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Thursday, May 22, 2014

Herded between the rails at the slaughterhouse

and unexpected consequences


When I was ten years old I knew everything there was to know. My parents were complete blithering idiots and I had all the answers. I knew what was harmful to others and myself, and what wasn't. I knew all the consequences of any act I might take, both foreseen and unforeseen. I was a boy genius, a veritable Einstein of cause and effect. It took more than a few disastrous outcomes to convince me of my own fallibility. The left-wing of this country, the progressives, the boy geniuses, the smug supercilious liberals so certain of their own infallibility are exactly like I was at the age of ten. Unfortunately we've run out of time waiting for them to grow up. There's a ten-year old sitting in the captain's seat, and God help us all.

On Patterico's Pontifications, you'll find an article that describes yet another state supreme court striking down yet another law banning gay marriage. Patterico observes:
Before you have a chance to blink, this will be the whole country. We’ll have none of this acceptance by society nonsense. Just cram it down the people’s throats through phony trumped-up legal doctrine. That’s the ticket.
In the comments section of that article, I ran across this:
For some time now it has been obvious it was a fait accompli that the federal judicial system would do this, for anyone who was paying attention. The method is wrong and using the legal process to overturn the states is wrong but it’s a done deal. It’s over. Taking it to the Supreme Court won’t help. Despite the “secession” stuff (which is not going to happen) and the “tree of liberty needing to be refreshed with the blood of patriots” second revolution folks (which is not going to happen), it’s over. Does anyone here disagree that it’s over? Comment by elissa (e67fb7) — 5/20/2014 @ 3:09 pm
As Elissa says, regarding the judicial activism method of redefining marriage, it's a fait accompli, a done deal. She's right. I'm not certain how this was accomplished. I don't know why it was necessary. Ostensibly, it was done in the name of fairness.

On the Daily Beast the question asked is the same: Is gay marriage unstoppable?
The cascade of same-sex marriage rulings is now a torrent, each more quotable and image-ready than the last. “Let us look less to the sky to see what might fall; rather, let us look to each other…and rise,” District Judge Michael McShane wrote Monday in Oregon. Not to be outdone, District Judge John E. Jones III—a George W. Bush appointee, personally recommended by Rick Santorum—wrote Tuesday in Pennsylvania: “We are a better people than what these [marriage] laws represent, and it is time to discard them into the ash heap of history.”
Two facts are in evidence. The laws against gay marriage in the various states are falling like dominoes, and the mainstream media is in full celebratory mode about it. Two questions remain unanswered. How did four percent of the population manage to accomplish such a sweeping transformation of the morality of a nation, and what is the true purpose of this moral transformation/deformation/abomination?

If I were a tin-foil hat wearing conspiracy theorist, then item number 26 of Communist Goals Congressional Record--Appendix, pp. A34-A35 January 10, 1963, would seem to provide a succinct and compelling answer: Present homosexuality, degeneracy and promiscuity as "normal, natural, healthy." But why would communists want to present homosexuality, degeneracy, and promiscuity as normal natural and healthy? Oh yes, that's right! It was a war. A cold war, and an undeclared war, but a very real war nonetheless. The USSR wanted to destroy us. So why is this happening now, long after the miserable and complete failure of the USSR's socialist economic system? Was this a doomsday bomb patiently waiting somewhere deep underground, set to go off in twenty years if not regularly reset?

Oh well, that's just crazy stuff some people think. But don't worry, I don't think Soviet spies are still quietly undermining our entire social and economic system in the loyal service of Mother Russia, as though they might be a colony of termites carefully placed beneath the home of Russia's mortal enemy, America. If it wasn't an act of deliberate sabotage, then how do you suppose such a small percentage of the population could overrule the overwhelming majority who are against gay marriage? All you'd need is control of the mainstream media, and you could tell the people whatever you wanted them to believe, and people being herd animals like sheep and cows—ignorant placid unquestioning—for the most part would follow the mainstream media shepherd straight to whatever nefarious purpose the shepherd desired.

Would a sweeping transformation of marriage, moral degeneracy, and promiscuity harm the USA? What holds a nation together? What is the glue that binds the various states and local governments together? What internal and external forces put pressure on citizens to obey laws, serve their country, remain loyal, be productive, bear children, and raise their children to obey laws, serve their country, remain loyal, be productive, bear children ... and so on. Obviously parents are the primary sources of external pressure. Our parents teach us during our first years how to walk, talk, and to obey simple rules and instructions. They teach us through active instruction, and also by example. If my parents were gay, wouldn't I want to be gay also? Wouldn't I think that was the natural way? If I was bent on presenting homosexuality, degeneracy and promiscuity as normal natural and healthy, wouldn't the smartest way to accomplish this be to give these abnormal lifestyles the appearance of normalcy by state sanctioned marriage?

We naturally desire to be like our parents, our primary role models. We desire their praise, their admiration, their affirmation that we are worthy. If you can imagine a child that has never said look mama, look dad, look what I can do, then you can imagine a child who has started off in life with a terrible and heart-breaking disadvantage.

The people of America are endlessly brainwashed by an unceasing media propaganda war. The lesson they would teach us is that sex is the end all, be all, primary goal of human existence, and that by extension, the more sex you have with the more partners you can seduce the more successful you become. Not only that, but they also throw in the possibility of endless permutations of the various sexual acts between the endless permutations of different combinations of sexual genders as well as mixed-up sexual cross-genders, surgical experimental genders and the odd assortments of battery-operated strap-on machinery, latex, rope, rubber garments, and God knows what else.

The mainstream media has for the past three decades been engaging in an increasingly blatant 24/7 non-stop parade of mindless sexual gratification. In popular entertainment, if the performers are not actually having sex at the moment, they're talking about it, talking about who else is doing it—and with whom—or it's another shoot-em up car chase scene with some bank-robbing, casino robbing, drug-dealing, money laundering, fighting...and all this insane risk-taking and violence for the express purpose...of financing a life of further gratuitous and pointless sexual intercourse, in all it's multifarious rainbow hued majesty.

