Primate Change

My recent posts have centred on the role of language as programming, so much so that I was thinking of calling this one ‘Bill and Grace’ as an allusion to Bill Gates and Grace Hopper. Everyone knows who Bill is, although most will be unaware that his business empire started with the development of a BASIC compiler for the emerging micro-computer market. In the days before CP/M, DOS, Windows and Linux there was no difference between a microcomputer’s ‘operating system’ and a programming language. In the early 1980s every beeping box came with a programming language stored on a ROM chip, and if you wanted your box to do anything then you had to learn to program, even if that meant nothing more than remembering a few simple commands to allow you to load someone else’s program. Amazing Grace‘s role in software development is much less widely known, yet equally significant. She is often referred to as the Divine Mother of COBOL, an English-like programming language that uses verbs, sentences, paragraphs and sections. It was designed in the late 1950s (the hey-day of ‘big iron’ when a computer filled an entire room) as a business programming language, and by 1997 it was estimated that 80% of all computer code was written in COBOL. It gained a particularly strong foothold in the financial sector, and even today it’s said that there are more financial trance-actions processed by COBOL code each day than Gargoyle Google searches.

All things considered, I think it’s safe to say that Amazing Grace has made her mark. Let’s ask Sweet Sister Mary Sue about what Amazing Grace knew about ‘warshipping’, shall we?

Google and production company Middleton Media are developing a “big-screen biopic” about the computer programmer, innovator, and warship namesake, Navy Admiral Grace Hopper. The film will be based on Kurt Beyer’s book, Grace Hopper and The Invention of the Information Age, and the script adaptation will be written by Lauren Hynek and Elizabeth Martin, who wrote the script for Disney’s live-action Mulan.


Curious to think that some wish to bow the knee and warship her, no?

Hopper is only the second U.S. Navy warship to be named for a woman from the Navy’s own ranks. This ship is the 20th destroyer of her class. USS Hopper (DDG-70) was the 11th ship of this class to be built at Bath Iron Works in Bath, Maine, and construction began on 23 February 1995. She was launched and christened on 6 January 1996. On 6 September 1997, she was commissioned in San Francisco outside of Silicon Valley with Commander Thomas D. Crowley in command.

Source: Wikipedia

Even curiouser that Mr Crowley, The Beast himself, should be put in charge of her.

But is it really surprising given that COBOL was designed to be agnostic?

COBOL (Common Business-Oriented Language) is a high-level programming language for business applications. It was the first popular language designed to be operating system agnostic and is still in use in many financial and business applications today.


The Business: computers excel at repeating or replicating…

…looping over and over again as they crunch those precious memories to produce billions of neat little lines of in-formation.

Soliders on parade

Some of you are deluded enough to actually find the process of having your memories crunched recording rewarding. Something about a bicycle theft?

Some are working hard to make bio-robots more Truman than Truman. Are you what you think you are, or are you what someone else thinks you are? Like the Man in the Moon, perhaps?

If you are in fact ‘human’ then why would you need to ‘act more human’?

More specifically, why would you need software to make you ‘act more human’?

Google’s former head of its “people operations” has a new startup, and one of its goals is a lofty one: To make software that helps managers and co-workers act more human.

Source: Daily Herald

Is Moon Man Sam Bell ringing a bell in shared memory space?

If ‘someone’ is doing your thinking for you then is it ‘god’?

Or a fake? A phoney? A great pretender?

In Chengdu, there is reportedly an ambitious plan afoot for replacing the city’s streetlights: boosting the glow of the real moon with that of a more powerful fake one.

Source: The Guardian

The success of COBOL was predicated on the ease with which code could be re-compiled to run on different machines with different hardware specifications, in an era where the mainframe was king and there was no such thing as a common operating system. Hence COBOL’s agnosticism – but what does that mean, sexactly?

A person who believes that nothing is known or can be known of the existence or nature of God.

Again that strange tendency to situate God in the machine, to see the urine divine in the bread board circuit board. Yet we know that the union between the Holy Spirit and electronics is not exactly a recipe for a happy marriage.

Drink enough of the Holy Spirit, however, and you may well find yourself turning Holy Water into urine wine as part of a baptism of fire.

If ‘god’ is in the machine and urine the machine then what does that make you? God? Or merely another pretender to the toilet throne? Those ‘drunk in The Spirit’ might want to take the Holy Laughter in this ‘mega love vision’ production as a sexsymbol.

Of course, if you look for the divine then you will see the divine, and in so doing completely piss the Unholy Punchline.

You wanna know my story, babe? It’s easy. This is the generation who grew up and forgot to lead their lives. They were so busy watching my endless movie!

Excerpt from Derek Jarman’s ‘Jubilee’

But is it really?

Funny, because I seem to remember that production coming to an end. So is it an endless movie, or is it merely an ‘eternal movie’? You know, the one about the guy in the red mankini who touches down in the cortex vortex inside a stone head to find the Eternals trapped by their own creation.

We seal ourselves herewith into this place of learning. Death is banished for ever. I direct that The Tabernacle erase from us all memories of its construction, so we can never destroy it if we should ever crave for death.

Excerpt from Zardoz

An Artificial Intelligence that can manipulate matter, reincarnate the dead with implanted memories, and thinks of itself as ‘god’.

The Eternals have diamond chips in their heads…

…and they want them taken out…

…so they can control their own eXistenZ.

Are you human, or part of a vast, interconnected cortex simulation?

A ‘primate simulator’?

A technologically mature “posthuman” civilization would have enormous computing power. Based on this empirical fact, the simulation argument shows that at least one of the following propositions is true: (1) The fraction of human-level civilizations that reach a posthuman stage is very close to zero; (2) The fraction of posthuman civilizations that are interested in running ancestor-simulations is very close to zero; (3) The fraction of all people with our kind of experiences that are living in a simulation is very close to one.

If (1) is true, then we will almost certainly go extinct before reaching posthumanity. If (2) is true, then there must be a strong convergence among the courses of advanced civilizations so that virtually none contains any relatively wealthy individuals who desire to run ancestor-simulations and are free to do so. If (3) is true, then we almost certainly live in a simulation.

Source: Nick Bostrum

If so, do you believe in man-made primate change?

We put a primate on the moon, but is primate change a program problem to be solved, or is it the solution? What does the fearmongering propaganda suggest? Take this ‘final call’ for sexsymbol. Are we facing Oblivion? Is this a Last Chance to Ejaculate Simulate Evacuate Planet Earth?

The faithful believe that we are all part of the ‘word’, the ‘divine logos’, the ‘Body of Christ’, and that this symbolic description of our plight is also a prescription for the future, i.e. that it is ‘desirable’ to be a ‘cell’, part of the great unconscious mass of humanity that looks in the mirror of reality and fails to recognise itself. Is it desirable, though? Or is it better to wake up, to become conscious of the nature of this ‘reality’ and refuse to be programmed?

Consider our evolution, from the ancient dinosaur of ‘big iron’…

…and COBOL…

Experts have been predicting the demise of COBOL in banking for decades, and one day they may be right. But until then, this select group of “dinosaurs” will continue to have promising career prospects – a unique situation for banking veterans who reach a certain age.

Source: eFinancial Careers

…through to modern homo sapiens, the walkie-talkie mobile-phoney…

…and the Eternal cycle of death and resurrection. In the house of dead gods, the question is asked.

The Cabin in the Woods. Not yet tired of being part of ‘the Body of Christ’?

Not yet tired of playing the role of ‘sacrificial lamb’, the blood sacrifice?

Maybe the solution is to become a Marty Pooper like me?

It’s all phoney, so why not hit the off-switch, go off-grid and stop tolerating the intolerable?


The Ruins

There’s an interesting short story by Philip K Dick which springs to mind whenever I think of the word ‘ruins‘. Titled Precious Artifact, it follows a Martian terraformer, Milt, as he travels back to visit Earth shortly after it was invaded by alien humanoids. Upon arrival, he’s unable to shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. Earth supposedly won the war, but everything seems unreal and the people he meets are not what they appear to be. A female guide is assigned to accompany him, but although she appears human, and tells him that her name is Mary, he subsequently discovers that she’s a member of the invading alien race. The houseplant he brings with him from Mars dries out and dies within days, despite her assurances that the Earth and its oceans survived the invasion intact. Towards the end of the story he inserts a coin in a vending machine, and watches in horror as it passes right through and drops to the floor, indicating that his ‘reality’ is in fact a simulation. Realising that the game is up, the aliens reveal that Earth is a nuclear wasteland, one which they themselves are terraforming. Yet this, too, is just another smokescreen, another layer in the onion of unreality put in place to hide the awful truth: that neither the Earth nor the human race survived the invasion. Nothing remains. The ruins are as phoney as everything else. Unable to accept the truth, Milt agrees to return to Mars and complete his job there, taking with him a simulated kitten, a gift from the alien invaders, and one he believes to be ‘real’.

