The Promised World: A Christmas reflection on custies, the year 2009, and fun

A recent public radio segment invited listeners to weigh in with their views on the changes the past decade has brought. The discussion shifted from 9/11 to Barack Obama to Facebook, but it wasn’t until a caller named Chris from Massachusetts decided to offer his perspective that I perked up. Chris explained that he had entered high school at the beginning of the double-zeros, worked hard, and gone to a good college, from which he had recently commenced himself. Yet he was having a hard time finding a job and generally navigating a landscape that was radically different from the one for which he had been preparing all these years. “Where…” bemoaned a bewildered Chris, “but where is the world you promised us?” Chris’ plight is not unfamiliar to me. One year out of college, I am back in my old bedroom in my parents’ house, working as a store clerk for a little over minimum wage, and bussing at a restaurant on the weekends. Sounds pretty bleak, right? Where, I might ask, is the salaried, benefits-included job that is supposed to be putting to use the many products of my elite liberal arts education? Where is my small but cozy apartment in a recently gentrified neighborhood? Where is the certainty that if I work hard I will get a raise, a better job, a purpose in life? Where, oh where, is the world that was promised to me? This train of thought has played through my head several times in the past year, and I have continuously come to a very important realization: the question we are asking is not only absurd, it is very wrong. It exemplifies everything I detest about that “promised world”: the sense of entitlement, the protestant work ethic, and most of all, the idea that the world “should” remain the same. Let’s just examine, for one moment, the remains of that which continues to crumble before our eyes. Was it really so desirable? Of course not! It is a world dominated by kraut, with their kraut aesthetic and kraut values (for details, please refer to Anastassia’s very thoughtful essay on the subject of kraut). Yet when we were presented with this single map, directing us on the path to becoming an “adult”, we came to rely on it as a definitive truth, a manual of sorts for living life. Rather than learning how to adapt, we learned how to get good grades. Instead of dreaming up the millions of different ways we might live our lives, we perfected our resumes and refined our business casual wardrobes (ok, I’m exaggerating, I never really put that much effort into my non-bondage wardrobe). My point isn’t that these are useless or unworthy pursuits, but that the emphasis on such skills has decreased rather than increased our flexibility. The fluctuations we have seen in the past decade are nothing compared to the changes we will see in the future. Our world is changing rapidly, and it is going to take all of our creative powers combined to adapt ourselves. This is serious shit. But does it have to be? In the past year as a wanderer, an unemployment statistic, a raver, a wife, a minimum wage employee, and a warrior, I have realized two very important things. First, it is the relationships I cultivate that give me joy, and as long as I make most of my life decisions around the need to build community, I am happy. The second is even simpler, and it is this: life is supposed to be fun. I know, we can’t control the family we come from, the country we’re born in, life, death, war, etc. But a lot of the un-fun things that we think we have to do are really just a trick. They’re a trick to make us into custies, to perpetuate that failed world we worked so hard to become a part of, and that world is collapsing not only because it is run by kraut. It is failing because it is NO FUN. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it seems that “what do you do for fun?” is a legitimate question. Why is fun confined to weekends and holidays? Why should I not, instead of bemoaning my lack of “real” employment opportunities, revel in my daily activities? I chat with customers and co-workers, take pleasure in serving someone a beautiful plate of food. Cleaning my house isn’t a boring chore, it is an act that improves my surroundings, boosting my mood. Most of all, every interaction with my friends, family, or even strangers is real, interesting or humorous – even the difficult ones. Once you get into the habit of being fun all the time, it’s hard to stop. The possibilities spiral ever upwards; they branch outwards and grow deeper like roots. For instance, if I like gardening, why not spend time cultivating my own food? Each hour spent working is also an hour spent playing in the dirt, AND it’s one hour less that I have to work for a paycheck to feed myself. Perhaps I have a friend who does not like farming, but loves to produce music. Doesn’t trading tomatoes for dubstep sound a cuss of a lot more fun than buying each one from Hannafords or Itunes? I recently hung out with some friends who showed me a gallon of maple syrup they had traded for a certain homegrown crop. “Green for gold,” they said, with grins on their faces. So what am I proposing? That we teach ourselves to be flexible. That we learn to adapt to a changing world, hopefully before it’s too late. We need to stop asking where our promised world is, because we can create a world (a funhouse, perhaps?) that is better, more just, and infinitely more fun (especially since we’ve freed up all that time by not going into I-banking). On a more personal note, I would like to say that I have so much fun because I have such an amazing extended community of people to play with. You guys are my motivation, my inspiration, and the reason why I get up in the morning – be you best friend, lover, brother, or casual acquaintance (special shout-out to old and out-of-touch friends – let’s hang out more!). I am incredibly thankful for all of you, and I continue to marvel at each of your minds, talents, and perseverance. Your happiness is my happiness. Which is why I hope that 2010 will be the year when we all hang out more than ever before, have the most fun, and make every day the best day ever. Merry Christmas! All my love, Moriah aka Momo aka Dominatrix Girl aka Wifey aka Mo Lady Face Killah

