To my mind, bureaucracy is the only true and perdurant enemy of mankind. What bureaucracy may in practice turn out to be is indeed formally varied and perhaps may even appear as distinct, superficially : the mother hovering and doting on her child, lest he hurt himself -- why ? let the child hurt itself, that's what it's for (and, should it hurt itself to death, let her make another -- that's what she's for) ; the pantsuit, aspiring to pull themselves up by their own breeches and through empty pronounciations alter, somehow, the very fabric upon which is draped existence ; the "well-meaning" mediocrity trying to "live as best it can within its means", not merely content to eat for the rest of his life in the first eatery that took his money, but actually upset when (and not if) the vagaries of commerce force the closing of that one establishment -- so uncurious, so spurious his inhuman mind that, at great distance from ever summoning the interest to try out something new on his own power, it actually perversely curdles into an odorous pretense to protest when such a trifle as stepping out is compelled by events (and the husbands of a single woman, similarily the first to have opened her legs to his intolerably whiny litany are all exactly the same thing, however they lie to themselves about it, and then to any that'll listen) ; the speakers of one single language, the first they (unawaredly, and thus unpainfully) ever learned ; all dreamers and such "escapees", sufferers in a putative (but really, thoroughly vacuous) "mind" of slings and arrows of what in their eyes seems fortune ; the lowly faggots, those despicable creatures made through supplying the wrong answer to that one truly universal question that reads "ne batem sau te fut ?"i (and no, following "trends", such as presented by the clucker, is not in any way anything different) ; the dedicated solvers of other people's problems (for the self-obvious reason that one's solutions to another's problems can never really fail, much like howsoever vigorous copulation with another's wife isn't liable to burden one with offspring to support) ; the unwilling to die for concern of losing a life they had been, at all points prior, stolidly unwilling to live ; the stringers of trite prosody that should in their eyes be nevertheless deemed poetry (because it rhymes!) and all their sad, insufferable, never happy exam-taking kind ; the rural farmer, content to plough his land, just like the bison is content to browse ; and the town jade, thinking itself above the farmer in the manner of an eleventh floor urinal deeming itself more dignified a space than a second floor broom closet, for self-perceived loftiness ; the sad yet sadly numerous contingent who never came up with a joke (counterdistinct from reciting a joke they dutifully learned aforetime), within their number also counting all the essential cuckolds, who never hurt nor could conceive of killing but in anger, never for fun, nor for the sport of it ; the true faithful of bullshit "religions" predicated on being as mediocre as can be, flimsy disguise indeed for such a spiteful hatred of mankind as'd readily justify in their eyes the wholesale slaughter of the lot -- if only they could beg, borrow or steal a pair of balls somewhere they'd do it, too ; also the name magicians, adrift upon an absent, stormy sea of labels they came up with by themselves (in general by pasting up on boards the scraps of old, discarded labels found about) to put on things they in their mind imagined -- the hunchback sort that walk out of sculpture exhibitions with the (smartly packaged) fire extinguisher and never know the difference, and in their number too "students" of degrees, and "soldiers" by contract, and "leaders" by appointment or regular election and all the rest of the sad lot of fauxmankind ; all those whose expectations are so great (for having grown like fungus, of and by themselves, in isolation, fed by the mind alone) that expediency is fundamentally necessary to the point of becoming the only manner in which they still dare approach their life... as you can see all these are thoroughly the same one thing.
And, make no mistake about it, it is a thing.———
- The English version, not nearly as good (for much weaker vocalic and consonant alternation in that language, not to mention absence of most grammatical structure that makes linguistic effort worth the bother to the thinking man) would go something like "shall we fight or shall I fuck you" I suppose. [↩]