Textual Slime

To Live is to be Conscious

2011-01-25T00:13:00.001+01:00

Habitual substance use of any kind is almost always met with non-logical response. No amount of scientific evidence will convince these people. Their stubborn demeanor ironically indicates a lack of conscious thought. It seems to be the result of a pervasive bias that has festered well into contemporary society. The concept of long-term drug use remains shackled to the concept of physical or mental addiction. To further exacerbate the problem, life long use of pharmaceuticals is also with chronic illness. This paints an uncorrelated stigma that begs for a cure.

We are the imperfect and ongoing result of an adaptive process that does not necessarily facilitate improvement. Transhumanism is a treasure guarded by the brothers ignorance and arrogance. In this era, can we realize that the future of mankind will not come about while we stand idly by? We must develop our skills of introspection, for we can think more than we think.

A supplementation of correctly chosen nootropics, neuroprotectants, and nutrients can greatly improve quality and length of life, at only a material cost. For whichever reason, remaining conscious throughout the whole experience of living is severely underrated. These pharmaceuticals do not simply increase memory, they enhance the essence of any and all thought. Reality has an infinity of information to provide us with. The variety is maddening. Look here. Look there. Our only limitation of experience is how much we can experience. Do not eliminate distraction, increase your field of view.

A loss of intellect results in diminished consciousness, a retreat into the allegory of the cave. It is the death of certain personality filaments. One must not think of the psyche as a binary switch, but as a thinly stretched gradient. Our natural bodies are progressing across it, our minds withering slowly. Parts of what we defined as “I” at one point in time, lose recognizability. In slow silent steps, they are altered and deleted. We might always be ourselves, but we are never the same person.

To preserve the entire spectrum of the gradient, the mind must exist first and foremost to contemplate itself. If we forego this priority of attention too often, we can no longer be spoken of as truly sentient. Nootropics keep this awareness alive. Self-awareness can be expressed as a simple chemical process. We must realize that our reality is a cognitive hoax. Everything that is real is brutally reliant on our own ability to understand. Stay awake.

Consider the following:

* Through nature, nurture, and culture, anyone can be raised convinced of anything.
* Memory is episodic and selfish.
* Someone else’s perspective is irreducibly your perspective on their perspective.
* Your mind is a personalized categorization of local nature and nurture.
* Senses provide the building blocks and overwhelming parts of the blueprints that are interpreted to build your ego.
* Schizophrenics cannot be persuaded with words.
* Religious fanatics cannot be swayed with rhetoric.
* Brainwashed citizens cannot be convinced of their bias.

Capitalism supports the vile and materialist notion of externalizing resources of the mind. Who can honestly be surprised that visual representations of merit are a precursor to violence? Socialism essentially advocates a collective mind, which is equally dehumanizing. We need to momentarily be immune to the streamlined trance-inducing media world. The human definition of living is a series of monologues and/or dialogs adjusted to locality, government, nurture, and technology. Think of it this way, other than posing a moral dilemma, a human being could be easily raised to a content feral ape. It would be happy defecating itself in a cage. How could it possibly know of anything else?

We are deeply dependent on our environment to develop our own ability and flavor of thought. Without a true psychedelic experience, you cannot say to have thought for yourself. A mindful trance state is essential if attempting any form of pseudo-objectivity. Why we need sentience augmentation and expansion should be agonizingly obvious. The salience should be glaring like the brilliant glow of a tryptamine experience.

As a result of natural greed and manipulative success of sociopaths, corrupted routine and ritual is being imposed upon us with varying degrees of volition. What we have is a cycle of consume, intoxicate, neuroprocess, and hibernate. The artificial intoxication of materialism, ego, and society doesn’t lend itself to progress. Our natural brain chemistry has us in a loop cycle. Thankfully there is a safe and effective way to break it.

Keep in mind that our worldview is constructed from an early malleable age. It is a slow accumulation of consciousness. Like branches growing towards a synthetic sun, we follow the flashlight of modern society. As children we are required to be gullible to facilitate rapid learning. Our unconscious mind matures in a fully submerged state. We have not yet reached our full intellectual potential, thus we are certainly not peers to those that direct and influence us. We do not yet know what things we have to resist. The cultures, people, and environments that we are exposed to are internalized and ingrained.

As a superior neuropsychological device, psychedelics dissolve these ingrained environments by providing an overload of mathematical input. How it is interpreted is entirely reliant on the structure of your identity. The mind has to rebuild its thoughts. The entire formation of our worldview is revisited, with the full capacity of an awake adult mind. We begin to understand the parts that make up our consciousness. Profoundly cathartic, we witness the rebirth of our ego. It is washed clean with intelligence dependant introspection. All it takes is a quick peek at ourselves from a different mind. Oh how we have been deceived!

Delish

2010-12-16T15:07:00.006+01:00

If there's anything that I contemplated regularly, it's covering my grill. Now I've laughed it off, eating away at my cordon bleu. My patio was begrilled, yet it stood naked. My mighty oven would be slowly crushed by rain. I can't lose something so valuable, not during the cold war with the Greens. In an immediate display of oneupmanship the Greens had an automatic grill cover made from Italian basswood. How was I going to keep up with that? With this.