New Favorite Website

Jon Stewart recently featured this amazing site on The Daily Show, and I can’t help but to pass it along. I swear it is not a joke. My favorite part is the “Setting the Record Straight” section – make sure to check out the wealth of information it has to offer. Also, if anyone has an in with this fine group of people or any other ideas on how to become a member, I’m all ears. Jake Rister and I could really use a pair of tickets to one of their events.

My Prescription for America

Moriah

Like so many barbarian hordes sweeping across the plains of central Asia, the healthcare debate has swept the nation with a surprisingly vicious force. As usual, we at Ruthless Ranting have many things to say on the subject, but I’m sure you’ve heard enough from every media outlet, not to mention every random-ass kraut-lite that has decided to weigh in with their oh-so-highly informed opinions. (If you’re interested in a real and informed take on healthcare, our friend over at Class Warfare does a great job of shedding light on the issues at stake – and for once I’m not being sarcastic). But there is one thing that I would like to address.

I may not be a doctor, but I do have a prescription for America: a healthy dose of RUTHLESS FISH BEATING is needed to counter the recent epidemic of CRAZY that has been circulating like wildfire around the country. The phrase “pull the plug on Grandma” in itself is so ridiculous that I can’t even mock it further… I literally have nothing to say to the people that believe this absurdity. Where did they get the idea that it is appropriate to take themselves so seriously and lose all control of their emotions at town hall meetings while sobbing that they want “their” America back? My cat Puscifer is a 3-month-old feline and he seems to have about a million times more control than the average American. Which is why they all need to be beaten with a fish.

Even Obama can’t believe that he regularly has to address this shit as if it’s a real issue. It’s like if a professor was hired to teach a college-level human biology class, only to discovery that half his students still think that babies are brought by storks. I mean, have you seen the man’s facial expression in his recent speeches? It’s like he really wants to make fun of the assertions that his health care plan involves a “death panel,” but since he can’t do that, he teeters between a desire to hug us and punch us in the face.

But what he should really do is beat the entire country with giant pickled fish. Maybe then, when we have pearly beads of fish juice running down our cheeks, we will cease to believe the nonsense being spouted by kraut royalty such as Bill O’Reilly and Glenn Beck. Speaking of which, I have some presents for Bill O’Reilly to reward him for spreading his holy gospel. One of them is black and furry, and the other one smells like fish.

A Severe Case of Not-So-Straight Love

A faithful reader needed our help, and we were only too happy to comply. Send us your questions, we have many nuggets of wisdom to give.

Dear Ruthless Ranters,

I am having an issue with straight love. I’ve just moved to Arlington, VA; business casual attire capital of the world, ground zero for the Happy Hour, and homeland of the kraut preferred, mother approved, binary gender expression. This is the straight capital of Virginia and maybe the entire eastern seaboard (well, excluding Golds Gym’s Sauna around 10 on Wednesdays). Amid the sea of light blue J. Crew oxford shirts and khaki shorts I am finding myself increasingly attracted to the guy who stands out, Mr. Duke Lacrosse.

I see him in Georgetown. I see him at Whitlows and at the Clarendon Ballroom. I see him everywhere I go in his mesh jersey with the cut off sleeves. I hear him pontificate on how the captain of his team only acted with the best of intentions when inviting that stripper over for some fun with his teammates. Now I know without a doubt that he was falsely accused. So, in light of these developments I ask you, oh experienced one who’s stripped down, strapped on, and conquered more sweet laxers than she can count, how do I take this one down – is my straight love for him getting in the way of getting his legs in the air?