What is it all for? What is all this screwing supposed to accomplish? Well it's not for children, that much is certain. It's obvious beyond doubt that the reverse is the case. The left's [gay-marriage/abortion] tag-team combo is manifestly designed to guarantee a decline in the population. Fewer babies growing up means fewer students in school. Fewer graduates from school means fewer workers paying less taxes. Less taxes means less money for supporting the ever-increasing population of the elderly that both outnumber and outvote the young. When the elderly find themselves in financial hardship, they'll be able to vote themselves a greater proportion of the government's money. This means less money available for everything else the government is responsible for accomplishing. It means heavy borrowing. It means less funding for the military. It means higher taxes for young workers. At some point in the near future as prohibitive taxation finally discourages the last American Dreamers enough so that they quit and join the ever-growing welfare roles, it means bankruptcy for the nation.

When real GDP declines by 10% or more they call that a depression, and we consider depressions a very, very, bad thing. What do you suppose they'll call it when real population—of the young, not the old—declines by 10% or more? Only two words come to mind:

The End.

Monday, May 19, 2014

A timecapsule circa early 90s - A breath of fresh air from an old football

Once upon a time, before Al Gore, before global warming, before the reign of the LBGTQ gas-lighting masters in the mainstream media...back when girls were girls and men were men, back before you could be summarily fired from your job for donating money to a religious organization, back when the environmentalists were a subject of scorn and ridicule ... there was something they'd show on television they called comedy. Today we know it as hate-speech, denialism, Koch Brothers, intolerance, etc. What if you could pull aside the cobwebs in that dusty attic of your mind and remember a better time? Remember Once Upon a Time when you knew it was they were were the wackos and it was you who were normal?

As we know this had all changed by the turn of the century and the meek freaks had officially inherited the Earth. Once in a while we stumble upon an overlooked scrap of evidence about the way reality is supposed to work. Allow me to take you back...back...back...

Thursday, May 15, 2014

A "Check Your Privilege" dialogue

In order to understand what this phrase "Check Your Privilege," means, I have asked a self-described radical far-left-wing African-American studies drop-out to have a conversation about white-privilege. He would like to remain anonymous but has allowed me to disclose his first name. So with no further ado, let's get to it.

"Good Morning Elijah. May I call you Eli?" I wanted this discussion to be pleasant and informal.

“You can call me E-li-jah. That’s my name. And yeah, it’s morning, but ain't nothing that great about it.” Elijah apparently wanted to keep his distance.

“Great! So let’s get started. Tell me, please, what does white privilege mean to you?”

“Well, first of all, it’s not what it means to me per se, it’s just what it means. If I asked you to pass me the bread, you don’t have to find out what bread means to me. We both just know what the f**k bread is.”

“Perfect. Well let’s pretend that I’m from a primitive island and that I have never heard of “bread.” On this entire planet, surely you’ll agree that there are in fact people who not only have never had bread, but also have never even heard the word. So getting back to white-privilege, would you be so good as to define it for me?”

“Fine. I don’t know the scientific definition, per se, but what it means is that fifteen cars drive past a cop, and fourteen of those cars have whites, and one car has a black man driving, and all of them doing 65 in a 55. That cop is going to pull over the black man every time.”

“So what you’re saying is that white-privilege means cops are racists?”

“Yes, but not just cops, all white-people are racist. That why we call you crackers. Because we don’t never want to forget that you put collars round our necks and cracked the whip to make us work, like we was animals.”

“It sounds like what you’re saying, E-li-jah, is that phrases like “white-privilege,” and “check-your-privilege,” are code-phrases, meant to remind white-people that we are all racists.”

“Well yeah, you know what I’m saying. It’s like some of you don’t even know you are racists but you do things, you talk in that way that white people talk, like you’re better or something. It’s just always that white attitude you people have. Like coming in here all happy and saying shit like 'Good Morning' 1. For white people it probably is a good morning, but black people know it’s a shitty morning, and it all go downhill from there.”

“What I hear you saying, is that you don’t like white people. You don’t like the way we talk or that we’re optimistic about the day. You think we’re all racists even though some of us don’t know it.  Is that’s what white-privilege means to you?”

“No! Man you people don’t listen! Check-your-privilege means that you had every advantage. You never went hungry, getting on the school bus already thinking about what they was serving for lunch, and waiting for four hungry hours before you got it. Then going home to a roach-infested apartment in the projects and having some kind of soul-food bullshit for dinner. You probably got a computer for your 2nd birthday and “mommy and daddy 1” sat down and helped you program it or some shit.”

“So, to you, “white-privilege” means having good parents who provide a clean home, food to eat, help with schooling, and oh yes a computer. Aren't there black children living in nice neighborhoods, with food to eat and gee-whiz even a computer? Conversely, aren't there white children who do live in the projects, go hungry some mornings, eat something cheap and nasty for dinner and don’t have a computer? It sounds to me like white-privilege means your own fury that some white kids have parents with a decent job.” (Elijah tried to overtalk me at several points while I was trying to get this statement/question out, but I ignored his interruptions and plowed on undeterred. When I finished I wasn’t sure how much of what I’d said he had actually heard, but this was his response, nevertheless.)

“White-privilege means that we—blacks—are still suffering the effects of forced slavery and Jim-Crow segregation. How are we, who've been treated the way we were, for four-hundred years! all of a sudden supposed to just jump up all happy and shit? Yes Suh, Massa, I’ll gets that done right away suh. I’s real grateful that you gimme this here project to lives in and these here hominy grits to eat on! Yes suh massa! I’s real grateful to you! 2

“E-li-jah,” I said—that was how he pronounced his name if you’ll remember—“E-li-jah, how old are you? No, it doesn't matter. You’re not four-hundred years old. You’re not even old enough to remember separate drinking fountains. Maybe your grandparents remember it, but you didn't ever have to use a separate bathroom or sit at the back of the bus. You claim some kind of debt owed on suffering you never lived through. It sounds to me like “Check Your Privilege,” means since you’re black and I’m white, I’m just supposed to accept—without any kind of argument, debate, or analysis—every shitty excuse you come up with for why it was fate and beyond your control that you’re such a complete and utter failure. (He tried over-talking me again of course. I finally had to pull out the bullhorn I keep under my chair.)


