Let's talk about power.

Simmer down, this'll be a long
an' windy discussion.

What do you think that might be all about ?

You don't know, of course ; yet nevertheless you can answer. Can't you ? As it turns out, your brain, much like your clucker / "smart"phone doesn't actually carry all that much of you about this world. It certainly carries something, that much is certain. It's just that... well... the something they carry just doesn't happen to be you to much of a degree. So then, what is depicted above ?

How come you can answer the question ? You know as well as I know you know that indeed, "above depicted is success". In the socialist sense, it's true, but nevertheless. Dude's got it made in the shade, don't he ? You can tell by some pixels. Somehow, you can tell : there depicted is one of the few male icons still permitted, the only thing still allowed its own wikipedia page. Nigga can still be an athlete! I bet he must be rakin' in dat dough, don't you ? Hey Nicole, remember back when you hadn't been aged yet ? Those days of yore, those days when you genuinely believed -- as genuinely as the mostly abstent substrate permittedⁱ, but in any case along with the rest of the herd -- that whatever handpuppets of socialism "made a lot of money" and "are very rich" ? I'm sure you do remember ; and I'm sure it burns, on the rebound -- but rejoice nevertheless : unlike you, who can carry the welts on your hide and the burns on your soul, the bois... well... they can't. Too fragile to fix, which is why metals can always be hammered back into shape, if you can be arsed with hammering ; but glass breaks once and... that's it. Who's gonna be going about heating ovens to the point of volcanic activity, and why'd the obsydians resultant have anything to do with the broken beer bottles that went in ?

Anyways, let's go on with the reading :

Cristhiam Lagos está sin ahorros y en busca de trabajo 'en lo que sea'

Crisitham Lagos se enfrenta a una dura realidad. El delantero que milita en Turrialba de la Liga de Ascenso contó las penurias que vive y que se han visto agravadas por la crisis económica provocada por el nuevo coronavirus.

El atacante reveló que por la situación económica de Turrialba, escuadra en la que está, no recibe salarios completos desde la última quincena de enero y sus esperanzas de que le paguen lo adeudado se esfuman cada vez más ante el golpe económico que está provocando el covid-19.

La situación de Lagos es tan complicada que el mismo ariete ya le comunicó a su esposa, Jessica, que está en busca de trabajo para así no poner en duda el sustento de su hogar, el cual está compuesto por su compañera de vida y sus dos hijos.

“Ni yo, ni mi esposa estamos trabajando, porque ella trabaja en una academia y desde hace rato también la mandaron para la casa. Le voy a decir algo: mi situación es muy similar a la del resto de mis compañeros de equipo. Yo lo último que recibí fue el 15 de marzo y fue un abono, no fue completo, desde entonces no he recibido plata, esto es difícil pero vamos día a día agarrados de la mano de Dios”, confesó.

In your own words rather than Miguel de Cervantes',

Cristhiam Lagos is broke and will work for food

Crisitham Lagos confronts cold reality. The forward fighting for Turrialba listed the capital features of the destitution in which he lives, aggravated by the economic crisis sparked by inept female response to the new coronavirus.

The goal-shooterⁱⁱ revealed that because of the economic situation, they've not received their pay for months, and his hopes of receiving anything of what he's owed are dissipating like smoke every day, under the winds of change doom, decay and destruction (you can believe in) driven by the cunts' involvement in public life and the hysteric nonsense they spew.ⁱⁱⁱ

His situation is so painful, that he already told his wife^iv, Jessica, that he's looking for work to try and feed the family, which is composed in the traditional manner : one woman and a coupla children.

"Neither me nor the woman are working, because she's a teacher and so since a while back they sent her home.^v I'm going to tell you something : my situation is very similar to the rest of my comrades'. Last time Momgovernment yielded anything was March 15th, and it came as a fraction of what I was supposedly going to get. Since then there's been nothing incoming, which makes things difficult, we live day by day, pecking crumbs from the hand of God.", he confessed.

Of fucking course "his" mujer's called Jessica. I mean, come on! What else was available, Hennifer ?

You see ? Do you ? What do you see, when you see ?

Anyways, let's move on from you and what you understand, it's so fucking boring it stimulates the search for novel ways to say "uninteresting". Instead, let's talk about me. You know... that picture up front also drives movement in my own skull. Isn't idea association a wonderful thing ?