Please Help!
- Blue Shirt and Khaki Shorts

Dear Blue Shirt,

Your situation does indeed appear daunting: you are living amongst the filthiest of kraut, who, despite their prestigious liberal arts college degrees, probably still believe at the core of their soulless shells that sex and gender are the same thing. The “heteroflexible” craze that has recently swept across certain parts of the northeast has clearly penetrated no further into the Arlington scene than the occasional str8 gurl humming Katy Perry. Your love interest, our dear friend Mr. Duke Lacrosse, appears to be the height of hetero, and some might say to forget it. But I, my dear friend, know what it’s like to lust after such a man: how he smells (Polo by Ralph Loren), what he wears (same), and above all that beaming, rosy face (there’s something so sexy in the way his cheeks closely resemble a baby’s ass). My dear khaki-clad friend, you will be overjoyed to hear that I don’t have to make the acquaintance of this fine gentleman to know that he wants you too.

How do I know this? First of all, I think everyone is missing the point of the whole stripper mess: it’s clearly a cover. Better that these sweet laxers be a part of that time-honored tradition – the sex scandal – than let everyone know the only too obvious truth: they love the cock. Watch closely as the object of your lust takes a moment to greet his bros (a lot of ass-grabbing is involved). But this bro-love will never be consummated, because despite his strength, swagger, and that weird thing he does with his shoulders, this laxer has a secret desire: he just wants to be dominated. Coming from a fine tradition of rich white men, he has been taught his whole life to act as if he has personally just conquered the new world, but trust me, in his heart he wants nothing more than to be thrown up against a wall, tied to the bed, and ravaged by you. So invest in a whip or some handcuffs, and make some particularly intense homo eye contact the next time you see him at Starbucks. It won’t be long before you’re using his lacrosse stick to play a game on your Astroturf.

Go Duke!
- A fellow lax-lover

John DeVore Quote of the Moment

"Unfortunately, I know what it’s like to smoke the crack pipe of infidelity. It’s all secret meetings, whispered promises, stolen moments, and forbidden sex in the backseats of cars, in stairwells with hands covering mouths, fumbling with belt buckles, lifting skirts."

The Russian Strategy

Rodney Johnson is our newest ruthless ranter. Are his rantings conspiracy theories or cold hard truth? You decide. This week he weighs in on Russia. Be afraid.

Rodney Johnson

A lot can be said about Russians. They are certainly a ruthless, cutthroat people. They have little respect for all things non-Russian, although they do apparently like capitalism as much as the next asshole looking out for number one. And hockey? Pretty awesome. Oh, they also kick ass at organized crime. Just meet some Russian people, they’ll tell you. Especially the ones who aren’t obviously involved in anything, because you see, these people are taking part in the Russian strategy.

Organized crime is at the heart of a huge economic system that spans the earth and accounts for about a fifth of the world’s GDP. Drugs and prostitutes and all that other fun stuff are just consumer items to be bought and sold for a profit. I’d call it the purest kind of capitalism because there are no taxes, and the only barometer is cash. Using fear to influence people, as proven by Bill O’Reilly, is an excellent way to get what you want, and Russia, as a country, has a thirst for power that cannot be quenched. They don’t do anything small scale. Especially crime.

Any civilized nation already knows this, because anywhere that has been civilized is extremely susceptible to the kind of activity that characterizes the gangster lifestyle: Moscow has the highest number of millionaires in the world, and Grand Theft Auto was right – they really do love a fine Mercedes. Their government is no different. Maybe they don’t deal drugs, but they treat others like a gangster would, intimidating and using violence and extortion and whatnot.

Organized crime, being such a large activity in economic terms, can be a powerful destabilizing force in society. The Russians know this. Let’s give it to them, they are a very shady people, and they have not only accepted this fact, they have embraced it. Russian organized crime is now worldwide. There are no Five Families, or even necessarily a “mafia,” there’s just Russian organized crime – it’s too big to be grouped any other way. Since Russian people in general are aware, if not involved in, the scope of the crime (just ask one), and the Russian government is (to my knowledge), made up of Russian people, it seems a bit redundant to point out that the government is also aware of the power and reach of Russian organized crime.

