The thumbs up and other dents in the substrate of perception
The desolate building of the Ministerio de Salud, whence the ruin and destruction comes into (this) country. Other countries have different (same) ones.
Somewhat unrelatedly, I've meanwhile destroyed (through application of kinetic force and generally speaking physical violence at that!) the machine formerly known as gamingwhore. It no longer boots, it's done for this world, the sad clicking of what once were hard-drives are its only accompaniament now ; with it go the piece of steaming shit formerly known as steami, the various pieces of shit formerly known as "web browsers", as fucking if anything besides lynx can meaningfully exist in that space, and a pile of dangling dependencies, incidental & accidental complexity and assorted this-dumbest-generation-of-morons byproducts and feculence the likes of which one's never seen (unless, of course, one tries to use what's by now left of "computers" -- something "one" in the sense of your most humble author is ever less inclined to attempt).
That above would be a hotel. No kidding, Hotel Boulevar(d)ii, 2248-2283. Would you like to let out a yelp ?
The below is a pole someone had a serious fucking problem with.
Fuck that pole. Seriously.
The above (and below) is... also a hotel. Hotel Central Santiago Trejos 8742-7086, no fucking kidding. Would you like to...
Well... would you ?
I (needless to say) very much... wouldn't. For I, needless to say, I'm very much busy elsewhere.
Hermit crabs are consummatedly fucking cute, wouldn't you say. They crumple into their borrowed shell at the slightest sign of disturbance, a movement, even of a shadow, anything. Then after a heartbeat or three they uncrumple, they emerge, they come out by degrees -- first, this spoke of hair, then if nothing's the matter with the air the eyes, then by degrees the feet and everything's ready to go again, crumple-crumple over the sand.
The other crabs though, the ones that dig holes into the sand by the tedious yet eagerly engaged process of dragging out spitball after spitball after everloving spitball... they're really not much worse. A lot more skittish, not so easy to interact with ; but they're their very own brand of cute nevertheless.
A very workable arrangement : top floor, for me, to baws. Ground floor, for the girls, including a swing, and other things. I can look down at them, through the cracks in the floor ; they can look up at me, while I kick sand in their eyes, it's truly... well, it's very adequate an erection, what can I say.
Actually, I could say I've managed to dent the camera lens shield yet again and once more (as you can no doubt observe in the upper left corner). I've no fucking idea what to do about this, it's a problem I've never had before and now I'm having with infuriating regularity -- this new thing I'm going to be ditching now is not even a whole year old I don't think, it's... I sorely suspect contemporarysimptard involvement with the production process, having a handheld that's this vulnerable utterly reminds me of ubuntox, firefu, steaming shit an' shitting steam, the whole charade & menagerie of useless crap these useless "epidemiologists" keep drowning the world in. "High performance" uselessness and in general piled-up water balloons by idiots who've never been punched (but should be very much punched, continously, immediately an' to death).
Beach coconuts, easily the very best coconut water to be had in this country. They're about the size of small child, with that tail reminescent of an iguana and... well, they're delicious, what can I tell you.
Actually... I could tell you what the thumbs up is all about. Guess I might as well, huh : so in the car, on the way over from the beach, you say to your girls "we get home, we take a nice warm shower, then we lay down in my bed for some cock worship, and then you can all have a nap". Because they're fucking exhausted, the poor darlings, because they have to drive, and to cater, and valet (what, you think I put my own shoes on ?!) and it all starts at 4:30 am (yes, that's right, 430 hours!) because it takes about an hour 15 to get to the beach (the way they drive -- it takes everyone else two to three) and well... you do want to see the sun rise on the beach, don't you ?
Actually, fuck you -- I do, and that rules all ; but lest we get distracted : as you're all piled into the one humongobed you say "how about you sit yourselves on my thumbs" as you extend your palms on either side. Then they do, and then you play with their insides as they kiss and fondle your manhood, maybe even have them masturbate... it's a showiii ; and, in being very confusing for the brain, because there's multiple reported insides to go along with penile stimulation and wtf, it's rather orgasmic. Because the brain's the principal sexual organ in sapiens, as you well know (for having read it somewhere, lots of places), and there's relatively little confusion (by which I mean distinction) between the small and the (somewhat) larger death : chaos.
- No words can do justice to that shocking atrocity. Leaving aside how it doesn't live up to the technological promises it somehow wordlessly makes, and gets accepted, I don't know why or how, it's somehow also managed to turn playing video games, a pleasurable activity I remember since childhood, into the going through lists of failed cvasi-offerings that absolutely aren't -- not it, nor anything like it. Spreadsheets "in space", the only remaining activity possible in pantsuit-infected worlds, god fucking help me if I've got either the time, patience or can somehow summon the interest to fuck all these "liberated" whales, what the fuck.
There is not a single game available on steam currently, nor ever has there the fuck been such a thing. The only "product" the damned thing provides is an endless lists of things that sound like they might be games. Exactly like google can produce, "for your benefit". If you're the sort of useless dork that can be persuaded to go through lists of "alternatives" instead of living... hey, guess what ? The shitworld's then for you!
It's not for me, however. I've absolutely nothing to do with it, when I need to see a doctor I go see a doctor (as opposed to spending however many hours going through lists of doctors I could go to). And when I get horny I fuck (as opposed to going through instagram, snatchchat, onlysimps or whatever the fuck "alternatives" and "options" "you have" out there). And I actually travel as opposed to hurr, and so the fuck on. [↩]
- They don't seem to have managed to reconcile the chains of possibility. Maybe it's with a d, maybe it's without a d, who are you to ask anyway, Stephen with a ph. [↩]
- Though, apparently, one can actually do very little without their thumbs. [↩]
Monday, 31 August 2020
In today's installment of "computer"‐related annoyances, gpg can decrypt a SINGLE encrypted element in a file ; but if there's something naturally occuring like say
then gpg can't fucking replace the encrypted chunks with the respective decrypted material minding its own fucking business otherwise. Because the fucking reason for having IMMENSELY HEAVY arbitrary headers like "‐‐‐‐‐BEGIN PGP MESSAGE‐‐‐‐‐" and "‐‐‐‐‐END PGP MESSAGE‐‐‐‐‐" is so as to not be able to process mixed content, duh.
Nor can it, for that matter, handle a simple enumeration of encrypted messages with no interspersed content :
Nor will it, as you might by now expect & intuit, permit in any manner appending output to pre‐existing files ; everything must always be overwritten because you didn't kill these kids when their mother brought them to you, to your eternal and undying shame.
Sure, the plan was at some point to have all this crap fixed, eventually. The plan meanwhile became to simply have the fuckwads fixed instead.
Because fuck all'y'all, seriously now. No backsies, daddy despises you an' forevermore absolutely will.