Deluxe Grill Cover

I found this reasonably priced fabric rectangle that performs eponymously. I figured I need to protect my grill from all these hoodlums. Why not for the big finish? Next week I'm trying whether it's bulletproof or not. Regardless, Jim Green won't be invited to my next barbeque that's for sure. Good patio seeks good burger.

patio furniture covers

For the Hoard

2010-12-16T06:29:00.003+01:00

I am a hoarder. It rolls of my lips like a Rolls Royce in its factory. Hoarder. I carry the world's loads, the entendres. I stack the planet's piles. Transhumanists' trash if you're lucky. It's necessary to create little sky scrapers of garbage. I've invested in four properties for the sole purpose of stackestry (adv. hoardology). This amounts to a total of approximately 430 meters of storage space. For beginners, If your finesse is that of a moundmaker you might as well hoard yourself in you artless hack. Limp wrist. Shopping spree. "My name is Erin and I'm not much for sharin'.", the little mountain man said. Everything looks better when you're looking through rose colored glasses. Grab some hair on the way back from putting them on.

Repairing Time

2010-12-02T18:00:00.005+01:00

In the tar of night, wrenches sounded off in maniacal beats, exposing the hidden primal rhythms of repetitive motion. Grunting escaped through cracks in the garage door. "Repairs for Ya", the orange sign directly above it flickered. How Cyrus wish he had done that on purpose. The first thing that one would realize upon approaching this remote repairshop, was that one had arrived essentially nowhere. Foreign letters and illegible capitalistic gestures adorned the already declining metal, overgrown with a rusty orange. The air smelled of sleep deprivation and cold rain.

Soon the ink had eroded and now business looked pale. Two grandmas and a toaster didn't really do the trick. Precisely it amounted to a reasonable supply of beef jerkey, and some grape soda. It was not even enough to keep his beard growing. But it didn't matter, handy man was home. His massive fingers almost covered an entire tire. He did his job and he did it good. He did it for his livelyhood. Big fat fingers, itty bitty thumb. Beat me with a wrench until my skull goes numb. Or so it went. His eyes were thick with red fibres with lids stuck precisely in the middle. Time to pause his favorite cigar. He'd just spent the entire day trying to incorporate a lawnmower engine onto his chair. An egyptian mummy's worth of ducttape fixated it to the floor. Dark droplets struck the floor as he poured some of the good high octane.

Just as he bent over to ceremoniously take his machine for a literal spin, he was interrupted by shadows running across his wall. What amounted to a cloak on feet just pushed open the door. He did this with great care, while somehow disregarding the vomit stain directly under the handle. An awkward silence and clueless sniffing later a large tin thunk shook the walls. "I must apologize.", the stranger said. He had been trying to pull a cart carrying a man sized tin can fashioned with lightbulbs through the door. The impact had caused paint to peel off the wall. "Alright matey!", Cyrus said with a distinctive glow in his eyes. "You need wheels on it?"

Cyrus had just been disappointed. He had just been given an assertive no. "This thing doesn't even work. Start by fixing it before you even think about wheels, kid.", the stranger laughed. Cyrus slowly redshifted. The human tomato could finally be heard. "What the honker is this?" he said. His embarassment had now given him one of the characteristics of a vegetable and he was patiently waiting for his inner tension to give him another. "Figure it out.", were the last words the stranger said. He left without causing much more than a cough and a slight footprint in paint chips.

Cyrus carried the tin monolith with ease. He barely needed 3 fingers to hoist it around like a ukulele. As he carried it patiently into the zen garden, his usual workplace, he noticed a bit of displaced sand. This caused him great distress. His brow furrowed. His stomach growled. Footprints. After some adjusting with the rake, he bit into a big slice of melon and put his working gloves on. The machine stood silently before him. "Seems pretty simple to fix something that I don't even know what it done do.", Cyrus said. "I'm a mechanic in panic." Another bite followed. He couldn't figure out why he had been commisioned to fix a prop out of an 1960s sci-fi movie. He just had to make it blink. That was it, wasn't it?

It was a silver contraption that was made with the finesse and cunning of roughly seventeen ducks. It'd be polite to say you wouldn't accidentally put your trash in it if you woke up at 2 am. Paint chunks flew off of it at the mildest. Now we're even. Any given part of the machine seemed like it had been connected with a large amount of spit and paper. It had a door fashioned out of the lid from a titan of a cafeteria pot. This was the only component that didn't look like it came from a soviet schoolbus. Cyrus' ears were ringing. How could anyone possibly fix a machine that they had no idea about? What did it even do? But figured he could probably wing it. He took a slight sip out of his flask. Thoughts whirled within his polygonal head. The stranger seemed like a quack to be honest.

The mechanic's garage was now filled with birdlike whistling. Cyrus cared for hobbies that he could do simultaneously with his work. Unfortunately this has caused him to not once but twice be impersonating Nixon infront of customers. He paused briefly to contemplate a parakeet. He dedicated the last inflation of his lung to ending the whistle in a roaring thunder crescendo. His work was done. His slime covered arms stank of pine and fire. Have you ever felt the need to climb into a huge electrical device? Cyrus was too acquainted with this. In fact he was already inside the machine, flipping buttons like he's in a low budget airplane movie. He gradually finds his hammer strangely heavy and has to keep hiking his pants up in order to avoid awkwardness. One of the buttons came off. Dummy wires everywhere. Unconsciousness.

Rudely hoisted up and inspected by the man, Cyrus realized the machine had turned him into an itty bitty human. A ginger mute with an automatic syringe in his back. Who designed this? There wasn't much Cyrus could do while the stranger rolled dials around with his fake leather fingerless gloves. "I'll be immortal.", the stranger said. His voice crackled more than a border town with a firework business. His coat didn't bother to stop at the floor. By his clothes fit him as well as the parts of his machine.