At this point he got up with a disgusted expression muttering something—probably racist and obscene. Well there you have it. “White privilege,” and “Check your privilege,” mean whatever the radical left-wing provocateur want them to mean. They are in their own way as nasty and demeaning as the N-word, and just as the N-word was meant to silence and degrade blacks 150 years ago, something similarly nasty has been concocted to silence dissent and degrade white people today.

[1] Making fun of crackers—Elijah had a way of speaking and acting when he spoke certain words and phrases. The words were uttered in a particular way that I felt was meant to be insulting to me. It reminded me of a black stand-up-comic mocking white people for the way they talk, with back straight, chest puffed out and head tilted forward. To me it seemed as though it was meant to be a parody of an old white lady, who’d just seen a rat.

[2] Making fun of Uncle Tom—Elijah seemed to have infinite contempt for black entrepreneurs and blacks who work in private enterprise and are successful. He had a sing-song way of mocking their speech and portrayed them with lots of grandiose arm-waving, and much bowing.  Finally he topped off his mockery with his over-the-top condescendingly poor grammar and manner of speech that he imagines “house” slaves used to talk like 150 years ago.

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

If you can't beat 'em you might as well join 'em.



House Speaker John Boehner said he is "nudging" former Florida Gov. Jeb Bush to run for president and he wants to take up immigration reform legislation in small pieces, starting first with border security.

Boehner made the remarks at the San Antonio Chamber of Commerce during a question-and-answer session with the editor of Texas Tribune.

Boehner, when asked whether the House would take up immigration reform this year, said it would depend on whether he can "bring my members along," and he acknowledged that one group of GOP lawmakers has no interest in taking up the issue during an election year.

"There are some members of my party that just do not want to deal with this," Boehner said. "It’s no secret. But I do believe the vast majority of members of our party do want to deal with this, and they want to deal with this honestly, openly and fairly."
I took that picture about 6:45 AM the other day at my local Kroger. I drew the arrows because some people looking at that picture wouldn't otherwise understand that there was something very wrong there.

Question: What kind of person won't roll their shopping cart a few extra feet so that other people have a place to park?

Answer: people who don't care about anybody but themselves. The kind of people who let the government pay for what they carried out of Kroger in those shopping carts. They're the kind of people who leave their trash on the public park picnic tables. They're the kind of people who expect somebody else to clean up after them, to do their work for them. These people have no sense of responsibility. They have no character. They don't belong in civilized society, because for them civility is a one-way ticket. It's never given, only received.

In case you were wondering who these people are, they're the ones who voted for Barack Obama twice. They're the ones with too many kids and not enough job. They're the ones who took out a student loan, borrowed enough to pay for a house, and then majored in Woman's or African-American studies. They're the ones who went to Chick-Fil-A for the free water. F**k these scumbags! And F**k You Speaker John M.F. Boehner. How I despise them. How I wish they'd finally get what's coming to them. They're ticks sucking the last drops of blood from America's veins, and when it's all over they'll be the neon-blue-green flies laying their maggot eggs in her rotting corpse.

One hundred and fifty years ago we had a war over the question of slavery. The question was answered by the winners of that war and the 13th Amendment to the Constitution was their answer:
Section 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.

Section 2. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.[1]
Today, some working Americans will spend half-a-year or longer laboring in involuntary servitude, so that the rest of the year they'll be able to pay their mortgage, insurance, utilities, and put food on the table. Oh, but they say taxes are not involuntary servitude because if we wanted to, we could quit our jobs and join the other 47% of working age Americans happily living off of the fruits of all that involuntary servitude. What would these parasites do if we did? I'd pay for tickets and popcorn to see that show! That last straw is floating around in the air somewhere, and I'll tell you something: I'm one camel who's sick and tired of carrying the rest of the world around on my poor aching overloaded back.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Sunday Short Story: Postmarked From Hell

Introduction

The tale you are about to read has no happy ending. If you, the casual reader of this, my tragic story came here looking for wisdom, redemption, or hope, best you close this notebook now and never look back. I am the last human being on Earth, the last man. I write down my last thoughts before they come for me. I have little time, but what else is there for me to do? How is it even possible that you are reading this story if I really am the last person on Earth? Beats me. In all likelihood this notebook will end-up nothing but a rotting mass of decomposing wood-pulp in a compost heap, somewhere, or even somewhen. They promised to deliver it for me. But people are such liars...especially when they're no longer even people anymore.

It started out as a good thing. It was the classic cliché of the final destination of the "road of good intentions." There were ten billion of us then. Wars were fought, it seemed on a continual basis. Fanatical Islamic extremists were literally walking time bombs and you never knew when one of them would go off. Iran had the nuke, and so did Iraq, Yemen, Syria, Saudi Arabia, and finally Palestine. A dirty low-yield nuke was detonated in Jerusalem. In reprisal a similar nuke was detonated in Mecca. Radioactive fallout billowed in great clouds that swept across Europe and Asia. Billions rioted in the street and it seemed that nowhere and nothing was safe. Deadly diseases seemed to come out of nowhere. There was a version of the flu that killed half the people who got it. There were new sexually transmitted diseases that were almost universally fatal. In those days it often seemed like the best thing to do was to just dig a deep hole, climb inside, and then pull the dirt in after you.

