Chthonic civilisation

A lot of hay was made, in the circumstances of the last Great War, of a supposed "chthonic nature" of the nazional-sozialismus of the Third Reich by the press agentsⁱ of Roosevelt's feminine-socialism. Supposedly natsocs are bad because they want to Ragnarok the world, say the femsocs, whereas they (the femsocs) are good because they just want to spawn indefinitely until the (eminently un-Ragnaroked) world is so full of their translucent, worm-like cunt-dribble that you can't anymore see (let alone smell) neither bank nor ravine through the thick, squirming slime. Which is self-evidently so much better than burning everything down I couldn't begin to describe it to you.

But let's leave these "lofty"ⁱⁱ topics where they sit, on dusty shelves among dust, and instead let's go with me to buy a bong. So there we are, me holding the centerpiece in hand, when we suddenly diverge -- because I know what to say, and you don't know what to say.

"Me discuenta por efectivo ?" is what I say, meaning, do I get a discount for paying cash, the Latino conventional signal of "you're this close to making a sale, no joke".

The woman, alone in a lonely shop I might well have been the first customer to disturb that day takes me in for a second, excuses herself, calls someone on the phone and returns to announce that yes, diez por ciento, which is the Latino conventional signal of "you can have the tax and we won't report the sale". Because what, no elaborate glassware ever broke before or something ?! So there you go, suck it pantsuit government, I and some guy fucked you out of "your" tax tee hee. It's goneⁱⁱⁱ. Forever, just like that song.

At a (slightly) different time, in a (slightly) different place, a slut I own was "discounted" about twenty five bucks, which is to say approximately the same sum, because they wanted to charge her to check a bag and couldn't take cash. She wasn't about to not pull a stink over it, "says legal tender right fucking here, you MUST take it in settlement of all debts, public or private" and where's your manager and so on.

I guarantee you what happened afterwards was the manager in question decided his lunch was worth the dough, and taxed himself -- added some money out of his own pocket into the company till to satisfy corporate expectations. Because at level zero, the agent decided the matter's too much fucking trouble to engage^iv and simply let it slide. And at the level one, (which is one above zero, Mrs The Mother Of That Aging Unhappy Chick Slash Career Woman, I hope you're aware your daughter's going places, and one's more than zero, yes ?) the very same agent again decided... the matter's too much fucking trouble to engage (different matter, why is there a shortage in the till", "managerial" questions dontchaknow).

Because this is what pantsuit life is all about, and this is what femsoc living always reduces to : the same choice, enacted again and again and again, "rather than engage you idiots I'd much prefer to just check out". Hence "smart"phones. Did I or did I not say to you, "the drony vomit of cult leaders you happen to follow is just as fucking stupid as the drony vomit of the cult leaders you don't like" ? What did you think I meant by it, some dude in robes somewhere, and the robes of that robed schmuck don't count ? Of course they fucking count, lol. That is the point.

The pantsuit dream, always and everywhere, is... "a thing that runs itself". Be it capt. Dana Holmes' company that runs itself back in the '40s or aspie orc's "make money while you sleep" last year, with every InterActiveCorp^v in between. The idea is to... what is it ? What's the idea ?

To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To die -- To sleep no more, but by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.