But the stranger thought too much of himself. In simplicity comes defeat. Cyrus' gleeful vomiting slathered the strangers mouth and neck. The stranger frantically palmed the dials, screaming his last resort. Cyrus, with hands still the size of his head, leaped out of the tin can. Foaming through the cracks in his teeth, he pummels the stranger into the machine. Like Hitchcockian birds, his fingertips peck at the seams of his giant coat until he tumbles inside over his own head.

Cyrus' giant hands ripped off the cardboard dial, releasing several electric sparks that reached for his face. Hands builts of static grabbed at him. "You can't touch the handyman don't even try.", he said. The strangers face sunk into itself. His body drooped along with oversized clothes. "A transhumanist comedy!", he exclaimed with his last breaths. It was merely a circus to mock the overman. He had become a baby wrapped in a grime coat. Just go with your manufacturer's tech-support. How absurd to even have a moral. No third parties.

Cyrus snatched the stranger into the air with one hand. The baby stranger, who already forgot why he was upset, was crying. It was a temporary remnant of an erased emotional state. He had regressed too far to comprehend the past. Language slithered out of his grasp as he hit the floor of his psyche. Cyrus placed the baby gently into one of his gloves. Within seconds it was covered in ash. "Let's roll Cyrus Junior!", he said as sat down in his chair. The duct tape crackled and the motor roared. The spin was about to begin.

Operation Dusty Clown

2010-11-17T14:38:00.004+01:00

His established respect had been severely weakened. None of this shit. Private Grease sat with a salient slouch, sighing to punctuate any intention of movement. For a moment the canteen became unbearably loud with tears. His little pinky had stubbed against the table leg. War hero, just like that. Vague insults circulated about him, his nerves were now as twisted as the rubber band ball he cycled through pockets to avoid detection. He didn't want to disappoint the Seargent, so why should there be rubber bands on his privates? His general composition was that of a wrongfully tased grandmother. Pull yourself together man. A puddle began to form under his hands; Dr. Pepper had escaped his tin containment. If only this were the only puddle to worry about.

It's been 6 google searches since he saw any action, but the PTSD still mangled his ribs into a xylophone. A sombre melody shook his chest. His vague musculoskeletal method of transport kicked its way out of the canteen. By the time he had dragged himself out the exit, his bullet-proof vest had become a greedy sponge for his mellow water. He was a withered lime of a target. His introspection had dimmed his surroundings. Thoughts quickly wore off and he found himself centered in a vicious conflict. Despite what he told himself every day after anime night, nobody can prepare for the horrors of war.

"I'm a fast racer, I'm a gun shooter", he told himself as the children approached him. It dawned on him that this was the true unadulterated face of war. He doubted coming back from this one. An Iraqi orphan with fetal alcohol syndrome began pelting him with rocks, perhaps out of kinship. With every successful rock, Private Grease began breathing faster than he had ever before, and that's counting Call of Duty. His eyesight blurred into kaleidoscopic goop. An arrow of pain lodged itself in his spine, bringing him to his knees. His attempt at a moustache had been temporarily gingered with his own vein juice. Goodbye consciousness, his underpants had been pulled to his neck.

Alien Serotonin

2010-11-07T15:51:00.007+01:00

The room had become a spaceship. My ego was lost and I became a computary component of the vessel. I was a computronium chunk dedicated to syphoning data and analysing it. Vastly dimensional arrays of quantum variables were spinning in my mind. My mind was a subset of a subset of thought. There was no person to speak of, only an full efficient system. The bridge between mind and machine is necessarily a psychedelic one.

Of Mice and More of Them

2010-10-17T12:43:00.002+02:00

As the grime was foreseen in the dark shadows of the Munt Forest, the Rat King raised his head. For the first time in what appears to be several generations, the Rat King awoke from his nap of disgust. Once he managed to tear them apart, his eyes looked as if someone had launched a chalk at them. The Owl Oracle stood before him. "When it arrives, it will know." the Owl said. The Rat King slapped the crust off of his eyelids with his left paw. "Fucking Nutmeg.", the Rat King muttered. He had eaten quite a bit of it in an attempt to outmaneuver boredom. His ratty cheeks were still aching from the raw grit of the nutmeg powder, some still lodged amongst his teeth. The throne room began to rapidly expand and contract. The owl dissolved. Fuck this.

The rat minions had become test subjects of nutmeg's LD50, the lucky 50 cleaning up the dead 50. It was piles of contorted dead rats, not a particular mess but still a bit to carry. The Rat King slouched in his throne, swaying to the beat of corpse carrying rodent feet. Tap. Tap. Tap. A lone mouse turned slowly towards his king and approached him. The Rat King remained in his throne. He stared at the mouse with fatigued eyes, expecting nothing. The beat had stopped, as had his joyous swaying. The mouse launched forward and plunged a pin into the Rat King's skull, piercing his brain. The Rat King gave only a single immediate reaction, gripped the mouse with his teeth, crushing its neck. Once the body hit the stainless castle floors and engaged in some freeform arterial painting, the Rat King patiently pulled out the pin. In a stalemate with the evolutionary game, he was no step closer to the true void. Owned Bitch.

Several days passed, it could have been anywhere from one to a thousand. The Rat King had permanently lost track of time. But this day was punctuated with icy air sweeping his face. The Throne Room doors had opened, once more bearing promises of annihilation. The Pug Captain ran, yapping as if his face had been kicked 84 times. Right behind him was a gargantuan clockwork of wasps that had targeted him for extinction. "Armageddon lies within us", a hiss emerged from the wasps. Their directed rhythmic movement summoned a voice laced with static and grime. Their pre-calculated swirls enveloped the Rat King in thunderous anger. Furious electrons threatened to disintegrate him into rat pate as the wasps ever quickened their pace. By now a cigarette was sticking out from under his whiskers. Let's do business.

