Tuesday, 19 July 2011

Bankrupted and Busted.



Image source.


One of the things I remember from my history lessons was the tricks that were pulled to steal things from the toffs centuries ago. Gambling dens and dolly rows designed to entrap the wealthed.

Did you get that? Whorehouses and dens of iniquity are required by the economic modus. Part of the standing infrastructure of commerce is degeneracy. I’ll bet there is no so called Business School got “Knockingshop supply chain management” on it’s curriculum, I’ll also wager that no so called school ever primes or grooms it’s failed products with a truism. “Jism, the ground rules on taking it up the commercial highway”.

I’ve said before and I’ll say it again. The default setting for all economic activity is criminal because it all originated one night when the stars we just right, deep in the secret crypts of a temple near Babylon. That is the point of penetration by the RICO spermatazoon.

Insemination, term, labour, birth.

Where are we now?

Well the great tribulation we are witnessing is that the larcenous nature of the whole edifice is on display now that labour has ceased. The beginnings of a new rigged commercial regime is struggling its way out of the birth canal of evil.

This is not the first time it has happened. Henry VIII, The Prince Regent, James VI of Scotland, Charles I. They all got verily vexed as they ran out of the magik money drinking and wenching vouchers and having to go see the high priest in the temple for some more. And when the bill became due, as it was always supposed to, there was chaos in the land and dead people everywhere.

A clear case being the Highland Clearances.


Well dear readers, and Dear Leader I know you drop by, guess who’s the royal toffs with too much syphilitic debt in hand. Guess who’s shot their last wad up a commercial highway? Oh yes guess who’s fallen for it again. Guess who’s just woken up to find a post-op ladyboy, drugged, dead, spunkfilled and deshabillĂ©, draped over the chalet balcony?

Guess who’s going to get cleared out now that the fiction factory have presented their spectral bill? Guess who is about to realise that there are no freedoms, no business, no commerce and no intercourse in a crime scene? All human activity is monetised and now that despoilation of crime scene is coming, there will be no witnesses left to warn future generations.

Never forget that we are dealing with moral agents and as long as we deal with them contractually there is no reason for them to stop us dying. Why do you think nothing makes sense morally in our sense of the word? Why do you think that ethics and codes of conduct are used to replace the excercise of morality in our understanding? We contract within their morality space. A morality space brought into being thousands of years ago in a temple.

Today the highpriests and harlotvirgins of this morality space are inducted though leadership programmes and given to us as wankstators. Beautiful gaze enthralling pieces of street furniture for the grazers. Rotating away like a great big Telly Tubby windmill comforter. That’s right, once you’ve lost the dick sucking vouchers you’ll only have your thumb to suck on as you gurgle quietly in a corner until your expiry date is due.

Why else do you find altar meat like this filth lecturing the world’s women folk about empowerment from a slaver state. Why else do you find this altered eunuch telling us that change is to be believed in. What? Like Coco Cola is it really the real thing?

No, no, no, no, no. These clowns are contracting us into the morality space they serve. Their role is to engineer the destruction of any other way of life that does not worship in that space. There is to be nothing in this world that can rival the crime scene’s morality space.

So dear readers how shall I scare the shit out of you today?

Well it is not hard. Let us review this crime scene.

We, that is you and me. We are shaking our head, head in hands style, on the edge of our fornication pen, the pay per view wall screen is staring static, there is a buzzing in our head, there is a dead commercial highway over whose butt cheeks the sun is rising, nearby, and there are stains everywhere and a knock at the door.

The bill is about to be presented by a geezer who knows exactly what is in the room. He’s seen it thousands of times before. We don’t know that. We don’t even remember if we had any fun during the lethal fornication, we’ve been rohypnoled. We don’t even know about the secret cameras that have been beaming whatever went on in our room to the envious masses.

Our handler will be all understanding like, as over his shoulder peek the poor who will be the next occupants of our room, and he mutters under his breath to them as they gape at the tableau, “Dirty Phekker, deserves all he gets”. Then as he seeks settlement of the tab we stir in disbelief, however since he knows we are broke the idea is to get us out of our room with no protest so that new occupants can get out from their slums and move on up in the world. You see one of the secret cameras showed them just what a bunch of degenrate heathen we are. These people rightly feel that they should have a nice roof over their heads for once. Our shagging pad will do just nicely thankyou.

The room is cleared, the ladyboy is dispossed off, the new tennants arrive and we sleep in a cardboard box that night until we die.

The room is Europe and North America, the time is now and our handler is Alinskyist.

I’ll bet you never thought that Henry VIII or Charles I had the slightest idea who Alinsky is?

Oh yes they did, he is as old as time.