Back to my second point. Ask a Russian about Russian organized crime. They will probably tell you how much you shouldn’t fuck with them and how they’re evil and stuff, the kind of talk that makes you think maybe they really are bad news. Telling you this instills fear, and fear is, of course, at the core of this whole long piece of bullshit. Your fear means they are winning. Because that’s how they are trying to take over the world – little by little, like a big red hand slowly squeezing the life out of a cantaloupe.

John DeVore Quote of the Moment

"I remember telling one college girlfriend that we should “double bag” it before sex. Which meant wearing two condoms at once."

Stuff Str8 Gurlz Like #1: Feelings

Moriah

Str8 gurlz love anything to do with feelings: they love having them, expressing them, and talking about them, and they want you to do the same. Simply having an emotion is enough for a str8 gurl, that feeling must be very intense and expressed in an equally intense manner excessive to satisfy her. Personally, if I ever catch myself having a feeling, I make sure not to bore others with my emotional drivel and promptly inebriate myself or consume some fish to remind myself how ruthless I am. However, I am also not trying to date a str8 gurl, so that is generally not a problem for me.

If a str8 gurl happens to be your friend or girlfriend, and you want to please her, the best course of action is to ask her about her feelings and nod sympathetically while she talks. She will also respond positively to arm or back stroking, and, depending on the nature of your relationship, occasional kisses. When she is done (this may take a very long time), it is your turn to express some feelings. If you are having trouble coming up with feelings to talk about, take a cue from her and talk about the strength and frequency of your emotions. Some common gestures that convey your feelings on an everyday basis are: resting your hand on the back of her neck while on an escalator or walking in public, anything involving flowers, and reinforcing “positive” stereotypes about her gender role, such as “it’s so cute how long it takes you to get ready!” Occasionally a str8 gurl may express frustration by crying… in this case, I have been told that you should rub her back while murmuring “it’s okay,” and maybe “I’m sorry.”

If you think that all of this sounds like too much trouble, you’re right. And if you are terrified by the volume of a particular str8 gurl’s emotions, give me a call and we’ll get drunk together. Don’t even think about having a feeling around me: the punishment for that in my world is a ruthless fish beating. 

John DeVore Quote of the Moment

"Much like mouth love, I am not particularly fond of, um, 'non-traditional penetrative sex.' "

On Nineteen-year-old Boys

Moriah

I have an escalating problem that is starting to concern me: I can’t stop sleeping with nineteen-year-old boys. This was perfectly normal when I was nineteen. It was no problem when I was twenty. And it was still acceptable when I was twenty-one. However, I recently turned twenty-three, and my demographic of choice remains the same. It’s getting to the point where I feel more and more like a female version of Matthew McConaughey’s character from Dazed and Confused, who famously proclaimed “That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age.” Beautifully put, Wooderson.

I’ve spent a lot of time pondering the phenomenon, and it's not hard to figure out why I’m addicted. Nineteen-year-old boys don’t like to go on dinner dates, which is a huge bonus in my book, but they do like to get high, watch South Park, and have sex three times a day, which are all activities that I also enjoy. Anyone older than me already seems to be thinking about getting married, which is so incredibly gay (the only wedding I’ll ever have will involve me and Anastassia walking down the aisle of Mead Chapel in dominatrix boots).  And there’s no way I’ll stray below the eighteen mark – I am still haunted by memories from high school of that twenty-three-year -old girl who used to pick up her ninth grade boyfriend after class in a tricked-out Mazda.  After all, it’s not so much the younger guy thing that attracts me – nineteen-year-old boys are so appealing precisely because they’ve perfected the art of being a teenager but have yet to morph into the college bro, the young professional, or the twenty-something burnout, which are all completely unacceptable things to be. It’s an age that only comes once, and whether I try to or not, I always seem to find it in my bed.

Don’t get me wrong: It’s not like I haven’t tried branching out into other age groups or genders: anyone who knows me is well aware of my inability to stick to one single thing, and my sex life is no exception. At this point in my life, it’s not even that big of a deal: nothing too creepy about a four-year age difference, right? What worries me more is the unsettling thought lurking in the back of my mind: am I on the path to cougardom? When I’m thirty, will I still be finding cargo shorts (other than my own) on my bedroom floor in the morning? When I’m forty, will my date still be rolling up on a skateboard?