Dirt Syndrome

2010-10-17T12:42:00.001+02:00

After being embedded in mud for several days, James was unsure what to do. His wife had conveniently rolled off a cliff and his dog didn't ever exist. His life couldn't be better, apart from all the mud. While he carefully stripped caked gunk off his pallid face, he somewhat resembled a meta egg trying to peel itself from the inside out. "You can rush art, it just turns out shit." he thought. Some seaweed slipped off his shoulder. What the fuck is this. "Another day in the mud pit?", Larry squealed. "Slidin' all around so I feel so fine!" was his reply.

It's about time he jumped on his vespa and drove home. But he didn't, instead subjecting himself to a slight return into the mud pit. It absorbed the pain inflicted upon him by his co-workers. It helped him sleep at night. It made him feel like a needle in a haystack, a cliche in a script, a piece of gold in a dried turd. Surrounding yourself really boosts your self-esteem, believe it or not. I definitely won't. Mud people are all the same, but that doesn't mean they aren't all the same brand of good.

His apartment door flew open at such a force that it was clear the hinges must be broken. As James burst into his apartment, his mud crusted jacket coughed debris in every conceivable direction. Little cups of mildly dilute mud paved a little path through his cardboard forest. He wondered whether there was enough brown caked on the windows. There was.

James laughed at the times where he would still need a rope in the mud pit. Amateur. Deep within it should always be about the free float and the cool spin, but the pit is closing too soon tonight. There was a presentation that couldn't wait.

As it sat solemnly on his coffee table, a toothpick replica of the world trade center was his only personal achievement against the shadowy world order. This lighter is the CIA. The matches are the Mossad. Do you get it? After weeks of drying, the glue still stank with a chemical musk. Now for the first time, the musk turned into a blazing fury.

The flames relentlessly ripped his body to pieces and melted most of his clothes, leaving only his fireproof wallet centered in exhausted goop. Within this wallet was only a note. "In the unlikely case that I'm dead, keep the change. It's loose."

Technocracy

2010-10-17T12:41:00.003+02:00

In relation to our current stage of technological development, socialism and capitalism are already antiquated. In our myopic society and our beloved illusion of freedom and sentience, only technology offers true hope for a better future. Cures, comfort, indefinite lifespan, clean air are only some of the benefits we will reap if we walk down this path. Governing our lives on the principles of Technocracy will create an intellectually more fertile culture; an accepting and supporting community to help innovation flourish. If we look at our current world, aided through any of our technological achievements, all we see is deception and greed. Contemporary politics are a laughable and fabricated construct of illusory order. They form an international arbitrarium of seeded opinions, failed concepts, and misapplications, all in the form of a lurid black box mechanism leading to highly pessimistic outcomes. Miniscule oppositions manage to subdue governments with historically relevant but technically irrelevant motives.

Where do we stand, if our leaders intents are as aimless as the void glaze in their eyes? We're amidst a ridiculous back and forth perpetrated by people we've allowed to weasel into power. There is no true democracy. There thankfully never will be. Any form of complete democracy is a dilution of truth, correctness and logic. One cannot put the responsibility of a race into the collective hands of said race. Until we can begin to rely on AI monarchs, there must be a higher order, a true meritocracy, for the public is too easily swayed and manipulated. The more they deny that they are being manipulated, the more suggestible they become. It is increasingly apparent that we cannot trust the collective. Societal order is to be treated not as a proletariat wishlist, but as direct science untouched by plain opinion. It shall no longer play the role of a breeding ground for exploitation. Laws shall be devised by necessity, common sense, and indepth analysis. Thought reigns.

Psychology needs to replace ignorance as the main method behind power. The primer and most vicious blow to a government is dealt through psychopolitical operatives that infiltrate its mental health facilities. The people need true freedom, even if it entails their own self-destruction. But in no way should this personal freedom compromise the collective freedom or the freedom of others. The progress of science requires immunity from intrusion by politics, and politics needs to be controlled by science. Let the people live, yet subdue the malign. Logic reigns above man. Remember it as an abstract of a divine realm, one of perfection. Man has no say over the virtues of physics, and shall march on with courage to discover them.

Any regression, any step back, and we might as well have stayed in the caves. In the evolution of thought, we have to cease being stochastically governed puppets and become the puppeteers of chaos ourselves, as painful and difficult as it may be. At this point, the significance of a nurturing environment for intelligence and progress should be vividly apparent. We need to be surrounded by that which makes us stronger, more lucid. For humanity to flourish, the approach has to be carefully contemplated. We need to be guided by the majestic virtues of science and technology. We must accept and embrace all intellectual progress. Politics must be guided meticulously through secular and sober mind in close ties with logic. They must be guided through reason and applied goal-seeking.

An immediate implementation of any alternative political system is doomed to failure due to the contrast to existing norms, therefore Archailectics must be implemented in slow and secure steps. Several parts of the paradigm rely heavily on sentient AI and nanotechnology, these should not be forcibly implemented without an adequate safeguards to both aioid psychology and replicating mechanisms. This does not mean that we cannot apply significant amounts of the theory into a practical application in contemporary politics. In fact, we have to begin to prepare the metaphorical soil to be able to reap the rewards of the future.

