Days I didn’t and days I did.

Two chums who do not know each other. Other than hearsay, have recounted to me the same tale.

One at Bowtime whilst looking through the past team members of the First XI trying to find an old time member who had been a squash champ.

The other whilst wandering through fields of crops maintaining rights of way.

Both reveal the same mark.

The Mark of the Yeast.

Unsightly Commie fiction and open to infection.

Delicious though it may be to some. Grinding the population down to dust is not the point of life.

If, as I think you know, there is no such thing as money. Then you will have to ask yourselves what is a pint of profit.


As an aside you will notice that the Post Office, Royal Mail, handed the treasury half a billion squid, in readies, pronto, on schedule, no questions asked. Then Phukkwitz the Majic12 Dragon Lived by the Sea and threw Nokias at the ceiling y ceiling turned up and the black went red and the certified shamanic bean counters morphed the imaginary numbers over night into dangleberries, or blackberries, it is all the same, utter nonsense. The high priests of finance made all the bad black numbers become good red numbers with a flick of their wandering penises. And lo it was good.


Profits are nothing other than a measure of the inefficiency of any enterprise rooted in the imagined world of fiat finance.

The larger the profit the less efficient that enterprise is.

Or to put it bluntly the more RICO is being forced down our throats.

This brings us to the yeast infection in our unitary tract.

That is only there because we allow the fuckers to stick rusty ball peen hammers up our orifices. Targeted hits day after day on the anvil of nothing.

That is magic.