The more I thought about it, the more I started to question my choices: maybe I should grow up and face the fact that as a recent Middlebury College graduate, I need to start meeting more people my own age. So on Saturday night I agreed to join a friend of mine at a salsa club, both in order to meet a more appropriate demographic and to gain some distance from the current 19 year old situation hanging out in my bedroom. Unfortunately, however, salsa dancing doesn’t cater to my particular skill set, and the men in the club were quick to realize that I was a terrible partner. I ended up hanging out with a Mexican guy and we spent the night mocking each other’s inadequate dancing skills in Spanish. Of course, it didn’t take long for him to reveal that he has been around for diecinueve años. Tell me something I don’t know.

So I decided to put an end to my very brief attempt to branch out and fully embrace my fetish. Why resist something that makes me happy? I do have to instate some measures of control, however – if I let myself have my way, I’d probably have a house fully stocked with four or five of these fine individuals at all times. One of them would hand me a packed bowl when I first woke up, another would show me a funny video on Youtube, and a third would pass me a box of Fruit Loops. Then we’d all get in the Chevy Equinox and drive around catcalling girls who are way out of our league, after which we’d get burgers and drink beer and bro out with some more of their peers. Maybe in the afternoons we’d go to the river or a park and jump off some shit, and at night I’d make us all dinner while they played Super Smash Bros, and then I could choose which one (or ones) to bring to bed with me…

Okay, so maybe nineteen-year-old boys aren’t perfect, and I realize that sometimes they can be just a little too … nineteen. I often find myself using the “it” pronoun when talking to them, as I do with my cat – I don’t think of them as pets exactly, but they do share a few of the same qualities: both are furry, and need to be fed often. When I recently commented about a certain nineteen-year-old’s morning demeanor by saying that “it was grumpy”, “it” responded, “Yes, it was grumpy, but it bettered itself.” I know I started it, but really? This is one of many reminders that nineteen-year-old boys are simply not to be taken seriously. But then again, neither am I. 

An Interview with the Boss

Jake Rister

In an attempt to get to know my boss, I fired a series of inquiring questions at him, so that I may better get to know my boss.

Who are you?

Your boss.

Where are you from?

The same place you are.

What is the most unacceptable girl’s name in the English language?

Madison.

What is the most unacceptable boy’s name?

Britton, or Brooks.

What is the best way to make a new friend?

Invite them to a Russian picnic. 

The worst way?

Invite them on a friend date.

Why do you hate the Kraut so much?

Because when I sense their presence, my blood develops an electric current, resulting in agonizing shocks down every blood vessel in my body.

Who are your biggest influences?

My biggest influence is my boss.

What is your favorite color?

Purple.

What are your thoughts on dating?

I was once planning to go undercover with Anastassia to observe the Montreal dating scene from the inside, so we could expose it and mock it ruthlessly.  But this never happened because, even in the service of this noble endeavor, I still couldn’t go on a dinner date.

What historical figure do you wish to emulate?

I like to think of myself as Paul to Bill O’Reilly’s Jesus, spreading his gospel to the world.

What is the thing you would like most to do in the world?

A line of cocaine with Barack “The Rock” Obama.

What is the one thing you would least like to do?

A line of cocaine with Bill “the Kraut” O’Reilly.

What is the worst thing in the world to you?

The type of Kraut who gains narcissistic pleasure from the admiration and devotion of other worthless Kraut.  In other words, Bill “the Kraut” O’Reilly.

What’s the second worst thing?

Your questions.

What do you take your central purpose to be?

I’m sorry, but if you don’t mind I’m going to replace that question with the question I wish you had asked.  Which is “what, Boss, is your favorite cereal?”  And the answer to that is Raisin Bran.

What’s your next move going to be?

I’m planning on getting a Canadian citizenship and a piece of that oil money!  Viva Le Petro State!

Why are str8 gurlz stupid?

I have no idea.

 

Breaking the Ten Commandments with Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly

Jake Rister

As some of you may know, I have set forth as my task to spread the gospel of my lord and savior, Bill ‘the Kraut’ O’Reilly.  I wanted to see how my faith held up against the basic premises of Western morality, the Ten Commandments.  But ironically, Bill ‘the Kraut’ himself foiled me at every turn.

Commandment One: I am the Lord your God

Not a commandment technically, but it doesn’t matter.  “Grandfather Vengeance” is a decent choice, but Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly is already the Lord my God. 

Commandment Two: You shall have no other gods before me

The first and the second are the same because YWVH couldn’t come up with a legit tenth.  No matter, as I just said, Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly is clearly held before him.  He could’ve definitely come up with a 10^th.