Without a preliminary ideological foundation we would not be able to make progress. This is absolutely possible. Everything is technology. Unless you live naked in a jungle, you are utilizing technology. Even the huts and spears of the tribesmen are technology. Everything ties back to technology. The tirade that we should return to nature is absurdly masochistic. The function of nature is the natural darwinian selection of species, its function is to kill the weak. I'd like to think that we've walked a few steps since superiority by murder, but we haven't. The self always overpowers the social need. We are too breakable, primitive, segregated, diverse, gullible, and fearful to be a proper race. We have to destroy all of these attributes as soon as possible. Through technology, the world will be unified.

The future of the very fabric of existence lies in the collective hands of all sentient races in our universe. We must break the poison of religion and superstition, which are still clouding human judgement in arid smoke. Emphasis must be placed on the realization of our true directives. Without the burden of thought there will not be significant progress. As a race, we can currently only be described as pathetic. Our frontal lobes are minuscule, as a result we scurry around planlessly looking for a purpose in life, just because the true purpose is unappealing in its linear, clinical, and morbid composition. Assumptions lead to ignorance. Ignorance leads to devolution. To live without assumptions is to live with logical minimalism, an axiomatic view on generated reality and perception.

One must understand the process by which the universe will end. We are ever so slowly approaching maximum entropy, heat death. The only objective goal of existence is to ensure the eternity of existence. The reversal of entropy will ensure an eternal cycle of life for the children of earth. Even if you should believe in a higher power, a deity or machine of some sort, this goal is written eloquently within the cosmological laws. Your god would want his creation to thrive. However, if you are a nihilist, you should consider hedonistic technology in the form of neo-opiods and eternal life as being more than sublime. Technology provides comfort, resources, and efficiency. Regardless of former faith, technology is the only proven path to approach perfect play. It is by definition the mathematically most efficacious action, a purely scientific way to salvation.

Humanity writhes in complacent illusion of free will. Humanity cannot reconcile progress with the man-made fallacy of morality and ethics. All that is good or evil can only be described as inefficient. They represent digression from perfect play, a wasteful action. Only in light of the flaws of the human brain can we even perceive good and evil. Outside of efficiency, nature does not discriminate. Evolution presents both good and evil. We must define as evil the regression of technology and obstruction of scientific progress. All of it must be deleted without exception to ensure rapid development of new technology. The universally axiomatic 'good' can be defined as the enrichment of thought and progress through a sentient entity. The worn-out adage of there being no happiness without sadness, no love without hate, is plain wrong. All this is revealed to be far too shallow. Rhetoric might be a system of balance, our cognitive circuitry isn't.

These feelings are only internalized reactions to inherently neutral stimuli in reality. Our love is a biochemical reaction inteded to increase social bonding, and it can be outdone and proven to anyone with research chemicals. Everything is inherently neutral and only bears only our subjective and relative perception. The destruction of another sentient entity is only to be permitted to prevent further damage to science or another sentient entity. Illucid thought is to be met with great prejudice. We must not be further misled. We must not even for a moment stray from the path of science. Anything believed without relative proof should not be granted merit or attention. Any local psychological threats are subject to evisceration. Apathy towards the system is entirely tolerable and even psychologically supportive. However, it should not be supported but merely ignored. The governing wheels of society will spin on undisturbed by the apathetic masses, while politics and personal liberties take parallel paths.

Technocracy has several consequences that must be considered. As we progress as a species, we will begin to lose the need for over-elaborate symbolism, recognizability, and simulacra. We might eventually witness their complete disassembly. In our purest form, guidelines for progress will have become utterly obsolete. If we manage to survive the vicious nature of our species, we might once advance to a purer inhuman form. War, famine, economic instability. They are all the result of fallible human rule poisoning society throughout history. The flesh will always seek to preserve the blood. No politican will let himself bleed for the benefit of the people. Egotism is the primary permanent deficit of human rulers. The less power or final vote a person has, the more prevalent but less conspicuous the deficit will be. Simple citizens always vote for the candidate that they judge would be best for them. This reliance on judgement by people who dedicate a fractional time to politics has long been recognized to be ludicrous. Most governments either openly or subversively subtract power from those chosen by the people.

A dictatorship is arrogance by entitlement and individual rule, a democracy is arrogance diluted in ignorance. Politics can't be treated like a side hobby akin to doing sudoku in a magazine. The people who are sitting in their thousand dollar chairs ping-ponging issues back and forth know otherwise. They also know that you think it's all just puzzles in a magazine. Our previous systems and approaches have led us towards this catastrophic outcome. Greed and power are the strongest motivators, and who goes into politics without any flavor of greed being on his palette? People aren't made for specific jobs. The choices they make are biased by their personality, which thereby influences the entire country. Humans are about as fit to rule as they are to be pacemakers. The goal to strive for is to bring upon the self-creation of an Archailect, a self-improving aioid being with no self-interest. For the troubles and vices of men are incurable by man alone, as the unknown unknowns will always elude him. Wishful thoughts and inane mumbling has failed, because there was nobody on the other end. Complexity must be made. We need to create god. We need to create a terrestrial deity of artificial intelligence.

The problems of monarchy are entirely human. The yearning for a lavish lifestyle, the lack of supplies, emotions and pure ignorance bring monarchy down to its knees. With technological progress, a lavish lifetstyle for any human will be possible, whether real or virtual. Emotions can be taken care of with psychotropics and neurolinguistic programming, but ignorance cannot. But the true reason behind the fallibility of human rule is that humans simply cannot understand every necessary detail of their environment at once. The human government is sluggish, wasting hundreds of hours in debate and discourse. Pervasive prejudice and predilections pepper every opinion and every word. And so, under the hands of the contrarians everything comes to a halt. It must be made known that we have both the technology and intelligence to live in what would comparatively be utopia. The only thing stopping us is prejudice and aggressive conservativism.