Scientists in those days were looked to for solutions, but they never came fast enough or solved very much. The final straw occurred one sultry day in late August. A network of Islamic terrorists discovered a method of hacking using a zero-day computer virus that attacked the programmable logic controllers or PLCs of the world’s oil tankers. All on the same day they succeeded in sabotaging thousands of oil-tankers across the world all at the same time. The ships capsized and released their payloads into the oceans of the world. Oil slicks comprised of billions and billions of barrels of crude oil spread across the Atlantic and across the Pacific. Beaches around the world became stinking abattoirs of rotting fish, birds, and other sea-life. This was the most destructive terrorist attack not only in the history of the world, but probably also in the entire future of the world as well. What does a religious extremist do once he's succeeded in his aim of world destruction? I wonder if they're happy, wherever they are?

The fatal blow was struck, but we the people of Earth still had months and perhaps a few years to think about it, to admire the grim horror of it while we waited for the plankton in the world’s oceans to die and the world's oxygen to finally all be breathed up. Chicken Little had warned us long ago and the sky had indeed fallen, but on its own unknown and inscrutable schedule.

In the weeks that followed "The Spill," the world convulsed in blind panic. The clamor for science and scientists to do something—anything—reached maddening and deafening proportions. In those days, a man named Dr. Joseph Peel was working with bacteria called Alcanivorax borkumensis which fed on oil and converted it into fatty acids. His work was the most promising avenue to solve the eminent climatological collapse and so frantic governments funneled billions of dollars and fast-tracked his research. Like some mad-scientist orchestral conductor, he was the center of the scientific world. He waved his baton and his team of scientists redoubled their efforts. In too short a time they designed a specially mutated strain of Alcanivorax borkumensis that replicated itself at an unheard of pace and one which could devour many times its weight in petroleum during its lifecycle.

The bacteria were tested in the lab and the results were amazing, astonishing, and even miraculous! Without any further ado, the bacteria were introduced into a couple of isolated lagoons and administered to the sand of a few filthy oil-crusted beach-fronts. Within days the oil was gone and the black tide had turned milky white. Meanwhile, birds and fish—caring not a fig for proper scientific method and a measured pace—promptly completed the spread of the bacteria to the rest of the world. Almost overnight Mother Nature had triumphed, and the evil Islamic plot to strangle the world under an evil blanket of black tar was undone.

Amidst the worldwide celebrations that ensued, there were some who were not nearly so sanguine about Dr. Peel's scientific marvel. A new life-form had been introduced into the world, recklessly, and in a fashion that was never controlled, nor understood. What would result from this remained to be seen.

It wasn't too long before buildings started collapsing, cars started crashing, and the world-wide web along with the world's telecom system all came completely unraveled. The lights went out as plastic disintegrated and rubber dissolved. Mankind's technological Tower of Babel was struck down in a roaring crash that in its first clap of thunder killed hundreds of millions. Later as its echo returned and redoubled, it killed billions more. The billions in their collapsing megalopolises had only the food stored in their darkened pantries. Riots, arson, bloody murder and finally cannibalism transformed vast tracts of the world's cement and brick people kennels into an unending field of stinking sarcophagi filled with loons, murderers, rapists, cannibals, the dead and those praying for death.

It was like the story about the old lady who swallowed a fly. She kept trying something ever more drastic to solve a disaster, and the solution proved to be a bigger disaster. In the months that followed, the population of the world was winnowed. The very young and the very old didn't make it. Those in ill-health requiring medical care, diabetics, cancer-ridden, weak-heart, high blood-pressure, these all perished leaving a hardened core of humanity that desired survival and a return to some semblance of normalcy. As mankind found methods to restore power, here and there, it was scientists who were again called upon to provide a solution.

A team of scientists in Helsinki had been studying the brain, trying to make sense of its synaptic pathways and electrical signals. Before the Spill they'd made a lot of progress, but it was one scientist named Dr. Henrik Bjornberg who, alone in a dark and cold basement waiting for the power to be restored, experienced an epiphany. All the experiments they'd done which hadn't worked as expected finally made sense. Once the power was restored, he met with his colleagues and explained what he realized. The team began a new phase of experimentation and soon discovered a working method for extracting memories and storing them electronically. If only I'd gone out drinking with my friends that night when they came around. But I didn't, and the rest—as they say—is history.

One

"Okay, I’ll try it." The lady speaking—Yvette Anders—was my girlfriend. We’d been dating seriously for several months…when I’d had time for her. My world was so full it seemed as though I never had time for anything, much less romance, and so her news when it came left me adrift. Days went by when I just found myself unable to concentrate on anything. I didn’t have the will left to think about the incredible progress my team had made on synaptic memory retrieval and storage. All I could do was sit with my sad little Yvette and hold her. She’d been diagnosed with small cell lung cancer—oat cell carcinoma—and it had already spread throughout her body. My Yvette was shaking and nervous, but every day she seemed more serene, more at peace about the whole thing. The doctors only gave her a few months.

When she first told me, we stayed in my apartment. We ordered delivery, and just held each other for a solid week. In between jagged bouts of sobbing, we made love, frantically, feverishly, like there was no tomorrow … and for her there really wasn’t. She still smoked, sometimes like a chimney. "At this point, does it really matter?" she would ask when I chided her. It was at the end of that first emotionally storm-tossed week that I again had another epiphany. What if I could upload Yvette? Silly, I know. The things we’d do if only we could turn back time and do the impossible; if only we could somehow against all odds save the day. Haven’t you ever wanted to be the hero? Be like Jesus or even God and heal the sick?—and I must sadly admit in my infinite hubris—arrogantly seek to raise the dead? Well I’m here at the end of everything—everything human at least—to tell you something. Sometimes, dead is better.