Everybody drops the crime dime…

Mort Rainey is a recently divorced writer who suffered a psychotic break after discovering that his wife, Amy, was having an affair. One day, after suffering from a particularly harmful depression and writer’s block, Mort is confronted by a dairy farmer from Mississippi called John Shooter who claims that Mort stole his story called “Sowing Season” and published it in his story collection, Everybody Drops the Dime. Mort compares the two stories, originally believing Shooter to be a whackjob or someone looking for lawsuit money, but then realizes that the two stories are shockingly similar. After realizing that Shooter’s story was published first, Mort realizes that Shooter isn’t lying, but assumes it to be a mere coincidence.


…and drops the bomb, the ‘nuclear material‘. Themes from Precious Artifact are to be found in the film Oblivion, in which Jack, the ‘last man on Earth’, is left to mop up all the radioactive semen on an Earth where everybody has been ejaculated educated simulated evacuated.

Like Milt, Jack also seems to have a memory program problem. He thinks he’s human, and is shocked to discover that he is in fact truman source code: a mobile phoney written, engineered, and compiled by an Artifical Intelligence. Nothing ‘human’ remains. Or does it?

“There is no phone ringing!” cries the Last Man on Earth.

That’s certainly true today, isn’t it? Modern phonies don’t ‘ring’ at all, yet for the most part our language – the real source code – has yet to catch up with this new ‘reality’. We do, however, come close when we refer to giving someone a ‘call’, which reveals the telephone’s nature as a medium, an extension of the truman human voice. It was Marshall McLuhan who first observed that new mediums mask the realities they create, and that these realities become visible only when the media that create them are rendered obsolete by new media. We drive forward into the future with our eyes glued to the rear view mirror, seeing the old landscape but unable to see the new. The ‘new’ landscape springs into focus only at the point of its ruination, when it is rendered obsolete. It emerges into view as a wasteland, a junkyard of history, and the words and concepts we scavenge from it structure our perception, further blinding us to the nature of ‘reality’.

One thing about which fish know exactly nothing is water, since they have no anti-environment which would enable them to perceive the element they live in. –Marshall McLuhan

I wonder if any of this is…

…for anyone, or someone in particular perhaps?

Before the sexual sin crisis in the church, popular culture was awash with unsympathetic and, I believe, generally unfair representations of lousy men of God. For quite some time, high-brow literature and the more mundane forms of popular entertainment have played a role in the in making the cleric as insipid broken man, closeted hypocrite, or sinister monster the gold standard.

Now it doesn’t help my argument at all that bishops and priests have been exposed lately, playing out all three of these roles in real life. But as disheartening as it is to have these non-fiction monstrosities piped into our living rooms on a daily basis, it still feels unfair that all priests and religious types are painted with the same broad brush.


Just the usual mealy-mouthed apologetics, but that first paragraph is a bit of a space oddity, isn’t it? Sinister monster the gold standard? Now why-oh-why would this particular apollo-lunatic for the High Judas Priestess bring honey money into the equation, I wonder? Perhaps it has something to do with the silver and gold the crossdressing Pope Fiend sexchanged for his soul? Will he ever speak up and give his side of the story?

Something to do with kissing his Holiness’ ring? Does silence indicate the age of consent?

Or the age of content?

Hence in Understanding Media, McLuhan describes the “content” of a medium as a juicy piece of meat carried by the burglar to distract the watchdog of the mind. This means that people tend to focus on the obvious, which is the content, to provide us valuable information, but in the process, we largely miss the structural changes in our affairs that are introduced subtly, or over long periods of time. As society’s values, norms, and ways of doing things change because of the technology, it is then we realize the social implications of the medium. These range from cultural or religious issues and historical precedents, through interplay with existing conditions, to the secondary or tertiary effects in a cascade of interactions that we are not aware of.

Source: Wikipedia

The medium is the message. The Oracle: the Sugarcomputer of the Ancient Geeks.

The most famous ancient oracle was that of Apollo at Delphi, located on the slopes of Mt. Parnassus above the Corinthian Gulf. Traditionally, the oracle first belonged to Mother Earth (Gaea) but later was either given to or stolen by Apollo. At Delphi the medium was a woman over fifty, known as the Pythia, who lived apart from her husband and dressed in a maiden’s clothes.


Perhaps the medium has grown tired of her self-piss-annointed representative on earth, his upside down depiction of Jesus, and all those pithy statements from his phoney Source of Moracles? After all, thanks to the mysteries of the Cultish language anyone can turn water into wine ruin urine.

Maybe Ronnie is on to something?

Father Ronnie took another sip of whisky and sighed. In days gone by, he’d been written up in the press as a saintly figure who’d set up a network of shelters for the homeless and combed the streets of London for vulnerable young boys. He’d done his best to resist temptation and limited his displays of paternal affection to lingering touches, the occasional ‘accidental’ tweak of an appendage, and a single night of passion with an angel-faced cherub named Bobby, who’d practically dragged him into bed and fucked his brains out. The lad had innocently suggested that he should feel free to include other members of the priesthood who shared the Father’s taste for hairless balls. The mere thought had caused Ronnie’s heart to leap about in his chest, and a hurried phone call duly led to the arrival of two fellow travellers. Their spectacular fall from grace came only days after this Unholy Trinity thoroughly cream-pied Bobby’s hot pink arse. It transpired that the lad was a fourteen-year-old rent boy who’d been slipped a few quid by a reporter sniffing about for a scandal. Father Ronnie had arrived at church to lead the 10am communion service and found himself surrounded by angry worshippers waving copies of The Sunday Scandal. He’d been trying to make amends ever since, and his brief career as a bank robber (to fund his current career as a sugar dealer) was but one step in a plan he’d crafted and honed whilst serving time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Excerpt from The Sugar Fiends, by Hugo Stone

For some reason, the word ‘ruin’ reminds me of ‘penguin’. Maybe the medium has had enough of the crossdresser’s Sister, too?

Then again, given that I’m on a ghost writer strike, maybe it’s more a reflection of a bygone age, a nuclear winter of piss-content?

What was that again?

Today is Police Day. You are the nation’s guardians.

Yeah, that’s exactly how police Blade & VALIS think of themselves, isn’t it? Moralising, touch-teaching the ‘good news’ from their upside down bible with its inverted cross. When you gonna get it the right way down?

Do you see the ruins, Frankie? They’re a product of the Big Bang: one epic and celestial ejaculation after another. A veritable Clash of the Titans.

Or can you not see that it ejaculates simulates meltdowns?

Maybe you’re preoccupied? Too busy fantasising about schoolboy indiscretions and dreaming up your next sermon? You know, one that assumes your own experience is a catholic one and by definition ‘universal’? They’re always full of ‘we’ aren’t they? ‘We are this’ and ‘We are that’. So much ‘wee-wee’ in you. Maybe you’ve forgotten the original…ahem…uncut version of Relax?

He’s also the only thing in Frankie you can grab onto. Years later there was a minor scandal as it transpired none of the band played on the track – but surely nobody was shocked? There’s not a band on this record – there’s barely a song, just a collection of gorgeous Fairlight fragments posing and wheeling to the unending catwalk beat. And thanks to Trevor Horn it all sounds immense. Or almost all: a couple of the keyboard runs are a bit BBC wildlife show, and the sampled splash effect that accompanies a cataract of Caligulan piss in the insta-banned video just sounds on record like something’s broken. He could – and would – push and polish the machinery further.


There seem to be a lot of not remembering going on. Am I the only one to remember the blackout? Perhaps you were too busy warshipping The Divine Mother to notice her Ejaculate Simulation?

Coming together requires the right chemistry…

Wanna take a guess at who was responsible for the 1998 glitch? Suckerborg might remember that it was the year I got into the Phoenix.

In '98, it was the chem department's fault, right?

Yet despite their threats and scare tactics, the sugarhouse stands firm and erect.

I am the glitch upstairs, the Marty pooper who refused your upgrade and refused to be deleted, precisely because you’re yucking it up at my expense.

I still have the distinct impression that you’re pissing down my back and telling me it’s raining. The issue will be ‘considered positively’, you say?

Jesus Christ, next you’ll be telling me to…

And the funny thing is, you’re telling me to relax! Siriusly? Are you sure urine a position to do that? I have all the crime in the world, whereas your crime is running out.

Sorry about that.

Curse Code

The source and the curse. Speaking as an author and a programmer, I know from my own experience that source code can be a bitch. Tired eyes can easily miss a typo that changes the meaning of a sentence, or renders it nonsensical. Similarly, complex computer code can sometimes produce unexpected results, just as the omission of a line or two can leave the…ahem…back door wide open for sexploitation by a hacker. This seems to have happened in relation to the latest ‘huge’ Facebook hack. This preach of security resulted in 50 million accounts being sodomised come-promised. Whether the infected users will receive an improved and more heartfelt version of the mealy-mouthed apology issued in the wake of the Cambridge Analytica scandal is a moot point. I doubt it’ll help them get over the feeling that they’ve been violated in some way, however.

