killer in these films? Is it their hidden desire to ax, stab, strangle, slice, otherwise, mutilate the moral deviant? 

I question these possibilities. The lumps on my skin are forming. My arm hair is rising. My teeth are set to chatter. I am about to grab my blanket. I am holding it over my head.

Puritans seem to have an odd obsession with blood. I do not get this. I do not want to try to understand this. Do they want to see deviant juice? History seems to suggest they do.

To assuage my fear, I think I will bar my doors. I think I will invest in security cameras. I think I need an alarm connected to 911 and police headquarters.

Wait! What was that? I think a saw a hat buckle out of the corner of my eye. I think I saw a shadowed, high-hatted figure mixing dye and Karo syrup. Save me! THE HORROR! THE HORROR! IT’S A… It is a… a… a HORROR DIRECTOR – AHHHH! NO, KEEP AWAY! NO, I DO NOT THINK I WOULD TASTE BETTER EXTRA-CRISPY! KEEP AWAY! HAMMER AND SICKLE! LOOK, SEE HERE! HERE! RIGHT IN MY HAND! YEA, LOOK HAMMER AND SICKLE! AWAY! AWAY I SAY! AWAY!

Ok, that was close. He had a torch. He said he would bring his friends. It was horrible. He said I was an infidel… Well, I am, but that is beside the point. (I raise hand and wipe wet forehead.) I thought it was over. Everything is going to be ok. Good night/good day and good luck.

Self Help Book Syndrome

Self-help books are the most clichéd, overproduced and bestselling books available. Most of the information contained within is obvious. Some of it only works under specified scenarios. Publishers love them. Intellectuals loathe them.

The writers of self-help books deserve no praise. Most of what they say are re-iterations of a prior self-help book. The white space is spacier between the paragraphs and sections – a blank page or two may separate the chapters. Nauseously cute cartoons clog the space where words should be.

I declare a writer has hit bottom when he decides to pen the self-help book. This is the sign the creativity wall between the writer and his muse is erected.

This is the sign the obstruction between the two might be permanent. It might not just be a temporary separation. The muse may be filing both a restraining order and sending out divorce paperwork. The server may already be knocking at the door, with the papers and a pen in hand.

This is not an end-of-the-world speculation. This is verifiable. When a writer feels this urge, they might want to check themselves into a clinic. The time a thought of composing a bound self-help essay collection enters, a rational entities neural canal, is the time to dial help.

These are self-destructive thought patterns. These patterns lead to self-destructive behavior. Often, under possible threat of permanent muse-writer separation, the options are either killing oneself or penning the self-help book.

The writer is loading bullets one by one into a gun chamber. Literary friends, in like position, are being invited over for a game of Russian roulette. The local interior decorator is being called to decorate the shed out back “Deer Hunter” style. 60s American military costumes of their fathers or grandfather are being unpacked from the attic.

Everyone invited to the game is busy in the bathroom. Their wife or husband is outside annoyed because they have to piss or shit. The significant other is bellowing or bitching in the hallway, as they smear on the camouflage with care, tie the bandana, and practice for their best fade-to-black shot.

Honestly, I do know whether it is best to write the self-help book or engage in that game of Russian roulette. Both are high-risk. Both are tempting a “Seventh Seal” like Angel of Death upstairs. Both include a form of suicide.

One is your physical life the other is your creative. The damage done to your credibility among other writers and literature lovers is potent, when taking the self-help pseudo-psychology route. Russian roulette would be more entertaining and, if survived, memorable.

The reputation recovery time is long in the self-help bound-paper-stack endeavor. You have to power house your worth to the serious reader, after commission of this act. You are now a leper amongst them. Cries of “Unclean! Unclean!” Seem to sound, as each copy is passed through a laser scanner and placed inside plastic or paper bags – as hundreds of copies are loaded-up by truckers for delivery.

The need to go through “Levitical” cleansing is necessary. Passports should be booked for the Dead Sea. The facial cleansing agents from Dead Sea mall peddlers will not suffice. A full submerge-cleanse must be issued.

Self-help book ventures tend to lead to peppy-talky-speaking tours – tours, which should stimulate the urge to double the alcohol-level, in a normal man or woman of rational.

On these tours, one is forced to mold a Barbie and Ken sick-rich-sweet smile. When I see such a facial contortion, located on the face of a man or woman I meet on the street, I want to clop heel-to-toe to the toilet. I want to purge myself of visual pollution.

I feel I should dial in sick. I find myself surfing the net for a home remedy – if one is available. The next step is taking myself through a page-by-page re-read of Freud and performing self-psychoanalysis.

Fever Fantasy

I have a fever. I feel dizzy. My thoughts are non-existent. They are empty. I see double-images. My head is hovering millimeters in backward-forward motion. The chirping insects in the background are ticking me off. They do not stop.

I wish they knew English. I would open the window. I would lean out. I would shout “SHUT UP!” They do not have a large enough brain, however. If they did, I suppose they would declare their personal right to free speech. Though, I believe the rights in the “Bill of Rights” only concern people.

I suppose they could file a Civil Rights suit. Who could the hoards of locusts get to defend them, though? Any public defender they managed to obtain to defend their case would step on them – then another suit would arise. The complaint would be filed under bug-slaughter.

Bugs are slaughtered every day, however. Think of daily fumigation by exterminators.Think of the lost chirping locust children. Think of the death toll of dead larva. Think of the scores of dead mother and father six-leggers.  I suppose, under these conditions, there would be a class action lawsuit.

In retaliation, to ward-off litigation, perhaps, the government would send in troops of fumigation squads. Once all the bugs are eliminated, then another class action suit would arise.

This time the plaintiffs would be flocks and swarms of birds. The courtroom would look like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock film. The claim would be listed under purposeful, attempted starvation and forced inflation of worm and bug prices.

This turn of events would call in streams of cameramen. This episode would inspire scores of screenwriters to pen piles of scripts.  A courtroom drama or horror film would soon be in the works. Producers would fight over the copyright.

Families would travel far-and-wide to take snap-shots with the various feather and fowl at court. The state would have to start to charge an entrance fee to the event. I suppose such a dramatic event would manage to churn enough cash to pay off the national debt and stimulate economic recovery.

However, ending this fevered fantasy and switching back to reality, I will post when I feel better.

BEWARE THE GLASS

A new technology is to sun supermarket shelves and populate the workforce in the near future. Google is about to release a new device/ hand-cuff to the proletariat on the job. For years, the Capitalist has sought to capitalize the restroom.

The minutes seeped away from the desk has frustrated the Capitalist class for centuries. He/she has conspired with the government/ technological groups to stage war against proletariat biology for decades. Every attempt has failed. Biology has triumphed, however, they have now cleverly bypassed biology with headgear-digital technology.

No more can the proletariat escape shit from the client while on the shitter. The proletariat has limited time to enjoy work free toiletry. Soon, time spent toileting will be spent aiding/ advertising to clientele/ future customers thanks to Google Glass.

Google Glass is a new digital device, which attaches to your head – allowing you to speak and surf the web. Every second is on the clock, now, truly is company time. A piss or shit is no longer and excuse to shirk-off a guest/ client.

 

Red Comrade