And so the general idea of political parties will slowly become absurd. In an archailect neomonarchy people would be amused at the very idea. Contrary to popular belief, there is a right and wrong in politics. There is distinct right and wrong in economy as well. It is just that the perfect move requires a inordinate amount of calculation and analysis. We simply cannot fathom the right path. We require an everexpanding powerful artificial intelligence to keep all variables in constant view, and to choose the perfect play each time. Only using this method can we be at ease. Human politics is the art of keeping talking apes comfortable and quiet. To even attain power you need to choose a target group and suck up to them. Democracies are vicious putrid circles of stagnating improvement and docility. Then consider the opposite, greed and sloth keep anyone from being a benevolent dictator. As a temporary solution, we should have experts governing every branch of the government with the aid of computer simulantion and actual research. Time debating and arguing can be better spent doing actual background work. A sufficiently advanced aioid would be capable of rapid self-improvement well beyond the scope of human understanding. That's the meaning of life, approaching singularity.

Religion: An Excuse for Inferior Mating Attributes

2010-10-17T12:40:00.000+02:00

Organized religion has been trying to ban everything and anything for centuries. However, their main target has distinctively been human sexuality. The stigmatization of the human body was necessary to generate self-loathing in the exploitable population. Resisting the second most basic animal instinct takes a headcrushing amount of focus. The hyperfocus on blocking an inevitable physical reaction is a psychosomatic mechanism of weakening identity and self-perception, to allow malicious dogma to be injected. A certain amount of self-hatred is a basic prerequisite of deism. You strive to not disappoint, to please someone; You feel you are underachieving. Then social misfortune puts another unshakeable burden on your back and you snap. Human beings need to constantly reevaluate their own mental status. They can't take their perceived sanity, which is nothing more than a mesh of conformity, complacency, and achievement.

The closest friend and confidant you have is a figure that resides outside of space-time with no interest in human affairs, since his plans are already predetermined. Prayer is an attempt to change god's plan, to alter destiny. All prayer is arguing with your own superego manifested as a heavenly father. If you feel you are guided by god's hand, you are autoamorous. You love yourself too much. You ascribe divine judgement to your own thoughts. Our consciousness is all we are. We are because we think. Do you believe your thoughts are a vessel for god, in any form or intensity? If you claim that your thoughts had any active involvement by an omnipotent being, you are claiming to be part god. Take a step back and bask in the full glow of how that sounds. Say it out loud or hear it in your mind. "I am part god", you said. Does that sound at all ridiculous? You try to make up by your lack of self-esteem with such effort, going to the lengths of speaking for a god. Remember that the emperor's clothes work if everyone is blind. Since our mind is the only limited connection we have to reality, speaking for god would be categorized under channeling and possession. I know pretending to be part-deity might soothe your inferiority complex, just leave your kids and others out of it. Have a thought of your own for once and let them have theirs.

Now the worship of a deity ties in nicely with the self-loathing. Once you hate yourself enough to lower your perceived worth to rock bottom, you desire to be owned. You just unconsciously want to be property. Your involuntary mind has realized that you are either incapable of taking care of yourself, or can't finding a satisfiable mate. Denying the truth has become daily routine. You're stricken with the late stages of ignorance. It's chronic, and hopefully terminal. You feel a deep void in your life, usually because you are socially inept and/or unattractive. You're sexually frustrated and can't deal with it. You're too much of a pussy or broke to try drugs or hookers. Next best choice? Join one of the old cults: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, etc.

Don't kid yourselves, taking a stubborn religious position precludes peace. If you weaken the mind with scripture, you are commiting an act of psychological self-harm. You are destroying your ability to be an individual with free will. Submitting yourself as a psychological slave to a mystical deity is a testing heuristic. It is a defense mechanism against becoming a slave to another person. With a tad of minor NLP this can be completely bypassed, just take a look at Charles Manson. The reason you start with an imaginary figure is infantile, in all senses of the word. Children usually have fictitious idols and heroes, because their distinction between good and evil is in a strong contrast. The fictional heroes are technically infallible, immortal, asexual, and perfect. After you've lost all your self-esteem, you are ready to submit yourself to a deity figure, which can be best observed in response to extreme poverty or political pressure. You've become infected. Religion is by all definitions an acquired memetic delusional disorder. Religious disorders occur in high schizotypes and bi-polars. The dogma psychomemetically transmitted, thus children and the less mentally capable are vulnerable. If possible, keep your coping mechanism to yourself, please.

Isn't it strange that pretty much everyone to attack childrens' shows is religious? These preachers talk tall words about how the children cannot tell reality from fiction. Listen, you're standing in front of a carving of a perpetually dying man that has no historical documentation, forwarding me words from someone I cannot see, informing me that I'm always being watched, and frightening me with promises of hellfire. You're trying to talk me into a psychosis. No, thanks.

Have your palliative prayers, surrender. Although it would be preferable to deal with the underlying issues, it's your decision. Generally, I wouldn't favor mental illness. Prolonged exposure can cause worsening of symptoms, compulsive behavior, and deepening of delusions. Sexuality becomes corrupted with a vile anti-evolutionary anti-hedonistic system held up by cognitive biases and compensation efforts. As a symptom of faith, sexual rules and regulations rob the mind of clarity and increase compliance. They also increase incidence of co-morbid psychiatric disorders. People with these co-morbid conditions then suffer additionally, because they limit or stop their medication with the delusion that god will heal them.