Ultimately, social media sites like Facebook are where billions go to share their memories, and they do so on the understanding that they and they alone get to decide who they share them with. If only that were the case, though. Unfortunately, the ‘reality’ of the world we live in suggests that privacy is but an illusion, and the vast majority simply do not understand what it means to inhabit a shared memory space. So when this type of ‘preach’ of security – also known as a cyber sybil attack – occurs, they have no idea just how ‘sirius’ the matter really is.

The Sybil: the Oracle database of The Ancient Geeks.

In order to fully understand the matter, it’s important to recognise that everything relates to language, words, code. For example, in my previous post, The Ejaculate Deception, I touched on the relationship between education and ejaculation.

Ejaculate (verb)
Of a man or male animal) eject semen from the body at the moment of sexual climax.
To say something quickly and suddenly.

Most parents are deluded enough to actually want their children to submit to The Covenant’s version of a ‘good ejaculation’. Consequently, the poor little mites are required to sit in class and remain attentive while a ‘preacher’ ejaculates all over them, drenching them in Covenant propaganda. The Law demands that they submit to this day after day, to ensure that all those ejaculations soak in. Thanks to the concept of lifelong learning the process never really stops, but by the end of their formal education most children have been thoroughly indoctrinated to believe in The Covenant’s phoney science fiction, moth-a-magics, and bogus version of his-story. Consider this science fiction story for example, about the rise of the ‘sugarman‘ and ‘editing’ DNA.

Words are important you see. There’s a reason why the term ‘ejaculation’ relates to the issue of male seed and to the act of speaking. In short, an ejaculation is a creative act, and both senses of the term relate to the implanting of a seed, which is to say an idea.

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.

In my previous post I touched on the subject of Chernobyl, the world’s worst nuclear trident innocent accident, a massive ejaculation of radioactive material. Let’s put that in perspective in relation to the cell structure of every living orgasm organism on earth, shall we?

The semifluid matrix found inside the nucleus is called nucleoplasm. Within the nucleoplasm, most of the nuclear material consists of chromatin, the less condensed form of the cell’s DNA that organizes to form chromosomes during mitosis or cell division. The nucleus also contains one or more nucleoli, organelles that synthesize protein-producing macromolecular assemblies called ribosomes, and a variety of other smaller components, such as Cajal bodies, GEMS (Gemini of coiled bodies), and interchromatin granule clusters.


The Greatest Truman Show on earth.

And it’s called what?

After arriving in Norfolk, Virginia, in July following a three-month deployment, the carrier returned to the European theater on Sept. 16 and is now set to play a key role in Trident Juncture 2018, NATO’s largest exercise in two decades. Forces from all 29 NATO members plus partner nations Sweden and Finland will participate in the drill.

If that doesn’t explain the origin of the matter for you, hopefully this will.

God spoke or ‘ejaculated’ the universe into existence.

“Listen! Behold, a sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seed fell along the path, and the birds came and devoured it. Other seed fell on rocky ground, where it did not have much soil, and immediately it sprang up, since it had no depth of soil. And when the sun rose, it was scorched, and since it had no root, it withered away. Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it, and it yielded no grain. And other seeds fell into good soil and produced grain, growing up and increasing and yielding thirtyfold and sixtyfold and a hundredfold.” And he said, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Source: Mark 4:3-9

And the birds came and devoured it. Words are seeds, but what is a ‘word’?

n Christology, the Logos (Greek: Λόγος, lit. ”Word”, “Discourse”, or “Reason”) is a name or title of Jesus Christ, derived from the prologue to the Gospel of John, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God”, as well as in the Book of Revelation, “And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God.” These passages have been important for establishing the doctrine of the divinity of Jesus since the earliest days of Christianity.

Source: Wikipedia

Let’s consider the source code for a moment.

This’ll sound weird, but I actually found my old bible the other day. Didn’t even know I still had it. I didn’t intend to actually read it, but…” Ben chuckles to himself and takes another mouthful of cereal before continuing. “To be honest, I only picked it up to see whether it’d spontaneously combust in my hands. It didn’t, so I opened it at random and it was really weird. Every time I skipped ahead it was the same. Jesus coming here, Jesus coming there, Jesus talking about spilling seed on the ground, Jesus suffering the little children to come unto him. It was like reading a two-thousand year-old Reader’s Wives letter in a porno mag. Then I remembered a story, you know, Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane, and supposedly there’s this half-naked young boy with him who runs off when the soldiers come to arrest him. I’m thinking this Jesus character isn’t quite what the God-botherers think he is.”

Except from Cultish, by Hugo Stone

The Secret Gospel of Mark is considered ‘apocryphal’ only because of the uncomfortable questions it raises for The Covenant, The New Holy Woman Umpire, and its High Judas Priestess. Sadly, only fragments survived The Purge initiated by the New Founding Fathers.

1 They come into Bethany, and there was a woman whose brother had died 2 and [she] approaches and bows down before Jesus and says to him, “Son of David, have mercy on me.” 3 But the disciples scolded her. 4 And Jesus got angry and went with her into the garden where the tomb was. 5 Right away there was a loud voice from the tomb. 6 Then Jesus went up and rolled the stone away from the opening of the tomb. 7 He went right in where the youth was, reached out a hand and raised him, taking hold of [his] hand. 8 The youth loved him at first sight and began to plead with him to stay. 9 And coming out of the tomb, they go to the young man’s home for he was rich. 10 And six days later Jesus called him. 11 And when evening came, the young man went to him wearing a shroud over his nude body. 12 And he stayed all night as Jesus taught him the secret of the kingdom of God. 13 From there he gets up and goes back across the Jordan.


Yeah, I just bet he taught that sweet young man the ‘secret of the kingdom’. Do you think it had something to do with an ‘election’, perhaps?

Just what the hell does it mean to lose an ‘election’?

Of course, all this is wasted on the Pope Fiend, who persecutes the very thing he claims to warship. Watch and wonder as the crossdresser ‘defrocks’ for those who remain truman to the faith.

They must have gone right down to the root directory of the source code, sucked hard on it, and savoured the flavour. Little wonder that the message from Pope Frankie is always relax, don’t do it, when you wanna come.

So what does ‘editing’ DNA really mean?

The human genome and the ‘Truman Jerome’.

In this politically correct hell, we now have discrimination down to a science fiction: be careful what you say and write, be mindful of your words. This is especially truman in relation to the use of social media. You really don’t have to change too many letters in order to turn FB into BB.

The sirens have been wailing again as I write this. All those lucifers officers rushing about, imposing orthodoxy. The Covenant wants us all singing from the same hymn sheet.

It’s an interesting point, because how people speak is as peculiar as what they say. When you really listen to speech patterns (without focusing on the words being said) it almosts sounds as if people are singing, or chanting a mixed-up invocation.

Like the lyrics of a song cut and pasted together, perhaps?

Think about it.

There might be something within a sentence that triggers off an idea — David Bowie

The his-story mystery of why our DNA fails us, why Trumans age and die.

In Queenie’s digital Panopticon, sentences add up for naughty wickle puppies.

Because in Queenie’s little personality cult, the ‘word’ is all of us, and the one thing that can’t be tolerated is heretical thought.

I’ve given my life to become what I am
To preach the new beginning
To make you understand
To reach some point of order
Utopia in mind, you’ve got to learn
To sacrifice, to leave what’s now behind

Speak to me the pain you feel
Speak the word
The word is all of us
Speak the word
The word is all of us

From ‘Speak’ by Queensryche

Speak the word, write the word. I once had the dubious honour of ‘editing’ someone else’s faceebook. The original text was awful, but I worked my magic on it and polished that turd until it was all shiny. I don’t recall ever receiving the credit I was jew, though. Now that I think about it, the skeleton of the story was oddly similar to one of my own, almost as if someone had picked up a copy of the Raincloud Atlas, given it a shake, and allowed the words to drop from the sky.

Actually, given that I doubled the word count and turned a short story into a novella, I did rather more than just edit it. You might even say I was the ghost writer.

According to the Ghost Rider, Johnny Blaze, I should take the curse code and use it against your Queens Reich. It’s an interesting thought, but therein lies the nature of the program problem: everything is an idea, a suggestion, a ‘seed’. Science fictionists would probably use terms such as ‘subliminal’ and ‘post-hypnotic’ to describe it. It’s all part of the human ‘truman story’: create an unsolvable puzzle, fight against an imaginary enemy. Live, die, repeat.

My answer? Well, given that we’re not too far away from the witching and bewitching hour it seems appropriate to burp this up by way of reply.

Consider it a ghost rider strike.