Yet I notice different elements. It's not just that he mental processes burning my^vi glucose are wholly mine, as made by me, acting by my permission and under my control upon my own history -- rather than the "plausibly-deniable" shared history nobody could accuse you of not having lived through watching Fifty Shades of Guess What I Did This Summer With The Apple Pie On A Vacation Roadtrip on the telly. Actually, strike that. Yes it is, it's just that. Just that.

You know what that picture reminds me of ? Fine then, let's tell a story :

For a half a decade or so, back in the 90s, our favourite weekend amusement consisted of the following activity : we'd pack a few car trunks fulla gear and we'd drive to whatever rural center's Disco, which is to say... oh, how to explain it. It's this specific activity, perhaps not much related to what Zappa thought about, though who even knows. A hundred years ago the peasant bois competed sexually with each other at the hora, but the world has meanwhile changed so a century later they did the exact same thing, substantially, except Saturday night in the community center rather than Sunday after church, behind the church.

Once there, we'd hit on the prettiest girls. It always worked, I don't even recall one case of a rural belle not immediatelly going for the urban, wealthy elite when given half a chance. As their iconic allmother well said, "when I think of the things I could have!" The boys immediatelly noticed, I mean... even for dimwitted rural plebs how fucking hard can it be, there they work their ass off like idiots for an audience that... meanwhile left ?! The chicks walked out on their show, those unpatriotic whores ?! Well! They'll see to this, it doesn't end here, that's for damn sure!!!

So they'd resort to what despicable mirvniki ever did resort to, since the dawn of time (or rather, since the regrettable failure of having not mowed down their offensive ilk to the last man dweeb so they started accumulating) : collective action! O yeah, baby! Bring it!

They'd forget their petty local squabbles, their implicit disagreements as to who should fuck which delicious morsel and they'd unite, unchewedly, just like that. They'll show those pansy city boys, what, "we came there to take their women" ?!?!

The scene always ended the same way : with a bunch of local boys rounded up and beaten to shit at gun point. D'uh. Towards the end we started making them strip naked, "like for the military"^vii, before being punched until they dropped. If things continued we'd possibly have eventually introduced whips, there's only so many jaws you can crack / livers you can dislocate before your knuckles had enough -- but we never actually got that far. I suppose eventually we'd have made 'em suck each other off, wear skirts, "be" transsexuals, why not. And the girls... well. How do you think porn got started, why do you think Romania and Hungary ruled the seas before I left an' my friends moved North, to make Ramona fear "le polacche" a decade later ? Hm ? Thousands of young women were thus liberated from the thick mud of rural life ; and even more thousands o' young bois were given the first of (I hope, countless hence) good taste of just how well the goat has it of this world. Collective action indeed! Faceti un cerc, ba, ce pula mea.

That's what the picture reminds me of : those kids long ago. Just like these kids right here and now, they also had the similar haircuts. Dumbass social signalling for dumbass beta extras, you see ? Do you see it ? Well... That's what I see in that picture, and I don't need anyone to reveal it for me, either. I see it naturally, like I always have, like you never would've.

But that's unimportant. Here's where you and I uncurably diverge : do you think it was wrong, to do all that ? Do you think I think I was wrong, to do all that ? Do you think I care what you think ?^viii

This is, ultimately, inescapably, the problem : that I don't care ; whereas all you do is care. Yet... what don't I care about^ix ? How is it, how come it's possible that your only remaining concern is fear of doing the wrong thing ?

A buncha Germans thought they were doing the right thing ; then they lost the war, and the prevailing collectivists forced them to not merely admit, but actually forced them to believe (through the usual means such forcing is ever accomplished, first forcing them to mimic believing, then...) that they had been wrong. No alternative right thing presented, mind you, just this simple, mind-numbing, corporal-enforced "you were wrong". A buncha Japanese thought they had the right idea, with sourced auctoritas, with all that. The collectivists bombed them, and their shit-for-brains emperor folded, shamefully. There wasn't a replacement emperor provided, mind you -- just the hollow, haunting, "you were wrong".

By now the anxiety's outright sensible, palpable, a presence. The only remaining presence, and ready substance of an answer for the "why", to go with the "how" and the "when". It's indeed very easy to be wrong, in a complex world it gets ever easier as complexity increases. Yet... do you care ? Do you ever worry about being wrong ? And does it do anything for you ?