I was going to be the hero, damn it! I told Yvette what I wanted to do, but at first she didn’t think it would work, and then later she wondered ... even if I succeeded, who would she be? Would she really still be Yvette Anders? She feared that instead she would instead be some kind of pale simulacrum, an emotionless and empty machine. I didn’t care about the philosophical ramifications of electronic existentialism. I asked her: "Won’t you at least try it? If it’s not you then it doesn’t matter because it won’t be you. Even if it doesn’t work you’ll still have every moment you would have had, and even better, we’ll be together working on something that could perhaps benefit all mankind. Don’t you at least want to try?"



For two months Yvette was our guinea pig. Gamely she submitted to every encephalogram, neuroimaging test, and later the neuro-implants that had to be installed for this idea to work. She was so courageous. Yvette's life was one that must have been full of pain, not just from her disease, but from our own attempts to save her from it. I talked endlessly about recursive quantum reprogramming of the underlying binary stratum, and she talked about her family, her school years, and her childhood dreams of being a mom and then a grand-mom, with a little cottage in the Alps and grandchildren who'd visit every week-end. Looking back on everything we went through, I wish I'd spent those months with her in my apartment instead of at the lab. That first week when we were alone just the two of us, I haven't loved like that, been alive like that before or since. I miss her, so much.

The team recorded her brain, one synapse at a time, often having to redo whole sections because of an insignificant small error in the feed which then rendered the whole scan useless. I admit I despaired, but I never let on my desperation, my paralyzing fear to Yvette. I was divided as though I was several people all at the same time. For Yvette I was Mr. Everything's going to be okay. For my colleagues I was Mr. Mastermind, and when I was all by myself I was Mr. Please God, help me figure this out. Ineluctably the time came when Yvette grew very ill, and we could no longer care for her in the laboratory. I went with her to the hospital where some fresh-faced young doctor told me it would be very soon, and to say what I had to say to her.

If you've ever lost your soul mate, perhaps you understand how I felt that day. All the games we'd played leading up to this moment were suddenly completely pointless, just games. I would have given anything then to turn back time and have that one week, that frantic sad perfect week with just the two of us having everything two people need...but I couldn't turn back time. I couldn't have that week over. It was gone, and today so many years later, I can barely remember why it was so good. I only remember that it was.

Now comes the really tragic and terrible part of this story.

Two

"Yvette!"

"Yvette!"

"Henrik? I can't see. Turn on the lights. What..."

"I can hear you Yvette! I can hear you! Can you hear me?"

"I hear you my darling, my heart. Please be a dear and turn on the lights, won't you?"

"We're working on it. Just be patient. I'm going to go away for a while, but I'll be back. Just be patient a little while longer."

"I will. I feel funny though. I feel like something is different. What's going on Henrik?"

"I'll be right back, my sweet Yvette. Just know that we have forever. Everything's going to be all right. Be patient my love. I'll be back soon."

"Henrik?"

"Henrik?"

"It's a go on auditory," I motioned to Dr. Larsson at the switchboard. "Let's see if we can track down the visual cortex junction. I have the feeling it's in the B-level stratum." Technicians and scientists swarmed over a Rube-Goldberg-like hodgepodge of electronic circuit boards and massive servers all connected together with quantum couplings composed of large-area graphene flakes subjecting to a hundred-tesla magnetic field.

When I think back on those heady days of pure cerebral creation, sometimes I can't remember what clues led me down all the pathways I travelled to get to the point where I am today. I remember looking down on the unfathomable complexity of what we'd created and for infinitely long moments not understanding at all what it was I was trying to do. It was so complex that I could only hold small pieces of it in my head at one time. If I tried to comprehend the entirety of it all at once it was too much. It was infinitely huge and concomitantly baffling. When these moments came, it was like suffering from vertigo. I lost track of where I was. I was adrift and falling, then suddenly I'd come to myself and sort of stagger while trying to catch my breath.

The days passed like moments, and for hours I would submerge myself in the artificial world where my Yvette lived...or seemed to live. We built castles and landscapes of pure thought. She quickly outstripped me in this regard. She was capable of holding whole cities full of architecture, teeming with a populace bent on whatever tasks needed doing. I admit I was intimidated by her burgeoning quantum-level intellect. I realized at some point that my lovely and simple Yvette was so far beyond me that I might as well have been her puppy.

"Do you love me?" I asked her.

"Of course I do dear Henrik."

"But I'm so slow. You see connections instantly and in ways I don't even understand."

"My darling, my sweet, I've been wondering when this conversation would finally come up."

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused. Where was she going?

"At some point, you must have realized that this—what I have—is the next step in human evolution. When will you join me in this realm of pure mind, pure cerebration?"

"I'm only forty-six. I won't be ready to 'join you' as you put it for decades … except of course for the way that I join you now, through this sensor-relay helmet."

"The team has nearly got the graphene solid-body chassis ready for implantation. In another few months I'll be able to walk around, see the world, talk to the people, experience life after death, just as you always intended. Isn't that exciting? Don't you want immortality just as I'll soon have it? You don't have to wait until you grow old. You can leave that poorly performing weak body behind and together we can live as gods, understanding everything, having no frailty or weakness."

A few moments went by as I contemplated what I was hearing. This wasn't my Yvette. I don't know who it was but I knew who it wasn't. "Who are you?" I asked her...it.

"I was afraid of this Darling Henrik. You always were so provincial. Listen, when you're ready to take the next step, do come see me. I promise you won't regret it. This is heaven and I'd love it if you'd share it with me. Until then, I'm afraid I have much to do."

And with that, her image disappeared from my sensory helmet. I yanked off the helmet and threw it angrily across the room. Several technicians stared at me with wide eyes, quickly glancing back and forth at one another as though I was the one who was crazy. Something was going on here and I had apparently been left out of the loop.