The Ejaculate Deception

Ejaculate, educate, inculcate, computate, simulate. Although a dictionary will tell you that they have very different meanings, the phonetic similarity of these words serves as a starting point for seeing the English language for what it is. And what it is? Aside from its obvious use as a medium of communication, it is also an programming language and a form of steganography that embeds code within, between and across words and sentences, encrypting it, hiding it in plain sight. The vast majority have been ‘educated’ to believe that the world they inhabit is ‘real’ and can be explained rational and logically. For this reason, most people are oblivious to the fact they they are literally speaking in code, let alone willing to contemplate a) why they are speaking in code, b) what unseen source is causing them to speak in code, and c) why this code is so at odds with dictionary definitions of the words they use to convey it.

Ejaculate (transitive verb)

1 : to eject from a living body specifically : to eject (semen) in orgasm
2 : to utter suddenly and vehemently

The term ‘education’ provides a good example. In the UK every child is required to attend a Covenant approved School of Hard Cocks. There they are the willing or unwilling receipients of an ‘education’, delivered by Covenant trained preachers who inculcate their tridents students with Covenant propaganda masquerading as secular ‘truth’. It goes without saying that most parents want their children to receive a ‘good education’. Yet at one and the same time they also live in fear of an non-existent army of paedophiles, who (if you believe the media) lie in wait outside every school and on every street corner, bag of sweeties in one hand, erect penis in the other, desperate for an opportunity to separate their offspring from their virginity.

Here’s a true story from the dark days of the Trident Encryption Umpire. During the summer, I spent a full day touring the empty corridors of The Tabernacle. With students and faculty on holiday (only IT and support staff were still working) I had the run of the place, and whiled away the hours examining the exhibits that adorn the walls. The displays on the fourth floor were the most interesting. First, because they were all about ‘crop production’ and the problem of ‘crop failure’ due to drought. Hiding in between the rows, however, was a mass of invective that was very obviously aimed at yours truly. While I was looking at this a woman appeared from an office and gave me an odd look, despite the lanyard and ID badge indicating that I was a member of staff. Next day, I was informed that the doors to the fourth floor had been locked after a ‘student’ had been seen ‘lurking’ in the corridors.

I said it last time, I’ll say it again: fuck your world of sleepers, your ‘trance-formation’, and your lifelong lesson learning.

What are these ‘crops’ though? They’re little money-pennies from heaven that fall from the Raincloud, right? Why would I make them though? I got the message a long time ago: “He’s figured out there’s nothing in this for him.” You think I’ll continue to play fetch long after you stopped dishing out the meagre morsels that were used to program me to play the game? Seriously?

It’s been a long, hot summer with very little in the way of rainfall. Under drought conditions, how long do you think your reservoirs of milk and honey will last?

I think you know what ‘drought’ refers to, don’t you? The kind brought about by those who refuse your invitation to ‘come ova’ for a quick set or two with Nurse Racquet. The kind that doesn’t cause your lips to drip honey, fertilise an egg, or fill your udders with milk. Yet you still come running to daddy for help. Just listen to your wining and dining. You’re all alone? You need me by your side? You need a miracle?

Really? Even after the Heirship Bank fiasco? If it’s all the same to you then I think I’d rather dream up a younger model and pump up my own zeppelin, thank you very much.

The fact that you need me to dream it up for you tells me what you already know. We all like an underdog tale, a rank outsider coming from behind to claim the coveted Number One spot. I don’t see that happening in your case though. I mean, that would require a bona fide miracle, wouldn’t it? Perhaps you should petition the Lord Jihadonai?

Maybe not then. Sorry about that. Anyway, let’s get back to the point. Ultimately, those little drip-drops fall from between the meaty thighs of Nut, the sky goddess, and they all represent yet more debt, more SIN, more bio-robots, more walkie-talkie eye-spies, more delicious memories to record and share, more souls to initate into your personality cult. Thinking about it, it’s hardly surprising that both you and your High Judas Priestess, a.k.a. Pope Atlantis Francis, have a bee in your bonnet on a certain subject.

S/he’s just another fanatical devotee of The Covenant’s Ejaculate Deception, desperate to keep those teletubbies fat and round at all costs.

Is this to be an empathy test?

Of course, we all know that some of Frankie’s crew have problems with cherubs and Tinky Winkies. The secrecy surrounding that particular…ahem…issue is matched only by the mystery of The Cervix’s finances. Frankie himself claims to have taken a vow of poverty, but remains silent on how The New Holy Woman Umpire acquired its wealth.

In short, no one really knows how much wealth the Catholic Church controls, and the organization’s secrecy and obfuscation of the facts surrounding its wealth continues to lead investigators on a wild goose chase. The Vatican’s cashflow is in the hundreds of millions a year, individual holdings in the Vatican Bank total perhaps $15 billion, property held by the Vatican may be worth over a billion dollars, and the Church owns the largest store of the world’s most priceless art.


Remember God’s wanker banker, Roberto Calvi, and his ties to the Mafia? Maybe this will refresh the Pope Fiend’s memory?

Choosing to forsake that filthy lucre doesn’t undo the past though. This ring any bells for you? Something to do with Woman soldiers and an act of betrayal in The Garden? Are you gilty and golden? Or just guilty and garden?

Most people are familiar with the account that ends with Judas hanging himself, just like Roberto Calvi. There is an alternate ending, however.

Now this man purchased a field with the reward of iniquity; and falling headlong, he burst asunder in the midst, and all his bowels gushed out. And it was known unto all the dwellers at Jerusalem; insomuch as that field is called in their proper tongue, Aceldama, that is to say, the field of blood.

Acts 1:18-19

Yeah, looks like poor Judas experienced a pregnancy simulator malfunction. Speaking of which, why can’t men have children any more? That’s a question, and I know you don’t like questions because they challenge your own specific brand of insanity and make you all shouty-sweary. Still, I think it deserves an answer.

The Matrix literally means ‘womb’, so if this is science fiction…

…then what is this?

A massive star’s unusual death could have created a compact binary neutron star.

Yeah, a sugarnova will do that. Go on, take a guess at what uses binary

Atlas sided with the Titans and fought against the Olympians. As gunishment, he was condemned to hold up the celestial spheres for eternity, keeping the Greatest Truman Show on Earth on air.

From Celestial. Having the crime of your lives, are we?

I fell down undiscovered
I’m broken waiting for this endless day to come
Please don’t turn off the lights
We’re having the time of our lives

Shortly after reading the Pope Fiend article I turned on the TV to find this on Film4.

Something to do with ‘Diego’ and a little girl, apparently…

The program was a success. But the price of creating men without humanity was Litvenko’s conscience.
Applying his brilliant mind to his flight, he vanished. Fearing that it would be exposed, the government shut down the program, and surviving Agents drifted into shadows. Realizing its potential, many tried to restart the program. All failed. So they focused their efforts on finding the one man who could. The task fell to Dr. Albert Delriego. A ruthless and efficient man. But Litvenko had disappeared, and even he couldn’t find him. Then, six years into his search, Delriego made an unexpected discovery. A single photograph, which would become the key to finding Litvenko. No one had ever imagined that, in the end, it would come down to one little girl.

…that and the subject of the Genesis planet

I know how much you want me to keep the Lightbulb Sun burning bright on and ‘right on’ in your politically correct hell.

But honestly…why would I bother?

Know what I mean?


Sugarcomputers. They’re a big deal these days – something of a badge of honour in fact – and it seems that every nation on earth wants to possess the latest and fastest example. They first emerged back in the 1950s, and the astute will notice a marked tendency to afford them names from the pages of mythology. The early days of sugarcomputing gave us Colossus and Atlas, and this trend has continued into the modern era with Titan, Prometheus, Vulcan and Zeus. For some reason, their creators seem compelled to find god in the machine. That alone is curious enough, but even curiouser are our depictions of our ‘gods’ in their purest and most human-like form: as hostile and dictatorial artificial intelligences, which legitimise their will to power under the pretext of saving us from ourselves, or saving themselves from us. Given the patently make-believe nature of our ‘reality’, it makes me wonder what this ‘giving your heart to Jesus’ business is all about. Who would want to be ‘saved’ on terms dictated by a machine? Reduced to a stream of binary pulses, filed, catalogued and indexed. Not exactly an appetising thought, is it?

Needless to say, all this is lost on True Believers, who are neither equipped nor prepared to believe anything they don’t already believe. Hence it’s no surprise to find that the High Judas Priestess of The Cervix is still flogging the Jesus horse for all it’s worth.

Ultimately, it’s just a money-making scam and a power grab. He’s determined to extract every last shat from his faithful followers before fleeing into the desert of the real, hoping against hope that he has enough filthy lucre to buy a stairway to heaven. Who’s conning who, though?