Commandment Three: You shall not make for yourself an idol

As we all know, I have fashioned myself a man-sized statue of Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly, that speaks to me when I pray before it and guides me in its Word.

Commandment Four: You shall not make wrongful use of the name of your God

This one I got!  Not only have I not used my God’s name wrongfully, I’ve bettered it: for he is now known by his full and rightful name: Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly.  (Those Kabbalists must wish their shit was this easy).

Commandment Five: Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy

My Sabbath is Monday through Friday, 8:00 – 9:00 EST and I keep it very holy.

Commandment Six: Honor your father and mother

My father and mother taught me that Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly was a dirty Kraut, scum who got himself off by manipulating the minds of stupid people and looking at pictures of himself.  How could I possibly honor them?

Commandment Seven: You shall not murder

Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly has told me to slaughter Kraut for the rest of my life, and I cannot but obey him.

Commandment Eight: You shall not commit adultery

I commit adultery in my heart with Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly.

Commandment Nine: You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor

I fancy myself a treacherous barbarian.

Commandment Ten: You shall not covet anything that belongs to your neighbor

Bill ‘The Kraut’ O’Reilly belongs to everyone, but I covet him all to myself.

 

Russians Are Not To Be Trusted

Anastassia

The Russians may have fooled most people into thinking that they became civilized when they finally started eating McDonald’s in the early 90’s, but, thanks to David Cronenberg, we should all know better than to trust Eastern Promises.

While we all know the paranoid depictions of bears roaming the streets of Kremlin that were relayed to schoolchildren during the Red Scare aren’t actually true, one can’t help but point out the metaphorical value of this strangely familiar nationalistic scare tactic.  The thing is that, aside from a writer or two that Russia somehow managed to produce, it is at heart a nation of nomads and barbarians.

This is precisely why, when I read the July 2^nd masterpiece on U.S.-Russia relations in the Economist, I was delighted to find that somebody other than myself was sharp enough to cut through the bullshit and expose the Russians for what they truly are.  The writer sums things up nicely, reminding me that Russia’s problems are not our fault and that pretty much everything they do is and has always been a conspiracy against our nation.   “Mr Bush’s policy towards Russia was both confused and confusing,” reads the article, “One moment he was looking into Mr Putin’s eyes and finding a man he could trust; the next he was preaching democracy while failing to lift cold-war economic restrictions.”  Read: Russians are not to be trusted.

I am even considering giving the writer an extra shout-out for reminding me that “Russia is the largest country on earth” and that it stretches “from Europe to China.”

The visual aid that accompanied the article was also excellent:

With all due respect to whoever photoshopped this work of art, I think the picture needs a few final touches.  First of all, the bear should be holding a bottle of Stolichnaya in one of its paws and a Kalashnikov in the other.  Second, the sunset motif that appears to be going on in the background of this shot needs to be replaced with something more gloomy in order to symbolize the dark and evil nature of the Russian people.  Grey or black would do just fine, although I also wouldn’t be opposed to white because that is the color of snow and it pretty much always snows in Russia.  It would also be fun to dress Obama up like a dragqueen, but I guess that might come off as stupid and over-the-top.

Before you start calling me a bigot and sending me hate mail, let me point out that no Russian would ever be offended by anything that I’ve said here.  If they were truly interested in altering their sketchy image, would they be wearing leather jackets, smoking, and speaking a language that sounds angry?  I think not.  The truth is that Russians want us to believe they let bears loose on the street and are all in the Mafia. 

Besides, every culture needs folklore--we just tend to take ours a little more seriously than most peoples.  Chinese people, for example, have generally accepted the fact that malicious fox demons don’t actually exist thousands of years ago.   Well fuck them.  Personally, I still enjoy cropping Obama’s figure into the jaws of an oversized Russian bear.

 

On Marriage

Jake Rister

Marriage is a conspiracy of the Kraut.  Now one of the ways I traditionally distinguish myself from my hallowed 19-year-old counterparts is by a general distaste for conspiracy theories.  When I was 19, I was displaying many characteristics of a Kraut.  We don’t need to go into them all now, but one relevant example is that I wanted deeply to wed my girlfriend at the time, and often asked her romantically, “will you marry me?” Even in those times, I never liked conspiracy theories. 