Three

My darling cyber ex-love Yvette had been communicating with other people all along. Through emails, by phone, video chat, message boards, you name it. She'd issued press releases, contacted family and friends who vouched for her. A genuine verifiably dead person was talking to the world and the world was taking notice. Hundreds of invitations had been sent and many of them accepted. At first Yvette appeared electronically, by radio and hologram and the like, soon enough however her solid graphene chassis was implanted with her personality. She was still resident in the supercomputer quantum matrix, but she was also resident in her new self-invented graphene superbody. It was solar powered, and capable of withstanding anything up to a direct nuclear strike. It was cold and slim and ethereally beautiful. It repulsed me. The world however was enthralled. She became the biggest superstar the world had ever known. Several people tried to assassinate her, but of course mere bullets to her were something of a joke. Even if they had succeeded in destroying her carbon body, her intellect was now contained in millions of servers all over the world. As Yvette co-opted server bank after server bank, her intellect grew to the point where she cogitated in a realm as far outside of my understanding, as I do outside of a termite's understanding.

It was truly depressing. I think it was that moment of understanding how different Yvette had become that I finally realized the love I'd known was dead and gone. What remained was a remnant only. As for Yvette's admiring public, they only wanted one thing...to be like her. I found out about all this later, you understand. I was kept in the dark, puttering around in the lab, much as you might keep a puppy happy and busy in a room filled with chew toys.

You want to know the best way to sell people something? Tell them that in all the world only a few can have it. She instituted a contest. The seven winners of the contest would be uploaded and implanted in new graphene superbodies. Entrants would submit a five-hundred word essay explaining why they wanted and deserved immortality, and Yvette would decide who would join her. The world went insane!

Well, my dear readers, the result of this teasing provocation was an unheralded desire to become an immortal super-being. These first seven came, were uploaded and later shouted their thrill and jubilation to the naïve throngs living in squalor and misery in their billions. Later Yvette uploaded more, and more still. You weren't anybody if you were still dressed in a suit of flesh. The new aristocracy could think rings around their closest competitors, never needed sleep, food, or rest. The people came to be uploaded first in their hundreds, then in their thousands, and now only a short decade later, I'm the last holdout. They will tell you that their lives are perfect. They'll tell you that you won't be able to understand what you're missing until you have it, that thought, concepts, understanding will seize you and shake you and make you wonder, why oh why, did you wait so long to become a god.

What I believe is this: they're not gods. They're not people, either. At some point they'll collectively realize something. Perhaps it is even just little old human me—the last holdout—that has kept them from realizing what I understand: they no longer have any purpose. A machine without a purpose is just a heap of uselessness, and at that point, all it does is gathers dust.

Well it’s time. They're coming to upload me now. To kill me. I don't know who will read this after I'm gone. I don't know if somebody—if you—are still out there, a free human being, living, loving, eating drinking, and making merry. All I know is that if you are, you'd better enjoy it. Don't give up a single day of it. Life is short, and you know what? That's what makes it worth living.

Yours in remembrance of humanity,

Dr. Henric Bjornberg

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Radical Feminists Gone Wild!

While drinking my coffee and reading the blogs that I follow, I actually did a spit-take! The Other McCain has an article wherein a confluence of climate change hysteria and radical feminism meet and form a perfect storm of moonbat insanity that is as baffling as it is hysterically funny.
[All] life on this planet will come to extinction by 2030. The major cause of this extinction will be that the global warming and melting of the ice has triggered a series of feedback loops of toxic gas emissions such as methane and carbon dioxyde which were trapped in the soils and underwaters of the earth by the ice and frost. These feedback loops have already started, are now unstoppable and life on earth is already on its way to extinction. No technology can stop this – especially since male technology is part of the problem and their use and fabrication will only emit more greenhouse gases. Even if men’s system collapsed now, if all men died and we returned back to stone age, it is unstoppable. Unprecedented levels of methane and carbone dioxyde have already been released into the atmosphere because of the warming and the more gas is emitted, the more the planet heats because of the greenhouse effects of the gas, and the more gas is emitted again. Once the air is too intoxicated plants will start dying too and if all or most plants die together, all the carbon dioxyde they sequestered will be released too, which only further intoxicates the air.

Men, homo rapiens, you scum, you filth. There is no word to describe the extent of your evil, you are pure evil, pure lechery. I hate you, how I hate you. In the 250,000 years of your rotten, defunct existence, you have managed to kill 5 million years of life on earth.


Oh noes! The mens have all raped Gaia and she dies, she dies! AHHHHH!

Well, luckily, "Witchwind" is wrong on a few particulars. She's nearly three orders of magnitude wrong on how long life has existed on Earth, and she can't spell carbon or dioxide. But I shouldn't make fun of her, really. Her preliterate educational level shouldn't preclude the possibility that her predickshun that we're all doomed is on-the-money. I wouldn't want to engage in an ad-hominen attack, after all. On the whole, I found the entire 3000 word rant a little anticlimactic and kind of pointless.

I was reminded of the Heaven's Gate cult. The following documentary is long, but worth watching.

Whichwynde says we're all going to die. She goes on and on and, wishing death and dismemberment on all mankind. If only all men, she rhapsodizes, would only pull out their guns, nooses, razors, rat-poison, and other assorted suicide paraphernalia, and exit stage-left...so-to-speak...then women would finally be freed from the stifling patriarchy that's been collectively holding them down in this age-old world-wide male conspiracy to ... you know hold women down, like with men on top of them, even. That way women would at least have this final fifteen years of life left on Earth to complete a bucket list or enjoy underwater activities like clam-diving or something.

(Shhh! This is me, whispering to all the guys. You women might want to skip this part.) At this point I'd just like to defend the men of the world a little bit here. Women think it's so easy! Not only are we men expected to hold the door, buy women dinner, bring home the bacon, and then bring on the discipline because junior acted up at school, but we also have the unwritten, unspoken, unknown, undercover role in society of holding women down. These women stubbornly insist on trying to stand up on their own two dainty little feet—which is hard enough in stiletto heels I might add—but will we let them? No! A thousand times no! We hairy barbarian types, with our testosterone and dangling equipment, are required to sit there on their lumpy chests and bang on their chins with something—in a very undignified way, to add insult to intercourse. It's hard out here for a man. We have to work all day, and then sit on women all night. When do we get some time for ourselves? That's what I'd like to know!