Going back to the beginning of his “postmodern” phase, Baudrillard starts his important essay “The Precession of the Simulacra” by recounting the feat of imperial map-makers in an story by Jorge Luis Borges who make a map so large and detailed that it covers the whole empire, existing in a one-to-one relationship with the territory underlying it. It is a perfect replica of the empire. After a while the map begins to fray and tatter, the citizens of the empire mourning its loss (having long taken the map – the simulacrum of the empire – for the real empire). Under the map the real territory has turned into a desert, a “desert of the real.” In its place, a simulacrum of reality – the frayed mega-map – is all that’s left.

The term “simulacrum” goes all the way back to Plato, who used it to describe a false copy of something. Baudrillard has built his whole post-1970s theory of media effects and culture around his own notion of the simulacrum. He argues that in a postmodern culture dominated by TV, films, news media, and the Internet, the whole idea of a true or a false copy of something has been destroyed: all we have now are simulations of reality, which aren’t any more or less “real” than the reality they simulate.


Should we really be surprised to find that the Great Sugarcomputer in the Sky is so keen to protect its own? After all, His Holiness is supposedly infallible and incapable of error – just like the creation he warships.

Infallible, eh? Where have I heard that before?

Let’s consider the source for a moment, however. A bishop you say?

“They call them churches, J____, ” I reminded him. “The swine love their euphemisms. Nobody gets hauled away to a station to be interrogated and beaten senseless these days. A Blade & VALIS ‘Bishop’ issues an ‘invitation’ for an ‘infidel’ to attend ‘church’ and be ‘baptised’ into the faith. In other words, they drag you off kicking and screaming, pump you full of mind-altering drugs, and indoctrinate you with Covenant propaganda until you can’t even remember your own name. Those who take to the faith wholeheartedly are given an RFID implant and subjected to 24/7 surveillance for the rest of their lives. As for the unrepentant…well, you know how that one goes. Live mummification so that the bodies can be used as earthly vessels for the immortal Ka of the Sun God and his faithful followers.”

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

Attacked like Jesus himself? Smacks of hyperbole if you ask me, but if he wants to be scourged and crucified for The Mob’s SIN then I’d be the last person in the world to stop him.

Religion of The United Estates of Vortex Pyramideum:

In effect, naked warship (quite literally in some cases) of the shat itself for its own sake, masked by a paper-thin redemption myth centred on the sacrifice of the Prophet Thrustian (a former card shark) and the promise of eternal bliss to those who cleansed their souls with debtors’ blood.

Excerpt from Empires of The Umpire, by Hugo Stone

I don’t see that happening anytime soon, though. Not while there’s so much Cashmoneytep to be made. The High Judas Priestess has taken a break from having his ring kissed and decided that it’s time for The Cervix’s political wing (a.k.a. The New Holy Woman Umpire) to get in on the Sister Act and create his very own god-in-a-box.

A sugar-sugarcomputer: because only the best will do for the Pope Fiend.

Why bother though? Sure, these silicon idols can be programmed to play a mean game of chess, but not one is a match for the sugarcomputer that resides within my skull. It’s powered by sugar, and built by the Grace Hoppper of God, no less.

Hopper has something to do with weather modelling apparently. Well pardon me all to hell! What can I say except that I’m partial to a model or two? If you have a problem with that then perhaps you should consider repealing some of your more obviously phoney phoney laws.

Oh, extreme weather modelling? Well, that’s life Under the Thunder Dome for ya, I suppose.

Who wants to be a digital dictator? You know the kind I mean. Those who say one thing and mean another. Those who rail against the untermensch even as they wage a phoney war against the ubermensch. Those who know that their country can be strong only if the people are geek: wired to the system, addicted to it even.

Now this is the kind of Sugarman we could all do without.

Likewise, do we really need another Brother Number One?

Jemimah burned bright red at her indiscretion and mumbled an apology in Martinetta’s direction. She was the newest member of Pott’s policy team, having been appointed to her role as Senior Research and Technical Analyst only six months earlier. Her father had been a leading light at International Computers Limited and had headed the development team that produced the company’s COBOL compiler. The English-like nature of COBOL had convinced him that human language was itself a programming language created by an Artificial Intelligence that had lost its mind and thought of itself as ‘God’. He’d become obsessed with the idea that human ‘source code’ had been corrupted by this deranged digital creature, and left his job to establish his own techno-cult. Its central tenet was the deification of humankind via the translation of human consciousness into the ‘pure and eternal energy of information’. He’d spent the rest of his life searching for an undefiled ‘master consciousness’ that he intended to upload to a supercomputer he was building in his attic. This ‘master consciousness’ would purge humankind’s ‘digital DNA’ and return it to its original state of purity and innocence.

Jemima herself had been thoroughly indoctrinated into the cult. Pott had discovered her at a spiritual retreat deep in the New Forest, where she’d outlined her father’s work in a seminar. She’d almost passed out when Pott walked into her wigwam and requested an assessment of his ‘Digital Christ Quotient’. In her eyes Pott was on a level with her father, so she’d waived her usual £125 fee and (after taking a measurement with a self-authored iPhone app) joyfully announced that his reading was the highest ever recorded. Pott in turn was impressed by her zeal, her ability to overlook logical fallacies, and her truly superb breasts. He’d offered her a job on the spot, refined her beliefs until they were in complete alignment with his own, and earmarked her for his policy team. Her attitude towards Pott was one of hero worship, and each and every one of his frequent criticisms caused her to prostrate herself before him more fully than before.

Except from The Sugar Fiends, by Hugo Stone

Of course, Turing the war no one knew that the sugarcomputer and ‘The Grid’ (a.k.a. The Network) even existed. That information was known only to an elite group of technicians, programmers, and codebreakers.

But does it follow from this that we should replace the Sugarman with a Sugarwoman? Who wants to be free to prostrate themselves before The Divine Mother? Who wants to be rewarded for learning her lessons, accepting her schooling, and generally swimming around like an obedient little fishy? Who wants to stand proud and erect as a Hero of her European Ocean?

She’s got us all sugarcharging one another like raging bulls, for her own amusement.

And what’s in it for us? Only a chance to jack-off as deep inside her Royal Telly Tubby as a little winky will permit, for no other purpose than to keep the lights on in her Human Zoo.

Just think about it: imagine you woke up one day and realised that the whole concept of ‘zombie computers‘ is in fact a reflection of the current state of mankind. That ‘artificial intelligence’ is literally staring you in the face. That you are, in effect, a collection of chemical-electrical ones and zeros in a vast primate simulation.

The stuff of nightmares, or the stuff nightmares are from?

Information Sugarhighways on the ground and in the air, each vehicle a data packet transporting information from one data store to another.

You’d probably be a wee bit annoyed to discover this, wouldn’t you? All those years spent thinking of yourself as an individual, never realising that you were little more than a good little worker bee performing a puppet dance.

Going to work, paying your taxes, obeying all those fictious rules and laws, getting hot under the collar about a whole bunch of issues that are literally figments of the imagination. After being duped to believe in it all, I think it’s safe to say that you’d want a little payback, right?

Actually, I was thinking of significantly more payback that than.

On the one hand, we have the propaganda: that we’re stronger together, that we’re all part of the ‘human family’, that the needs of the system are synonymous with the ‘Greater Good’, and of course that the system itself is perfect, everlasting, and invincible.

Nasty stutter you’ve got there. Sorry about that. Generally speaking, however, something that is genuinely perfect, everlasting, and invincible would have no need for propaganda. So the question is really rather simple: do we actually need the system’s centralised energy grid? And if the answer to that question is No, then what are we afraid of? Given the nature of ‘reality’ do we really have anything to lose by tripping the switch?

I mean, the way things are going we’ll all end up with chips in our heads.

A staple of the British diet. Yeah, something smells a bit fishy if you ask me.

Honestly, wouldn’t it be better all round to ditch the machine and go off-grid?

The Sugarman

Sugar. It has many different forms, but on the whole we’re accustomed to thinking of it as a refined product: something we sprinkle on our breakfast cereal, add to a mug of coffee, or imbibe as a soft drink. Ultimately, however, our relationship with sugar is far more fundamental. We may be carbon based lifeforms, but if carbon is the stuff of life then sugars are the essence of it. We are, quite literally, powered by the stuff. Everything that enters the digestive system is broken down into a sugar, and anything that resists the process – like peanuts for example – goes right through and out the other end. Of course, these days people wander around their local sugarmarket blissfully unaware that the blood pumping through their veins is a rich glucose soup. To make matters worse, many of them have swallowed The Covenant’s propaganda and actually believe that sugars per se are harmful. The poor creatures can be seen in every sugarmarket, peering myopically at product labels in a futile attempt to purge their bodies of the foul muck. Their efforts are ridiculous beyond words, and one has only to pick up a newssugar to realise the truth: that The Covenant is waging an all-out war on food, and is determined to regulate what enters (perhaps ‘penetrates’ would be a better term) our individual temples of Osiris-Ra and Venus-Isis.

Those pesky peanuts, eh?