1. Can rocks be honest ? Can idiots be earnest ? Even if they're not women ? Philosophy, the art and craft of asking questions. [↩]
2. Whatever the fuck the ready words are for this usage in this language, I don't follow soccer like I don't follow the rest of the toys Mom put in the boipen, da fuck do I care. But it is how this sadness works : you have a repertoire, like a key-value store, such that fundamentally tedious text ends up formally "varied" by simple string substitution. At some point in the glory days each city in Romania had a "creative" / "imaginative" (but forever fixed) periphrastic appellation for use by sports commenters, so if you spent any time with a radio you'd necessarily know "the city on the [river] Somes" is Cluj. I don't really recall the rest, as I didn't give much of a shit back then, either (who knows, mayhap the commenters contribute some further examples), but I do quite clearly remember two things.

   One is that as a small child I was so very disappointed to discover the strings aren't actually processed nor executed nor otherwise evaluated in any manner, but instead simply looked-up, in a reverse look-up table, that I refused to implement look-up tables for any purposes throughout my schooling years, fuck that idiotic dumb shit! It's not for people, and it's not even for computers. It's for fucking sports commenters. What the fuck, you have one periphrastic alternative fixed for all eternity, spuriously fashioned to look like it's something you reached out for, something you come up with on the spur of the moment, you know, you just couldn't momentarily remember the shorter string ? What the fuck retardation is this!

   The other's that whenever some sutor aimed ultra crepidam, his vocabulary made it immediately fucking evident. Oh, you're delivering your speech in the city on the Somes ? Mars la cacat.

   So no, I don't know what the "correct" alternative ways to say "one of the two guys placed ahead of the rest" are in soccer. You'll have to put up with my ignorance. [↩]

3. O look, I have periphrases also! How do you like "the cunts' involvement in public life and the hysteric nonsense they spew" for "covid" ? Isn't it even more accurately descriptive an' literally valid than the "city on X river" models I encountered (and rejected) in my youth ? So then! [↩]
4. This "he's already told her" device works to mask a little bit of ego burn. The actual situation he's trying to disavow is the reverse : where she had him understand that... enough with the pretense already. So little assfucking this sitting down of him by her involved, you're to understand, that he comfortably can pretend like it was his idea.

   Cu alifie nu ustura mai deloc, and speaking of which I have like a curiosity : do you married dudes (in the sense of being attached to a woman that owns you like those primitive deep water fish, to provide her with whatever she needs) lube up each Saturday evening ? I mean... wouldn't it be a nice little ritual to have for yourself ? Every Saturday after lunchtime or thereabouts, you go to the bathroom, extract a finger-sized dollop out of the economy-sized vaseline jar, and lube that asshole up good. Whether you even talk to your mistress about things frankly or not, whether she even knows what's going on... wouldn't it be a great little secret to have ? There you sit, entertaining her friends, or parents, or cuddling at the TV, or whatever it is you do, parenting her children, throwing the ball around but all the while... your boi pussy's all lubed up and ready to go! Who knows, maybe someone sometime checks ? But even if nobody ever does, all the while... they could be, right ? Maybe one day you get lucky, but until that lucky day comes, and even if it never does, each Saturday you'd have a delicious slippery little secret, huh.

   Try it, you'll have fun. And besides, vaseline is dermoprotective, it supports healing, lubing up your asshole and rectum once a week is great for your anal health. No joke, ask any doctor you choose, there's all sorts of microtears from normal defecation and other minute problems accumulating down there, treating your happy hole nicely once a week's the best thing you can do for it. [↩]

5. Remember back when it was a good idea to try and run one of those historical man-and-woman arrangements such that she'd get a low pay, high security job and he'd get a high pay, low security job and together they'd thus get the best of both worlds ?

   Ha. What fucking worlds ? The world has changed, there's no worlds now. There's just "different" spigots off the same cage trough. [↩]

6. Hey, anyone still remember Obama ? [↩]
7. Truth. At the time Romania had the draft (for plebs, that is) ; and the proceedings did involve some cfnm adventures, on occasion with girls in uniform (usually medical, occasionally military) present. Why not ? [↩]
8. "I mean... you think she's pretty, right ?" Remember Georgie boy ? [↩]
9. Coherence like this, zero hits out of ten million chances, that's never naturally occurring. There's always a reason, a cause, such careful absence's gotta be manufactured. So... [↩]