Permit me to exercise my playwright muscle as Romania's only living playwright worth the mentioni by retelling... well, nothing in particular. But then again that's what divine talent and human industry are altogether for : making whips out of the pressed shitboard all around. Without further ado, we therefore begin!
mircea_popescu asciilifeform, timisoara dorks, they're very self important. can you imagine this glorified rural shithole actually imagines itself "the european culture capital 2019" ?
mircea_popescu it's like if evanston, wyoming thought itself the center of intergalactic trade.
I'm not sure it could readily be put into words how inadequate this African tribe actually is ; what shocking gaps yawn bottomless between what they imagine themselves to be and what they actually, factually and in reality are. I shan't attempt the impossible task, either ; we'll leave it at that.
So, to sum up, an' not to put too fine a point on it : me, an' my sluts, those are the persons.
Action! We went to town to pick up some chick the Whoremaster General sniffed out (different from the girl she picked up yesterday night, and from the various other ones, aaaite ?). On a lark, as we were headed out the door I picked up the chains for the bitches, and attached them (yes, they wear the collar all the time, to much amusement & merriment in casual social situations, why not). This is how shit works for us, I come up with some random shit giving just about zero heads in and everyone struggles to cope. It's fun -- and besides, I wouldn't have it any other way.
There's this tiny square in timisoara where they usually play loud music -- of all whitey's inventions, the one Africa's most thankful for is the cheap amp. This time they had some people doing
zumba sorry, bachata. It's hard to keep the despacitos straight, you know ? Among them, a decent looking chick juggling her generous udders (hey, you -- you know who you are, drop a line maybe we fuck sometime if I feel like it). We sat on a bench to watch her jiggle them juggs (and discover that -- nice ass, too!) at which point this beta orbiter that had been sneaking pictures with his phone went into complete creepazoid mode, implanted himself in the field of vision and demanded "What is this ?"
I told him this is me sitting and he talking to people he doesn't know, so leave it at that. He took three or four more orbits while processing the phrase and then made himself scarce. To be perfectly clear : I have absolutely no problem with the spurious cunt byproducts left idle since nobody can be arsed to organise killing fields for them anymore (they call this "peace", while posturing about as if to convince any and all this is some kinda good thing). They're more than welcome to admire / wank / whatever it is they do from a respectful distance. But the basics still apply, you can't just find yourself talking. Aite ? It's inappropriate, and the fact that everything else about the shithole you dwell is equally inappropriate does not constitute an excuse.
The aftermath is, entitely, this article. Obviously the sad victims of their own inadequacy that earlier lost the war with the president went into overdrive, "discussing", "controversying", herpy-derping all over themselves. As a factual matter, just about every newspaper in the country "covered it", but when I looked at Trilema's statistics earlier their collective impact is indiscernible, a fraction of a percent if anything at all. Meanwhile if I were to deign to link any of them, everyone "working" there'd be getting bonuses. I'm not about to : the only bonus you sad lot will ever get's right here.
This is the whole story ; as you might notice, not really all that interesting. The curse of the lost herds of mediocrity that pseudoscientists call postmodernism is that every bleating moron perceives himself for no reason an adequate and sufficient substitute for the actual phenomena. The only possible mental image doing justice to the sad lives of the tribes of sadness would be this situation where a rock concert consisted of twelve people in a room, of which half the band, and half "reporters" who went on to describe "what they saw", in "their own words" of course, meaning "from their own point of view", to... other roomfuls of a dozen people, who in turn continue this game of psychotic telephone.
Nobody cares, obviously, chief and foremost on that list the very rockbands in question. Yes you could end up at the public restroom sink right next to some guy much better than you ; but this circumstance, purely coincidental and entirely devoid of any possible teleology therefore says nothing about you. The circumstance that you perceived my grandeur as much as you could, which is to say altogether negligibly, does not make "how you felt about it" at all interesting, or even faintly important. All the wank about "oh, what does all this mean, my nine year old daughter" etcetera etcetera is just that : wank. You're no part of it ; if and when I and your daughter decide to do things you don't understand, it'll be between me and her. You won't be any part of it ; and until we so decide, her seeing that the world's way wider than whatever fits in your spurious noggin's the best thing that could possibly happen to her.
I suppose this'd have been the one alternative title : The Best Thing That Ever Happened In Timisoara. Sadly however, timisoara's not actually important enough to warrant nominal inclusion. Deal with it.———