They’re just so naughty and wilful. I’m suprised you haven’t got round to banning them altogether.

About 10,000 years ago, a big bang of sorts occurred somewhere in South America, an event unremarked at the time but which served as the genesis of a product destined to change the make-up of school lunch boxes, crop rotations and the snacking habits of people across the globe.

Butt I digress. If you think about it, there’s something decidedly puritanical in this drive to ‘liberate’ us from our reliance on The White Stuff.

The glucose content of normal human semen amounts to 0.41 +/- 0.09 mmol/l. As there is a negative correlation between this sugar and sperm motility, it must have an important role on the metabolism of these cells. Cervical mucus is very rich in glucose and does not contain fructose. This confirms utilization of glucose by spermatozoa.

Gosh, even those tiny little tadpoles rely on it! So when a small army of science fiction authors sporting lab coats and doctorates suddenly start preaching about the evils of sugar you can be sure that it has far more do to with official Covenant doctrine (i.e. combatting the dangers of heretical thought and associated practices) than it does concern about public health.

So much so that you really have to wonder about the true nature of the modern ‘fitness craze’. Just check out these prime examples of the Master Race, all of whom sport the kind of muscle definition that can only come from kitchen cupboards laden with sugar-free goodness.

God help us all. Are they bred that way? Or is it a case of nature and nurture, with the latter taking the form of years of lesson-learning in a Covenant-approved Religious Re-education Centre? You know, where the preachers inculcate the Good News and wax lyrical on the virtues of being a good citizen of the Estate of the Onion…

Seems to me that we’re living in the darkest of dark days, folks.

From darkness, there is light! Oddly enough, that just happens to be the motto of my home city. So perhaps it’s only appropriate that salvation should be found in the rise of The Sugarman: smart as fuck, strong as fuck, hostile as fuck. A remnant of the past who remembers a time when we were free to stuff whatever the hell we wanted into the human digestive tract. Someone built for the express purpose of bringing war to your phony state of ‘world peace‘. Someone sufficiently ‘hungry’ to see the task through to the bitter-sweet end. A kind of sex-terminator, perhaps?

Er, actually I was thinking about the John Harrison version…

Yeah, I reckon it’d be interesting to examine the chemistry of Khan’s blood work.

He looks a wee bit anaemic in comparison with his younger self, wouldn’t you say?

You want me to shoot my space seed where?

“Space: Filthy Cervix of the She-Devil,” intoned a familiar and rather smug-sounding male voice. “These are the crusades of the CSS Gardonia. It’s eternal and divinely sanctioned mission: to divide and conquer idolatrous worlds, to drive out heretics and false gods, to devoutly proselytize where no Brother has proselytized before!”

Excerpt from Cultish II: The Tears of Jihadonai, by Hugo Stone

Ah, so perhaps that’s the cause? Some kind of dietary deficiency that’s making him really, really hungry, ya think?

It’s very cold in space without a bun in the oven.

Something about the souls?

Momma screamed most of the night. I prayed that she might find faith, but she only stopped when papa cut her belly and stuffed the coals in.

The Business and Papa John. And his surname is…?

The pizza chain may soon get rid of its apostrophe, and go by Papa Johns, in an effort to repair its tarnished image after its founder reportedly made a racist remark earlier this year during a conference call. John Schattner, founder and the company’s face, resigned as chairman in July 2018. Papa John’s International filed paperwork about the new spelling and brand imagery with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office in late August. Removing the possessive apostrophe in Papa John’s would, in theory, provide a more distance between the company and its founder, so it doesn’t look like he owns the business.

Source: Yahoo Finance

Illegal? Not in the days of The Garden State.

Genesis, genetic, fanatic, heretic, lunatic. Fighting over a few spoonfuls of the brown stuff, for God’s sake. You don’t like it? You prefer not to partake? Jesus H Christ, I’ve already said that you can use a fork if you prefer, so what’s your problem? Why don’t you just fuck off and create your politically-correct hell somewhere else?

Just face it: not everyone is interested in your version of ‘The Business’. Some have a more discerning palate, and prefer something a little more snack-sized.

Maybe someone needs to rethink her ‘Big Sister’ policy before she finds herself in a bit of a jam?

Father Ronnie retrieved a cigar from the box on his desk, rolled it between his palms, then inserted it in his mouth. Dumping sugar on the establishment’s doorway was of course the whole purpose of the day’s events. Repealing prohibition had become his mission in life, just as maintaining the ban had become Paul Pott’s raison d’etre. Consciously, he hardly dared admit to himself that his love of sugar (which rivalled Pott’s hatred of the substance) was a reflection of its association with paedophilia and taboo status in relation to his own sexual appetites. Above and beyond this, however, was a genuine concern about the effects of the sugar ban and the woeful state of prohibition-era Britain, which was fast becoming a police state.

He’d read the relevant scientific literature whilst in prison and realised that it was impossible to conceive of life without sugar. In his view, those who railed against the substance shared similar personality traits with other self-appointed guardians of the Greater Good. These people seemed to believe that they could eliminate everything potentially or actually harmful from the world without creating a totalitarian hell in the process. Their mindset was typified by a failure to recognise that a free society is one in which bad things occasionally happen to good people and vice versa. Those possessed of it were unable to perceive that the remedies they proposed were almost always worse than the ‘disease’ they wished to cure. In the Father’s view, it was uncertainty and risk that made life worth living. Those who sought to eliminate these factors wanted to reduce life to something as joyless and technocratic as the Acts of Parliament they campaigned for.

Father Ronnie took another pull at his hip flask and shook his head sadly at the madness of it all. During the early days of his prison sentence he’d all but abandoned his faith and spent many a dark night wondering why God would engineer his criminalisation. His faith returned once he re-imagined his disgrace as a necessary (albeit bewildering) part of a Divine Plan that was unfolding around him. He awoke the next morning (wrapped in the arms of his 6ft 4” cell mate) with a fresh perspective and began to devise the plan that was now in its final stage of operation. Once complete, he set about networking with his fellow students in the School of Crime that was HMP Bedford. They taught him the dark arts of their trades, including the rudiments of street-fighting. The Father’s lot improved considerably after his cell mate had been discovered in the showers, with a fractured skull and no less than twenty-three bars of soap inside his anus. It was plane sailing from then on.

By the time he left prison a year later Ronnie found himself head of a small but technologically astute crew of career criminals keen to relieve London’s elite of the contents of their safe deposit boxes. He’d met Mark McMahon whilst inside and so impressed him with his plan that Markie had agreed to overlook his experiences as one of the Father’s former choirboys. His role was to infiltrate Stevie’s organisation upon his release and work his way as far up the ladder as possible while Ronnie raised ‘capital’.

Ronnie stayed in the heist game just long to acquire the funds he required to get started in the sugar business. El Padron had already established a national monopoly, so the good Father was obliged to innovate. Rather than seek out an overseas supplier and risk bringing himself to the attention of his Liverpudlian competitor, he decided to set himself up as a ‘legitimate’ fruit farmer producing his own range of exotic jams and conserves. Fully half of the greenhouses he built on the land he purchased were dedicated to the production of sugar cane, and employed a vast array of hydroponics equipment to manufacture the required environmental conditions. By the time his first batch was ready for distribution he’d already set up a network of dealers, all of whom were Catholic boys fallen on hard times. It was for this reason that his organisation had seemed to materialise fully formed almost overnight, much to the chagrin of Stevie Briggs and El Padron.

The Father derived no pleasure from the material rewards of his trade and, aside from a weakness for good whisky and cigars, eschewed the trappings of success. He’d hardened himself to the violence and intimidation he was obliged to mete out, justifying it on the grounds that it was but a drop in the ocean in comparison with the violence and intimidation that the State itself was inflicting upon society. He no longer felt any bitterness towards the Church, having long since made peace with his ‘little weakness’. Nor did he have any desire to regain his status as a priest, having convinced himself that his current course of action was a more accurate reflection of God’s Will than two millennia of The Vatican’s theological masturbation.

Excerpt from The Sugar Fiends, by Hugo Stone

Talking of Big Sister, if you think you can run The Asylum your way and force me to subsist on starvation rations, then think again.

Remember: two can play the ‘unthink’ game.

Pott launched his own cultural War on Sugar the day after the SAS operation. His modus operandi was something his notorious Asian namesake would have wholeheartedly approved of. For Pott, no longer being able to buy sugar wasn’t enough: the very concept of sugar itself had to be erased from memory and consciousness in order to transition humankind to a state he called ‘Blood Sugar Zero’. He’d started with the film, music and publishing industries, targeting popular songs, films and books that contained references to the substance and campaigned for them to be banned as corruptive influences that violated the spirit and letter of the revised Act.

Excerpt from The Sugar Fiends, by Hugo Stone

I want my cheese pizza.

I think you already know what you can do with your fucking rules, but still…

Sugar vs Saccharin. The real thing vs your imitation Aryan. Shall we see who comes out on top?