But marriage is a fucking Kraut conspiracy if there ever was one.  Marriage, itself, brings absolutely nothing positive to society.  Everything that we associate positively with marriage – love, family, support, etc – has nothing to do with it and is probably inhibited by the institution.  Thanks, Kraut, for giving us a gift that suffocates personal betterment and exploration, makes people who once loved each other hate each other, and ruins childhoods since the wholeness of a child’s world now rests on whether or not mommy and daddy can still stand the sight of each other. Honestly, it’s a wonder Western society has flourished despite being structured on such foolish, irrational nonsense.

That today there is a legitimate social movement in the United States to protect the sanctity of marriage is almost laughable.  It is certainly absurd.  If world history had a wall of shame this movement would probably be on it, if we could take it seriously at all.

On World History

Jake Rister

Human history can seem like a daunting topic.  I know that when I think back to history class in school I’m overwhelmed: there have been so many peoples, and so many kings, and so many wars, and so many dates (there have just been so many dates in history).  But as I am about to share, there is a secret structure to it all that, once understood, reveals the extraordinary simplicity of the human system.  Although there are hundreds of different countries, although there have been thousands of different languages, and, as we all know, everyone is a ‘unique’ individual, the truth is that there are only three types of peoples.  There are civilized peoples; there are barbaric peoples; and, of course, there are neanderthals. 

Human history has been nothing other than the story of different types of people just trying to be who they are.  Neanderthals live like humans used to live, back when we were basically animals.  Back then we lived off the earth and were directed by our gods’ voices.  We were generally nice to each other and gave thanks to animals when we ate them.  Sadly this style of human has had it rough since new types started emerging: the barbarians and the civilized.  These two types of people have been battling for the supremacy of their style for many millennia.  Civilized people build civilizations and then invade barbarian territory in an attempt to rule and civilize them.  Then barbarians invade the civilized world, slaughter it, and either return to their barbarian ways or try to become civilized and fail (since barbarians are by nature far too ruthless for civilized behavior).  When civilized places are left on their own for too long without a visit from the barbarians, they become far too civilized.  The nonsense of the 20^th century is nothing but a reminder of how unacceptable civilization becomes when it goes without a good invasion for too long.  For one thing, they discover the sorry, unsuspecting neanderthals – a type of people the civilized are utterly incapable of playing with nicely.

Like the primary colors, all types of peoples that currently exist are composed of these basic types.  Western Europe is naturally the source of most contemporary civilization and is still its primary bastion (along with its goofy progeny, North America).  Other places produced civilization organically at other points in time (e.g. India, China, Russia, Persia, Arabia), but today it is quite clear that 90% of civilization and civilized behavior is Western European.  The only exception we might consider is Japan, but even it decided to cast away much of its own style of civilized living for the West’s.  But then again they did invent technology, which was pretty civilized of them.  Thankfully the Japanese have decided to use their contribution to civilization nicely. Recently, for instance, there was nationwide cell phone network slowdown in Japan because its citizens were downloading too much porn on their Motorora’s.  Most of the other frontier outposts of civilization were inhabited by Neanderthals before Western Europeans helped themselves to them – places like Australia or South Africa or Israel.  And in the rest of the world, which is mostly non-civilized, the only civilized people are those that have been Western educated (either by Westerners or by themselves). 

You may be thinking, “what about South America?” And a reasonable question it is to think about.  But that can be explained easily, since it is simply a continent filled with people who are half civilized and half-neanderthal.  It’s utterly devoid of barbarians, and clearly suffers dearly for it.  For throughout the world we see one example after another of what ensues when there are no barbarians about: both the civilized and the Neanderthals start acting barbarous themselves and make a dirty mess of it.  When it reaches an absurd extreme, you get things like the filthy, dirty, soulless Kraut.  But the horrible truth of the last half century is that even when you think the Kraut are defeated, you look around the civilized world and realize that most everyone you see is acting like a stinking fucking Kraut.  Hence the timeless saying, “as relentless as a Kraut.”  Kill the Kraut.