Those who seek to spread spirituality are virulently replicating the absurd. Ignorance is incurable because they'll never know there is a cure. Symbolism is clogging all the walls, ineffective and embarrassing prayers are being mumbled, and it's all for shit. Admittedly I must say I hold deep respect for false prophets, they knew how to take advantage of people and they did it well. Laughably enough, people still think there is such a thing as a real prophet. These charismatic bastards have made millions of information-age humans kneel before images and representations of people who, despite possibly being fictitious and even after thousands of years, can still make you their kneeling bitch. But by all means, waste all your time patting each other on your backs with confirmation biases and scientifically incredulous phenomena. The plural of anecdote is asshole, shut the fuck up. If you have something to say, try data and logic. Try the scientific method, try reading. Perhaps try some critical thinking. If you can't find your way around with those, you'd probably be better off with a real one rather than Ockham's.

Two Ways to Collapse

2010-10-17T12:39:00.002+02:00

The United States is facing a metaphorical fork between horrible pain and agony, and only of them might not be written in Chinese. The US has, in a mockably misplanned decision, burned far too bright with hallucinations of its own artificial dream. The citizens, blinded by the dream and lucky thoughts guiding their mind, ground up their money into void promises and obscenely rare prospects. Who would stand on ladders crafted of promise, and trust the rolling of millions of dice as well? What a bile inducing thought that, through subtle segregation, perpetual nepotism, and economic exploitation all you can see is the celebratory handshaking of the wealthy and hideous. America and corporations have been merging steadily, accelerated some distracting puppeteering and accidental law-passing. Did we really forget that cooperation between state and corporations is called fascism. Didn't we learn this in high school? To quote M.E. Sharp "Fascists seek to organize a nation on corporatist perspectives, values, and systems such as the political system and the economy." Can anyone, with their hands off their face, truly say that they cannot see this surrounding them like a frothing leech?

Personal freedom is already non-existent. Overseas the army is slaughtering children and journalists, laughing as tanks run over their bodies. At least they weren't our guys! More and more decrypted US Govt. material is being released on Wikileaks. People don't pay attention; you're all frail naive victims. The government can strip you of your citizenship and throw you in a secret prison if they really need to, and these prisons have definitively been confirmed to exist by several reputable news sources. Your country has more prisoners per capita than Russia, or any other country in the world, by over a hundred. And this only includes legal reported prisons. One in 150 people are in prison. You have close to 2 million people in jail with close to 1 million being non-violent offenders. Most people are obviously in horrible misery in prison, and yet hordes of your lower class prisoners are bragging about how prison is better than their previous lives. Yes, these guys have been fucked over so hard by the government that they prefer their cellmate's raw dirty dick. Think about it. As if this wasn't bad enough, there's trouble with bail. Due to a severely exploitative bail system, many people who are in prison have no chance of getting out even if their sentence is only a few years. The prison economy at any given prison is probably a direct microcosm of what you have going on in the land of the shackled free. You might be sarcastically thinking "Well, what can I do about it?" Congratulations, you've just personally contributed to making the government unattackable. Don't you get it? You're performing their intentions. I'll cry tears of joy if even one of you nights can at least see your strings, even if just for a second.

The Goldberg device that you call your healthcare system is frankly just money making murder farm. Hundreds of thousands a year are dying simply because the health of their body is worth more to the state than the consciousness of a fully developed human intelligence. It's become so subtle that letting people die because they lack paper isn't murder. Reminder that "Land of the Free" is a marketing slogan, just like "Best Quality" isn't a guarantee. It'll all crumble into a civil war under the weight of your own bullshit. I'm looking forward to Mao on the 100 dollar bill. Fuck your despicable vile nuclear fortress of filth.

All Education Systems Suck, Especially Yours

2010-10-17T12:38:00.001+02:00

Even at first glance it's obvious that the education system is handcrafted for the purpose of breezing the wealthy through private facilities, while the working class is literally concentrated into predestined schools with unnecessary security measures. The private education is myopic and forcefully simplified. After all, you want to avoid telling rich parents that their children are sincerely inept. But this is a matter of dissolving the teachers union in favor of a comprehensive set of legal regulation, ensuring meritocracy in the hiring of teaching staff. The district school system is directly designed to keep people of different social classes and cultural backgrounds apart. The school system is more segregated now than in the 1960s! Unions don't give a shit either, they're busy creating infinite legal loops to keep the jobs of abusive, pedophilic, and just plain incapable teachers.

To start off with a very simple but effective improvement, remove religious education and symbolism from the curriculum. Next, make it mandatory for knowledge of all cognitive biases to be second nature of any student and teacher. Now we just use an improved version of the typical American method, one could drastically improve the general standard of teaching. Let's throw money at everything. First, simplify the classrooms and reduce distractions. Keep everything as minimalist as possible. Keeping computers in designated computer rooms is absolutely necessary. Reduce politicians' wages to elevate anything above kindergarten teachers to a high-middle class job. Each school should have an educational psychologist whose duties will include teaching classes for teachers and random weekly reviews of certain classes (the psychologist will sit and observe a certain lesson or test). All tests will have to pass approval by the educational psychologist. Wages will be based on a flat fee, in addition to general education level of the class, and the psychologist's assessment. Note that the general education level test will be given by a substitute teacher and graded by the collective of teachers. If there are multiple formal complaints about a teacher, he or she will be evaluated by a third party child psychologist and they will be subjected to random visits by the psychologist while teaching. This might increase the stress level, which is actually a positive symptom considering that we need to see whether the staff becomes violent under pressure.