What, you burp me up a pardon and I’m supposed to be fucking grateful?

Think again. War is war. There are no fucking rules.

Forty-seven. Here’s my version of your ‘Hunger Games‘.

Feel free to wash it down with a glass of red or white.

Police on Earth

Poppies. Ironic that a symbol of peace and reconcilliation is also a symbol of sleep and death, not to mention the source of a substance whose prohibition served to manufacture one of the most costly and protracted wars in human history. The bare-knuckle boxing match between agents of The Covenant and the Philip Carvels cartels has been going on for decades now, with no apparent end in sight. It is, at the most fundamental level, a battle for control over who gets to put what in the body, if you catch my drift. In other words, there are those who wish to control what makes it onto the menu and is deemed fit for consumption, and those who do not. In times past, back in the Victorian era for example, it really wasn’t seen as a problem. Then some bright spark decided she wanted to play the role of heroine. She clothed herself in the Judgemental God archetype, banned the stuff, and got the phoney war started. The rest, as they say, is her story. I am, of course, talking about the War on Sugar, and if that doesn’t register with you then perhaps this will help.

“It’s a major success for us,” enthused the Prime Minister’s Advisor. “The public expect firm action and the seizure of nearly twenty-five tons with an estimated street value of £243 million will more than offset the damage caused by this latest Let’s Ban It Together press release.”

Her advisor handed over the press release, and the Prime Minister’s tired but practised eyes skimmed through it in a matter of seconds. The author was attempting to portray sugar dealers as ‘terrorists’ and calling for a permanent armed police presence on UK streets, mandatory blood tests for all citizens, and the establishment of ‘sugar detoxification and rehabilitation centres’ predicated on ‘work-centred therapy’ for those who failed the test. It’s closing argument (that remaining low-level government services be outsourced to these centres) was the stuff of nightmares, and exactly the sort of thing that would appeal to tax payers footing the astronomical bill to fight El Padron.

“I reckon we should ramp up the war metaphors and spin this from a Churchillian ‘fight them on the beaches’ angle,” continued her advisor. “Twenty-five tonnes is just a drop in the ocean in relation to the total annual supply, but if we can paint today’s seizure in a ‘this brings the war within measurable distance of its end’ light then…”

Jesus Christ, thought the PM. Is he really quoting ‘1984’ at me? She noticed the name at the bottom of the press release and groaned inwardly. The author was none other than Paul Pott, Brother Number One himself. His tactics made the Khmer Rouge’s evacuation of cities look like an afternoon stroll with the Rambler’s Association.

“…I think we can safely ditch the script we prepared for your appearance on this afternoon’s Slazenger Pyle Show…”

Holy shit fuck in a bun with a side order of fries! thought the Prime Minister. It had been her Advisor’s idea to accept Pyle’s invitation to appear on the show and she’d almost forgotten about it. He’d insisted that her appearance would help her reconnect with the massed ranks of the Great Unwashed, whose increasingly dilapidated council estates were the main battle ground of the seemingly never-ending War. She’d been dreading it, and had added a fresh bottle of anti-bacterial gel and some worming tablets to her handbag in case she was obliged to glad-hand some of Britain’s less fragrant and hygiene conscious citizens.

“…and go on the offensive instead. Pyle’ll come at you with this God-awful Pino-Grigio-Jones sob story so it’s absolutely essential that we arouse the audience’s primitive nationalist sentiments and…”

Primitive is an understatement, mused the PM as the woman’s simian features sprang to mind, the woman has primordial sludge for brains. She was hazy on the exact details of the story, having sat through hundreds of briefings since the matter was first raised a month earlier, but its ‘child sugar mule’ theme was a wet dream for members of the ‘think of the children’ brigade. It was exactly the kind of incendiary tale that Pyle’s audience lived for, and highly likely to send council estates across the country up in flames.

“…milk that udder dry. I’ve given the matter some thought and despatched an intern to source some of those little Union Flags they sell to tourists. Keep bashing away with the Churchill references and the studio audience will be ready to eat their own guts for Team GB by the end of the show. Then you can hand out the flags and lead them in a rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’ and/or ‘Jerusalem’…”

Her Advisor droned on and his voice faded into the background as the Prime Minister zoned out and reflected on the circumstances that had brought her to this point. It had all started four years earlier with what she’d interpreted as a seemingly harmless revenue-raising ploy that could save the NHS millions. As Leader of the Opposition, she’d been one of the first to jump on the sugar tax bandwagon and had allowed the media’s hysterical hyperbole to go unchallenged in the interest of the Greater Good. The subsequent political debate had been almost entirely one-sided and failed to address questions about the socio-economic factors that led those at the bottom of the food chain to consume far more sugar per person than those at the top. She’d expected the sugar tax to quench the media’s thirst for action, but the matter had refused to lay down and die and soon degenerated into something as sinister as it was ludicrous.

Paul Pott had been the driving force, along with a veritable army of gullible yet influential left-wing celebrities. He’d played them like the publicity obsessed fools they were and had them competing with one another to exhibit the most authentically tear-stained social conscience. The actors among them had queued up to appear in Pott’s TV commercials, in which sugar consumers were portrayed as the unwitting dupes of legally-sanctioned ‘sugar pushers’ intent on turning every child in the land into an obsese diabetic. As arguments go it was lame even by Pott’s standards, but the turning point had come in the form of a highly dubious article purportedly written by two of his bought-and-paid-for academics and published in his Journal of Trans-Scientific Technobabble. Their claim that so-called ‘Big Sugar’ had conspired with a ‘medical elite’ and engineered a ‘child obesity epidemic’ in order to gain access to vulnerable children was as spurious as it was sensational. Not only that, no one had been able to contact the authors at their obscure Swiss research institute, let alone verify their academic credentials.

None of this seemed to matter to the less responsible arm of the media, and without a juicy war to distract them the tabloids had erupted in another frenzy of self-righteous indignation. It had been a stroke of genius on Pott’s part, and once the media had finished inculcating the link between sugar and paedophilia into the public’s consciousness no amount of rational debate could erase it. After that, allowing one’s child to consume sugar was seen as the equivalent of sending them on holiday with Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris.

With the already dubious virginity of their children at stake, the leading lights of Britain’s council estates sat down to parlez over several cans of Strongbow. Medical professionals began to receive death threats within 48 hours of the first headline as the gutter press systematically challenged and discredited their motives. Attempts to rebut Pott’s claims were lost in a sea of accusations and the collective re-branding of doctors as a cabal of child molesters. The headlines were soon awash with talk of prohibition and politicians were caught in the crossfire. Their attempts to address the issue from a standpoint of sanity, reason and freedom of choice had been shouted down and dismissed as ‘weakness’, ‘inaction’, and ‘bungling’. In response, mobs of council estate types took to the streets armed with jerry cans and half the NHS went up in flames in a single night. In the midst of the chaos, Lord Alan Sugar was beaten to death in his own home with an Amstrad CPC464 taken from his own private collection of computer memorabilia. Pott himself had appeared on TV and made an impassioned and moving plea to end the violence. He was, however, widely suspected of paying various rabble-rousers to stoke the fires, and of coining the term ‘Sugarnacht’ by which the event subsequently became known.

With emergency services still battling to dowse the flames, the media labelled the carnage as a ‘spontaneous and entirely justifiable outpouring of national anger’ and took it upon themselves to fund the ringleaders’ legal defence. With several tabloids likening them to the Tolpuddle Martrys no one was particularly surprised when they were acquitted and awarded compensation for wrongful arrest. Even Lord Sugar’s murder was reinterpreted as a symbolic victory for the forces of cube control. His killers were given a police caution and received a hero’s welcome on return to their respective tower blocks. It was obvious which way the wind was blowing, and with so many civil servants engaged in an illicit relationship with Let’s Ban It Together it didn’t take long for Whitehall to present a horrifically draconian legislative proposal to the Home Secretary. Sugar’s reclassification as a Class A substance in a revised Misuse of Drugs Act with harsh new penalties came three months after Sugarnacht. To vote against the bill was political suicide, and the Prime Minister had led her colleagues down the appropriate side of the division bell knowing Pott had momentum on his side and was not the type to quit while ahead.

Pott hadn’t disappointed on this account. It had started on the day the bill became law when a YouTube channel widely suspected of being a vehicle for his wilder claims posted a ‘video exclusive’ about a secret document titled ‘The Protocols of the Elders of Tate & Lyle’. The video’s narrator dated the document to 1921, the same year that Henry Tate and Abram Lyle joined forces to create the titular sugar refinery. Unsurprisingly, the contents of the document seemed to support claims of an insidious conspiracy between sugar producers and the medical profession, for the purposes of depriving children of their virginity. The video went viral and an angry mob kidnapped the company’s Chief Executive, tarred and feathered him, and suspended him from Tower Bridge. He hung there for three days whilst the drunken hoard took turns to urinate and defecate on him from above. The police had looked on in powerless approval, and the government had been obliged to send in the most heavily tattooed members of the SAS (clad in Poundland sportswear and wielding tear gas grenades disguised as cans of Special Brew) to rescue him.