Which brings me to the barbarians.  Full disclosure is due here: this is my definitely my favorite type.  If truth be told, I fancy myself a barbarian and claim that I want to reside in a yurt.  I have developed a theory that Jews’ penchant for nomadism, treachery, and general ruthlessness actually makes them part barbarian.  This is an extremely reasonable perspective for me to have taken, and it also means that I, by being half Jewish, am naturally barbaric.  In any case, we forget how much of the world is really just still filled with barbarians.  But barbarism is regrettably having a rough go of it these days.  With each passing day, cancerous civilization spreads over more and more of the globe.  Russians, Mongols, all manner of Turks – the great barbaric peoples – sit idly and feebly across Asia, the garbage heap left by the golden hordes back in the days when they swept across the continent to terrorize the civilized end of the world.  Now their ancestors sit in their respective imitations of civilized societies, listening to their Kraut, ‘western looking’ leaders spout nonsense and bicker like children, when all they want to do is just drink vodka, listen to gipsy music, not bathe, beat people with fish, and possibly drink blood from their mount as they shoot Europeans with arrows.

My guess is that, if you’re like everyone else, you’ve got Chinese on your mind, and I don’t mean take-out or stray cat meat.  I’m talking of course about the Chinese over there who are big and communist and ruthless.  You may think that rising China provides some hope for a resurgence of the barbarians.  But here too one is deceived by appearances, for there is nothing barbaric about the Chinese.  The Chinese are simply civilized neanderthals.  Which is why of course communism, civilization ad absurdum, worked so well in China but failed miserably amongst the ruthless Russians, where even the peasants are barbaric and treacherous.  Don’t be deceived by the squat bodies, squinty eyes, and buckteeth.  My childhood hero, Ghengis Khan, saw right through their faces and into their souls and acted properly with them, and so must the barbarians of today.

So, once one sees the world for what it is, one can only come to one conclusion: we are a few centuries overdo for a good old-fashioned barbarian invasion.  The situation is desperate.  There are quickly becoming only two types of people in the world, starving neanderthals and civilized Kraut.  Let us hope that the barbarians, smothered under civilized nonsense for so long, become ruthless and rise again.  If they don’t, I may just have to escape to Canada and get my hands on some of that oil money before it runs out.  Viva le Petro State!

The Puscifer and the Kraut: a Fable

Moriah

As I sat with my coffee outside of my home,

This morning I allowed my kitten to roam.

Young Puscifer’s free to do as he pleases,

And his antics attracted the usual sleazes.

 

His most ruthless manner and small furry face,

Cause hobos and yuppies to stop in their place.

They all try lure him as they plot and they covet,

‘Til Puscifer and I both tell them to shove it.

 

But today’s passerby was no simple bum,

Though the leer on his face made me want to run,

I could tell by his stride that he prized himself highly,

And I soon recognized the great kraut Bill O’Reilly.

 

Bill watched as the Puss cavorted and grooved,

It was clear that this most filthy kraut disapproved.

I turned up the Wu Tang because I didn’t care,

But Bill opened his mouth his opinions to share.

 

“This cat has no discipline,” said Bill the kraut,

“He wanders all over, and there is no doubt

In my mind that he is a most godless creature,

You’re a terrible parent and an even worse teacher.”

 

“Oh, Bill,” I replied. “I would answer, you see

If only I could take you seriously!

I know you think that your shit is diamond encrusted,

But your nonsense is just simply not to be trusted.”

 

“Are you training your cat to compete and succeed?”

Barked old fatface Bill as I lit up some weed.

“Though marriage is vital I’m sure you’ve not wed,

But lead the life of a drugged, single mother instead.”

 

Said I: “despite all your nonsense this kitten does thrive

Because he has not one parent, but five.

We’re doing quite well, Bill, much to your dismay

Since we’re all polyamorous and a little bit gay.”

 

Before Bill the kraut could mock himself more,

A black furry bullet shot out of the door.

If there’s one thing that urges our Puscifer to kill,

It’s the drivel and stench of a kraut like old Bill.

 

 

Bill’s self-defense was at best mediocre,

And Puss went for his face, just like the Joker.

The sharp, vicious claws slashed both of Bill’s cheeks –

(He won’t be appearing on TV for weeks!)

 

The kraut quickly fled with his hands on his jaws,

As Puscifer calmly did clean off his paws.

Bill O’Reilly was served to the utmost degree,

In this ruthless attack on the worst bourgeoisie.

 

So if you are a douchebag who has not matured,

I have a cat that will make sure you’re cured.

The moral, my friends, is if you are a kraut

The one you belittle may knock you right out.