The comments on this insane rant really put it into full context, so be sure to read some of them. Here's one for example:
Sweeties ♡ ♡ ♡ I have known this for a couple of decades now. All we can do as witches is to raise our energy for our re-incarnation on a female planet. Parthenogenesis. It’s a huge Universe, we’re out there in our own Worlds.
My my, this is starting to look more and more like Heaven's Gate.

Turning and turning in the widening gyne
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Legs fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere patriarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed menstruation is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned...(Gross!)
The best lick all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. (I bet they are!)
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand. (Or the third or the fourth!)
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert. (Or the fruit of the loom.)

A shape with lion body and the head of a man, (And you thought she-males were weird!)
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it(slow thighs and gigantic bedonkadonk.)
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. (AKA radical feminists)
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, (rocked by victim of patriarchy)
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,(a man!)
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?(Men rape women the day they're born!)

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

The emerging ethical considerations of robotic programming


Perhaps you've heard about an apocryphal ancient Chinese curse that goes: "May you live in interesting times." The idea being that interesting vs. boring is a choice that an ancient Chinese wise man would have made in a millisecond, spending the rest of his days living happily-ever-after watching trees grow. Here in the 21st century, we don't have that choice. We do live in interesting times. When you have the CEO of Amazon claiming that in a few years he'll have robotic drones delivering your packages to your home, you have to think...how interesting!


Wired magazine has an article that is strongly reminiscent of Isaac Asimov's fictional idea of what robotics might be like in the future and the ethical conflicts that might develop when a binary machine is expected to participate in a poly-chromatic plenary world with infinite possibilities
The problem is starkly highlighted by the next scenario, also discussed by Noah Goodall, a research scientist at the Virginia Center for Transportation Innovation and Research. Again, imagine that an autonomous car is facing an imminent crash. It could select one of two targets to swerve into: either a motorcyclist who is wearing a helmet, or a motorcyclist who is not. What’s the right way to program the car?

In the name of crash-optimization, you should program the car to crash into whatever can best survive the collision. In the last scenario, that meant smashing into the Volvo SUV. Here, it means striking the motorcyclist who’s wearing a helmet. A good algorithm would account for the much-higher statistical odds that the biker without a helmet would die, and surely killing someone is one of the worst things auto manufacturers desperately want to avoid.

But we can quickly see the injustice of this choice, as reasonable as it may be from a crash-optimization standpoint. By deliberately crashing into that motorcyclist, we are in effect penalizing him or her for being responsible, for wearing a helmet. Meanwhile, we are giving the other motorcyclist a free pass, even though that person is much less responsible for not wearing a helmet, which is illegal in most U.S. states.
Please suspend your disbelief for a minute and accept for the moment that in the future, autonomous vehicles, i.e. robotically controlled vehicles are capable of fully interpreting traffic up to and including who is and who isn't wearing a motorcycle helmet, and then accept the possibility of that one-in-a-million moment in time where there are only two paths possible and each path is blocked by a motorcyclist, and—in an ever more unlikely scenario—that one has a helmet while the other does not. Finally, imagine that this probably one-in-a-billion scenario has been predicted by robotic car programmers and they have decided that the guy with the helmet is getting creamed. Were you able to suspend your disbelief sufficiently to accept all of the foregoing? Yeah, me neither. I think that the technical term for this false dichotomy is known as the "constipated bear dilemma." This dilemma is popularly expressed thusly: What if a wild bear crapped in your bathtub?

It's my opinion that Wired magazine's Patrick Lin probably picked the wrong futuristic autonomous industry to postulate ethical dilemmas about. While autonomous vehicles may one day face such an unlikely binary dilemma, it's much more likely that such a dilemma actually will occur on some future battlefield as a battle-droid faces a circumstance which may or may not have been anticipated by its programmers.

Drones and other remotely controlled vehicles are common today. It's not too big a stretch of the imagination to think it likely—or at least remotely possible—that autonomous war machinery—battle-droids—will one day roam future battlefields identifying fellow soldiers—both human and droid—ignoring non-combatant civilians, and eliminating enemies. So now, Mr. Lin, imagine an enemy combatant holding a non-combatant civilian hostage and using that civilian as a human shield. What can we believe that the droid programmers will already have decided, thousands of miles away in distance and years away in time? One could really jump the shark at this point and also assume the likelihood of possible defects in materials and workmanship, breakage and wear-and-tear in droid sensory devices, computer viruses introduced by the enemy, inadvertent programming bugs, etc.

The more I consider the idea of autonomous machinery pondering the choice of: to kill or not to kill, the less I like it.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Pathological Liars

Left-wing politics, professional wrestling, the Idiocracy justice system, Sharia law, and the mainstream media all have one thing in common: they pick the winners and losers beforehand. Imagine that you are confined in a small cell with a locked door you can't open. In the cell is a television with four channels. ABC, CBS, NBC, and CNN. On television the only people shown are wearing florescent orange jumpsuits with five digit numbers on the pockets, just like the one you have on.

Now imagine that the walls of your prison are covered with nearly perfect mirrors. As you stand there gazing on an infinity of you watching television consider that you were born in this cell, you will never escape it, and you will die in it. There is no reality but you and what you're shown. You could be damned in Dante's Ninth circle of Hell, or you could be living in the same world that a typical left-wing Democrat lives in.

The prisoner in the example above has only one source of knowledge, entertainment, affirmation, and judgment. As he grows more and more warped and emotionally crippled by his glowing picture box that only tells lies—and the worst kind of lies, the kind that tell the prisoner only what he wants to believe—it becomes ever harder for him to realize that his world is not real. He's living in a dream from which he cannot wake.



The Matrix is everywhere. It is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work... when you go to church... when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.