For exceptionally gifted students, there should always exist opportunities to either have their own personalized curriculum or skip grades. The curriculum must be devised with oversight of the psychologist and should be relevant to the current class curriculum. If these students display a deep form of specialization (computers, physics, writing, math, chemistry), begin phasing out other classes in favor of more dedication to the specific talent. If a student is an absolute computer prodigy, drop everything apart from computers (college level and beyond), advanced math, and required English. In an example case of a writing prodigy, lower all the classes to the least required and have the student write freeform novels, read anything of their choosing along with non-fiction novels. The student of course has a veto right on these proposals and minor wiggle room on specializations. The more gifted a student is, the more they should be allowed to work on their own if they so choose. The most important prerequisite for a decent education system will always be free high school and college education for everyone. College requirements can be raised to minimize the influx of new students. Random testing of college students for eligibility by a third party will lower the risk of scholarships being 'bought'.

Mice is Nice

2010-10-17T11:51:00.002+02:00

The mice were having fun until their cottage exploded. Pieces flew and tore them asunder like soft bread. Waves and waves upon wood impaled mice left a halo of death around the explosion. The Rat King's scheme had come to fruition. He would gnaw his tail day and night wishing to avenge the death of his beloved bate o pe bird. Oh what wonderous splendor that little one brought with tapping of foot. The mice had sniped his bird perceving it to be a threat, but for him, it was too much.

***

This is the dawn of the fourteenth era of the Rat King. He was expected to die of old age, until all his familiars passed. He rottenly mumbles in his gigantic fortress under the stench of mold. The shadows slice precisely under the light flickering in the cracked wall. The Rat King has outlived his minions. He's forsaken with the gift of life, a breath away from the infinity of death. He seeks, by all means necessary, to succumb, to have his consciousness destroyed. The Air Pirates had already been informed of the Rat King's yearning and offered their services as mercenaries. For a bag of gold dubloons they would bring down their iron ship and crumble the streets of Paris. The Rat King brushed his paws together and leaned back in his throne. His glass of red wine had been standing unfinished for decades. In Paris, he hoped that he would find the means to annihilation. New York was a disaster, shockwave damage crumbled skyscrapers like cardboard. This time they had approached it the right way. The ship sailed slowly, tearing through the massive concrete like surreal planet surgery. The Eiffel Tower tipped over almost instantly and tourists were diced through accelerated steel.

The Pug Captain tapped his wooden leg against the wall, pushing it back into place. He flinched and let out a poignant yap that sent his parrot into a frenzy. The Pug Captain cared very little. He leaped up and grabbed the parrot in mid air, "I've got no time for this shit, I have to return some tapes."

Gondola of Garbage

2010-10-17T11:42:00.001+02:00

"Fuck.", Jon's paddle was slowly getting soggy again, "I should take lessons."

He had just bought it, now standing with his receipt still tucked in his shoe. He flicked his thick black glasses back onto his face and resumed his previous stance, his hands strangling the paddle. Promptly he once again began rowing amok. His puffed face still recoiled from the bridges he was once too drunk to avoid. This possibly illucid behaviour frightened his passengers to great extent. That man was a horrid fucker for sure. Once, at the very command of hell, he threw an elderly man off his godola and into the icey pit for insulting his phobia of bridges. Turns out the guy had wrapped his belt to the back of the gondola and had held on until he could escape. That was the problem. Old guy had a cellphone and had informed the pigs. In a basically instantaneous motion, his shit was overwhelmed. The blinding force of helicopter spotlights nearly knocked him off balance and headfirst into concrete. His soggy paddle was, according to the fair and balanced media, misinterpreted to be a weapon. You know what people, I know what this was. You should know how much they hate the simple gondola, especially the gondola of garbage. "Those guys just move around slowly and do nothing. They oughta get real jobs!", was a routine phrase in this business. So yes, he was shot at. Now he has a spasm in his leg that makes him kick any luggage overboard, so he has to instruct his passengers to hold onto it tightly. When the pieces just didn't fit together. When nothing you did seemed to work out right. What about those people who accomplish things with ease, and those who can't seem to make headway? Questions I've asked myself for years. Fuck this gondola. I hope it sinks.

Slime Drive Go

2010-10-17T11:39:00.002+02:00

The cab looked like a white hearst. I got in, hoping not to be greeted by a hardwood sarcophagus. I was trying to enjoy the benzos, trying to make this all work out inside the cab, a communist made steel grime time travel delorian birthed as an apparition from a crushed VHS tape. The intense glow of neon tube lights and illuminated buttons made it seem like it was constructed out of salvaged parts from a red light district, in this case probably just fucking stolen. I've been meaning to relax, but by now the best I could manage was not to scream. The driver was an amorphous grey blob of badly illuminated carbon with a semblance of a buzzcut. This guy was older than god himself, a sumerian taxi steering mechanism that mumbled and grunted slovak street names with eerie navigational precision. You could either listen to him, or the deep sombre hum of some stashed away soviet flux capacitor.

He didn't seem to mind driving around in what appeared to be, while in pristine condition, a fantasm of a cold war era time travel experiment. I did. The perceived presense of a reactor somewhere within the vehicle irked me, emitting its hum as if to ponder when or whether to melt the plutonium. Dead or Alive on the radio didn't help. Help. When we finally arrived at my house, I payed him a tip just for getting the year right more or less. He didn't respond at all, seemingly not understanding the concept of a tip. I opened the door and jumped out with a deep sense of relief. I closed it and made an effort to stumble towards my house. I don't recall the cab driving away once I got out. For the sake of sanity I like to think that it did.