Either the big guns will get you or I'll load up the trike with Talibanfan and pay you a visit.
Monday, 26 September 2011
A long time ago I would sit in my back garden, under the great eye, reading and writing. Luckily, being an anorak, I live under the London TMA so could clock the birds on approach to Heathrow. As well as the swifts darting high in the sky, beautiful little birds. Not as tiny as a kingfisher of course, which until I actually saw one in the Norfolk Broads, I believed to be the size of a pelican! Made sense to me at least. I used to live in fear, after clocking The Birds, of being attacked by a hoard of killer zombie kingfishers. Huge monster birds that could drag you away even if you pulled the old hornet skulking trick of diving under water and breathing through a handily stashed straw.
Anyway as I reclined, Ice Cold in Alex brew to hand, reading one of the most interesting books ever written, IBM could you believe, I watched the big birds dump speed and lower their flaps.
You filthy swine!!
Get your minds back on track.
So if you cast your peepers at that bird in the photee you’ll understand the frown on my brow as I watched the little birds, high in the sky, feeding off insects and the big birds, even higher, all of a sudden fucking with the rules of marketing as delineated by Moses. You aren’t stupid enough to believe that Freud’s inbred mutant family came up with it all by themselves are you? Sauce béarnaise is a poison to be administered to the drowning victim, liberally.
There they were, all of a sudden, graffiti’d. Someone had over ruled the marketing CHEKA of so many airlines and delineated a great big grey ovaloid on the under side of the fleets. Now this may seem trivial to most but if you know that marketing is all about making you forget reality and feel good about slavery then you will understand the power that the mind washed heathen have in our world.
To make you feel good about eating a turdburger and forget about sirloin, Alan Greenspan stylee. He and Ayn are stuffing themselves with panda steaks and tiger penises, drowning in fine wines, satiated with pleasure, whilst you starve for lack of sustenance, all the while they are watching reruns of your last moments, twitching in the dirt. That is marketing. That is reportage, misery harvesting for the misers. Usually staffed, in UKplc at least, by hobbyists who have a psychopath trait. NKVD anyone, no training needed, just a killer bent.
So back in 1998 someone was preparing the ground for the disinfo wars as I gazed into the blue.
Don’t believe me?
Could you be getting groomed for a great fire again?