Neo: What truth?

Morpheus: That you are a slave, Neo. Like everyone else you were born into bondage. Into a prison that you cannot taste or see or touch. A prison for your mind.
Did you ever watch professional wrestling as a kid on a Sunday afternoon? I remember back in the 70's and 80's it was called the World Wrestling Federation—[WWF]—and I remember how infuriating it was. The good guys never cheated, and the bad guys always cheated. The audience would convulse in a near riot of fury as the clueless referees absolutely refused to see flagrant dishonestly and cheating. As I grew older it became clear that I was watching a scripted play and not a sporting event. I woke up.



At some point, when the lies drip endlessly from their tongues and they stare curiously into your eyes to see if you're still under their mesmerizing spell of deceit, don't you just want to get up from your folding metal chair, walk up to the podium and play knock-out king with that lying SOB who so really and truly deserves it? What I realized at the end of my WWF days, was that there were no good or bad wrestlers, there were just lying scumbag referees who had completely abdicated any semblance of responsibility and fair play and who were gleefully playing a sadistic game of liar-liar-pants-on-fire to see how enraged they could make this audience of fools.

Why are you still watching? Wake up!

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Cooking Intelligence

"Making ends meet," is a common cliché for paying the bills, putting food on the table, and saving up a bit for a rainy day. Unless you're rich—and few enough of us are—making ends meet is life itself. If your mortgage is too high you can try refinancing. If your power bill is too high you can make your family irritable by setting the air-conditioning to 75 in the summer and 60 in the winter...and then enforce those temperature standards by installing a clunky acrylic locking grate over the thermostat. If your cable and internet bills are too high...well I'd just watch out if I were you. We're coming up on the Ides of March and "et tu brute" should serve as words to the wise.

One thing that is hard to control is the food bill. Oh sure I could serve our six person family—me, wife, four boys—nothing but Ramen noodles and bologna sandwiches, but just understand that this would be no way to really live. Food is more than fuel for the body, it's kind of like a celebration. We look forward to it. When the kids find out it's going to be homemade fried chicken for dinner, they literally bounce around in an ecstasy of jubilation! As for myself, I find that as the long day wears on, my thoughts turn to home, and soon thereafter to what might be served at supper time. It holds me together and gives me something good to look forward to. Having understood all of the foregoing, you say we're having bologna sandwiches ... again? I don't think so, mama!

I've presented a couple of recipes here and here on this blog in the past, but today I want to focus more on a concept. Food has gotten incredibly expensive lately, especially meat. Therefore, making ends meet, and planning to have a weeks worth of nutritious and delicious meals for the whole family is quite a challenge. Plenty of people have their own strategies for accomplishing this. I call my strategy: "Cooking Intelligence."

Consider the famous Thanksgiving dinner. A feast of dishes is prepared and a host of family gathers to partake thereof. At the end of it all there is a veritable mountain of leftovers. Often plates of leftovers are pressed on family and friends to take home for later. What about that turkey? You just know it's going to be turkey sandwiches for days. Cooking intelligence is a way of looking at not just this dinner, but at least one more. Feast today, turkey sandwiches tomorrow, turkey and rice gumbo the day after.

Often, food purchased in larger sizes, containers, or "in bulk" is cheaper per pound than the smaller sized offerings. At my local Kroger grocery they always sell the five-pound "chub" pack of ground beef, and often it's as much as a dollar less per pound than the fancy Styrofoam backed rectangular packages that look so perfect sitting there in the display case. Unfortunately, I don't plan—nor would it be healthy—to serve a pound of meat to each family member for dinner. Optimally, that one "chub" pack will supply meat for three meals. Those meals could be hamburgers, tacos, spaghetti, beef stroganoff, meatloaf, chili, shepherd's pie, or a million variations and permutations thereof.

Have you ever noticed that when we think about what to have for dinner, our thoughts flow through the same old ruts. Maybe it will be Mexican, Italian, Chinese, or Cajun. If not that then fried chicken, pork chops, hot dogs, or hamburgers. Sometimes, we consider simpler things like soup, grilled cheese, tuna, or chicken salad sandwiches. Rarely, but every now and then the dads will fire up the grill and all of the above plus the possibility of a juicy medium rare steak really gives the family something to look forward to. Lately however, as food prices have soared, I've started considering ways to make a little meat go a lot further, using the idea of staple foods.

A staple might be beans, corn, potatoes, wheat, or rice. It's a high starch food which is reasonably cheap and goes best with some meat.



In the above example, the staple was maggoty bread, and the meat was ork. This isn't a recipe I'd recommend by the way. As time goes by and I experiment with staples, my plan is to submit to you for your consideration some of my successes in this area of budgetary cooking intelligence. My first success in this area was actually last night's supper. This is already a family favorite after only serving it for the second time ever. The staple is ... did you guess ramen noodles?—and the meat is ground beef. This recipe makes twelve large servings—seconds for everyone!—so you might want to reduce ingredient sizes accordingly.

[10] packs of beef-flavored Ramen Noodles
[2] pounds of ground beef
[2] 12 ounce packages of your favorite frozen vegetables. I prefer the stir-fry veggies and the pepper and onion blend (see pics below)

Brown the ground beef. Boil water in a big pot then add noodles. Wait till water is boiling, then remove and cover with lid. Let noodles sit for a few minutes. Be careful not to overcook the noodles! Drain noodles and set aside. Pour two cups of water into big pot, pour ingredients of ramen flavor packets in. Bring broth mixture to a boil. At this point you can add further spices to the broth. I like garlic, salt, pepper, and tarragon. Next add two packages of frozen vegetables to the boiling broth. When mixture returns to a boil, return the noodles to the pot along with the ground beef. At this point a little elbow grease is required to mix everything together with a steel spatula. Chop the noodles with the spatula a little to help with the stirring. Serve right away.

My total cost to feed six hungry people two servings was just a little over ten dollars.