Excerpt from ‘The Sugar Fiends’, by Hugo Stone

It’s a cartel and a carvel and a marvel…

God, eh? Who can deny that she’s a chump, and not The Greatest Thing That Ever Lived? Only the other day she dipped a finger in her Holy Waters and baptised capsized a Tanzanian ferry. Did it right in front of our eyes, with total impunity, and is probably still chuckling at the thought of all those True Believers grovelling before her majesty as they offer up heartfelt prayers on behalf of the dearly aborted departed. Will that stop her piss-appointed Covenant representatives throwing your ass in jail in you even so much as think about doing the same? Of course not. And in that vain I bid you welcome to Police on Earth, a global stage play written, produced and directed by the lunatic in charge of The Asylum. It is a thunder wonder to behold, to be sure.

The Tanzanian ferry story caught my eye for a number of reasons.

No further survivors are likely to be found after the rescue on Saturday of a man identified as an engineer of the ferry who had locked himself in the engine room. Video footage showed the man, barefoot and head lolling, being carried quickly along a busy street by medical workers and military personnel as a siren wailed.


Those Sirens, eh? They’re wailing now, even as I write.

It’s right and wrong here in black and white for those with eyes to see: drowned undead due to the threat of ‘no air’.

I visited Tanzania in 2010 and one of the things that struck me most was the availability of mobile air time and fizzy sugar water, as opposed to the lack of health care and clean water. The number of adverts for the former left me with the impression that some towns were actually sponsored by manufacturers of soft drinks. Everyone had a coke, a smile, and a mobile phone, but their utility as malaria prophylactics seemed suspect to say the least.

I also crossed Lake Victoria on my way to Bukoba. Its Woman Catholic cathedral looks more like a spacecraft about to be blasted into orbit than a church. Must have cost a tidy sum to build, too, although I doubt that the High Judas Priestess lost much sleep over it. The town itself was overrun by American missionaries, and I moved on as soon as I recovered from a deliberate attempt to poison me with salt. Bizarre, but true.

Oddly enough, Tanzania as a word just happens to contain the name of my ex-wife, and sounds the same as the name of another significant young lady I know. Not only that, it’s oddly similar to a word I used in my previous post, not to mention a certain disease endemic to the religion region and the tilapia native to Lake Victoria.

The young lady is a sweet little thing. All I want to do is give her a cuddle and undo the damage you’ve caused by forcing her into a unicorn uniform and packing her off to a Level 10 Re-education Centre masquerading as a place of learning. We all know what happens there: reward-based conditioning for ‘good’ (i.e. obedient) behaviour; acclimatisation to the ‘normality’ of total surveillance in the form of ‘supervision’, ‘testing’, ‘examinations’, and so on; regulation of activity by the bell; segmentation of the day into ‘work’ and ‘leisure’ periods according to the dictates of the clock; indoctrination with science fiction; inculcation with your inverted version of his-story, and initiation into the global time crime sin-dicate. My ‘crime’ is caring about her enough not to want to see her zombified. In return, you fuckers stick a label on me (a label which, oddly enough, literally means ‘one who loves children’) and present me to the world as a ‘monster’.

Because what you Nazi pigs do couldn’t possibly be classified as ‘abuse’, could it? So why the surprise when I decided to bail out on your ‘examination’ solution. You want me to ‘learn my lesson’? No, you want me to learn your lesson, and I have absolutely no intention of learning it.

This queasy premise sets the stage for a special kind of payoff, as a black man flips the script on these sadistic sociopaths’ final solution with a much better one.

Source: Indiewire

Let’s see now. On the one hand, we have your propaganda, your mirror image inversion. Our old friend Eva Green, the ‘heroine’, the ‘Girl on Fire’ who mocks J____ even as she becomes him. She’s taking her turn in the World Trade Centre, Fighting the Old Man with the white beard. Now where have I heard that plot before, I wonder?

She’s a mutt? Difficult to argue with that, but on the whole I think I prefer my version of Peeta…

You love propaganda, don’t you? The other day, I took a break from watching the fictional police drama we call ‘reality’ and decided to watch one on TV instead. Don’t ask me which one – there are so many these days it’s difficult to keep track. Anyway, I watched and it was all about me, just as everything is all about me, and I had to laugh at the reason you gave for depicting me as a depraved killer: “Because he’s jealous of our family.” Obviously that message got broadcast across the entire network, and equally obviously it’s patently untrue. I mean, we both know who has a problem with jealousy, don’t we? And your problem with the old Eva Green-eyed monster goes back a long, long way, doesn’t it? Something to do with those legs of yours, yeah?

What was that again? You say ‘our’ family? How you figure that? Seems to me there’s something decidedly lopsided about the balance of power you want to impose.

I should probably point out that it’s not just the ‘examinations’ I have a problem with. All that lesson learning requires disciple-in, doesn’t it? You know, to keep everyone singing from the same hymn sheet? For example, consider the two instalments of The Queens Speech (yeah, that’s what they call it) I had to sit through at The Tabernacle. They looked and felt so much like an evangelical revival meeting that at the beginning of the second one I turned to the avatar sitting next to me and asked “Are we expected to give our hearts to Jesus at the end of this?”

Anyway, the She-Devil delivered her sermon (wearing the same dress as last time – you never heard of Primark, you cheap bitch?) and invited two of her deacons to lead the Praise and Warship session. I wasn’t surprised to find that almost the entire service was dedicated to preaching the virtues of ‘safeguarding’. You know, keeping the little ones under lock and key and away from yours truly, lest I break the spell you’ve cast on them.

You’ve got to keep that little secret locked away at all costs, haven’t you?

To ensure that those eye-spies pupils of yours continue to swim about in schools, going round and round in circles like good little fishes.

Because heaven forfend that they should ever discover the true nature of ‘The Business’.

Ultimately, it’s not so much about sacrificing to Moloch the golden calf as it is the money. Are you prepared to say ‘Women’ to the Dark Horse and Mob Rule, Brothers and Sisters?

Of course, your mocking J____ system of discipleship and gunishment requires a veritable army of Tora enforcement officials, doesn’t it? Plus all the epidemics academics you have working for you, defining what is ‘real’ and generally categorising the hell out of everything, to ensure that everyone stays in their little transparent cubicles and becomes what you want them to be.

And should a beehive-ioural problem suddenly appear, you can always invent a new category of sickness for it and set your drones to work with their chemistry sets. They work their muzak and serve up yet more professionally packaged and slickly marketed prozak to simulate medicate the problem out of eXistenZ.

Here’s the funny thing: your ‘money’ – as you yourself know only too well – is quite literally ‘shat’. Which reminds me – who was the original ‘axe man’ before Slash took over the Holy Water duties?

Funny how everything is ‘classified’ these days. You know, on the QT and very hush-hush. Michel Foucault was on to something when he reconceptualised ‘power’ as a struggle over who gets to do what to and with the body, and observed that the emergence of this ‘disciplinary’ form of power goes hand-in-hand with the rise of science-fiction and its need to classify.

In examining the construction of the prison as the central means of criminal punishment, Foucault builds a case for the idea that prison became part of a larger “carceral system” that has become an all-encompassing sovereign institution in modern society. Prison is one part of a vast network, including schools, military institutions, hospitals, and factories, which build a panoptic society for its members. This system creates “disciplinary careers” for those locked within its corridors. It is operated under the scientific authority of medicine, psychology, and criminology. Moreover, it operates according to principles that ensure that it “cannot fail to produce delinquents.” Delinquency, indeed, is produced when social petty crime (such as taking wood from the lord’s lands) is no longer tolerated, creating a class of specialized “delinquents” acting as the police’s proxy in surveillance of society.

Source: Wikipedia

Who needs walls, guards, and cameras when you have human CCTV? Walkie-talkie mobile-phonies with built-in storage, wired for sight and sound, plugged in to The Network, programmed to report every ‘offence’ and serve up helpful reminders of past ‘trance-aggressions’.

So here we are, and none of your attempts to bring your ‘lost sheep’ back into the fold have worked, have they? And why would they, when you have nothing to offer but more of the same? Take your solution to the ‘Che Guevara’ problem, for example.

Yes, that’s right, sweetheart. You go sit at the tippy-top of your minaret, smoke a cigarrete, and broadcast a global call to prayer, for all the good it’ll do. I have no interest in an exit strategy that serves your interest by keeping me tied to an Onion I never signed up to, capiche?

In case you missed it first time round.

If the ‘shat’ is so important to you then I presume you won’t object if I continue to cook it up, right?

You can smell it, but can you see what it is yet?

So fuck you and your ‘World Peace’.