Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Lenore "the Whore" Zann: Cyber Bully of 2013

The Face of Progress

So long as it's performed with the right person, to the right extent, at the right time, with the right motive and in the right way, sexual promiscuity is as healthful and human as a strong belch after supper. So, I don't judge Lenore Zann for her former low-budget, quasi-pornographic movie career as a lesbo starlet simulating the fuzz-hump nasty on the silver screen. (Well, technically just on Showtime, but whatever.) It's a much more honorable profession than professional politics. While the first profession takes some honest skill, courage and hard work, the latter one is just for whores.

Marc Faber: Prophet of the New Dark Ages

Ignore this man. He's probably just a silly ol' white racist, extremist, extremist, extremist in any case. Actually, if you don't ignore him, you might be a thought criminal. You're not a thought criminal, are you? Are you actually evil enough to make any attempt to profit off the economic collapse of America? Do you put profit before people? How could you ever consider giving up faith in Democracy, Progress and America?

If so, if you've lost the Faith, then, you are an Enemy of the People! If you take Faber seriously, you are a threat to the International Community! And we know that you enjoy raping women in your spare time  when you're not eating kittens for dinner, burning crosses with the Klan and poisoning the Environment with your selfish, disgusting second-hand cigarette smoke. Heretic! Blasphemer! Thou shall rot in Hell!

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Renascence, by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oh, why not share one of my deceased mother's favorite poems by old Edna. Poor Edna. I wonder if the cheap gin streaming through her veins numbed all the pain as she took her final, death-dealing tumble down the stairs. We can't be bohemian hipsters forever, after all. Even in the early 20th century  Nature really does abhor a vacuum. Especially if that vacuum is a manic-depressive that lost all its poetic fame and sucks down twenty shots a day to compensate for feelings of inadequacy and loneliness. Silly vacuum. Either way, no matter how much we're all sucking these days, in death or life, I wonder if poor Edna felt the need for a new Renaissance--a new renewal, a rebirth from the last one. In lieu of her 1917 hipster hippie-ness, I somehow doubt it. Maybe this poem was an ode to the 1917 Russian Revolution. We could certainly read it that way: Progress marches on, dear Bolsheviks! The Revolution continues! Socialism has never really been tried before! Stalin and the USSR were a strange, illogical aberration of what we wanted. We will build the future and we're building it now--Socialism with a human face!

Or not. And if your intellect is frivolous enough to believe that the Renaissance gave the West something called "Progress," let me reassure you that your godless religion has done nothing but burnt out your eyes with its dark, permeating radiance. As the great poet Mr. Rose once said, "You're in the jungle baby. You're gonna die." Like a deceptive virus whose organic malware is yet undetected, the dark radiance has spread from your hollowed eye sockets and spread throughout your brain. Indeed, it has infected all of us. And we're all so proud to be infected, like a self-congratulatory pimp. Sure, he knows his bitches got the HIV, but they be the best bitches in da city! 

Anyhow, welcome to the new Dark Age. It's the same as the old Dark Age. There never was a Renaissance. But perhaps, if we're lucky, we'll see a real one in our lifetimes. Though we certainly don't deserve it. 

More likely, the 21st Century will replicate and duplicate those horrors we witnessed in the 20th--the century of Progress and Democracy. Progress marches on! Indeed. Take it away, poor Edna. We need you. We can't blame you for your self-destruction. Perhaps you understood in the end, as you threw back that last swig, that these really are the New Dark Ages. We're right behind you, at the top of the staircase, for now. 

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Garet Garrett - The Revolution Was

A Christmas Gift for All: Garet Garrett's Guest Post

These last two months I've been moving, dear readers, among those walking dead Americans who, by their very nature, crowd out us few remaining but true individuals--the Remnant--in their ruthless hunger for our flesh, blood and souls, from one place of residence to another. And in doing so, amidst the packing and searching in desperation for a new homestead to rest my weary heart and mind with my few though resolute companions, I've had little time to devote to this blog. 2013 has been a sad year indeed for those of us on staff at the offices of the Cantankerous Mustache. Never fear. We shall return soon. In the meantime, fellow freaks and misanthropes, please enjoy the dark, immortal words of Garet Garret. His tale is one of woe. And if you're too lazy or faint to read, as I've been feeling of late, then worry not, and enjoy his works through the auditory wonders of youtube, re-published here for your ears only.

But I warn you, dear readers, Garet's Garrett's somber, gothic history hides no national skeletons in the closet of mainstream mythology. On the contrary, his words not only bring out the dead of buried truths, but justice to their withered, ghost-like existences. Warning to the naive voyager who dares to cross these distant lands, to the tender-footed mind of skepticism seeking truth and justice, to the young and optimistic dreamer of future promises and better tomorrows: Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here. The future was destroyed before your generation was even born and before mine as well. If you wish to know how and why and by whom the future was massacred, then, by all means, continue your journey into the unknown. Go forth and discover the facts of the matter. But do not claim, when you slice your way to the other side of this dark, lonesome jungle of truth, that you were not warned. Perhaps you should save this graveyard adventure for after these Holidays, the season of hope, faith and good cheer. For, if you rush ahead into Garrett's words, it is most assured that your hope will be lost, your faith shall be shattered, and your cheer drained of any goodness at all.

Ah, you can't help yourself, I know! You've already dashed under the tree! You're shaking the presents of doom, searching through your parents' closets for any unwrapped gifts that will only serve to disappoint you! You know it and I know it, too! Well, there is always some fun in disappointment. Discovering disillusionment need not be a time of sorrow. Au contraire, mes infants terribles! When we realize Santa does not exist, deep down, in the pit of our puerile souls, we know we have taken a giant step in spiritual growth. Such revelations or realizations only help fulfill our destinies. We become thus more of what we need to be: our selves.

So, enjoy this Christmas cookie of dread, fellow misfits in this lost and forlorn world of "Progress". Remember, "all I'm offering is the truth--nothing more." Of course, I baked every cookie with a Red Pill in the middle. Please don't choke as it goes down. Chug some organic, grass-fed, fair-trade milk if you feel the need. And take a big gulp of reality: The future was destroyed by those brain-sucking zombies long before you were born. But I'll let Monsieur Garrett explain the deets.

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas, kiddies.