Loose Cannon

According to the latest revelations brought to us courtesy of the UN, humans are living way beyond their environmental means and are heading for self-extinction. I can’t wait!

I hope our graceful departure from this planet takes place before all the other species are destroyed, especially the domestic cats. I would love to see them go back into the wild, hunt down all the mice and frogs in their local prowling area, subdue them, flick them around, and then gobble them down – whiskers and all, to at last lie down and bask in the morning sun after a night of honest work (assuming they are still capable of such an effort). I would also love to see a tree grow from a seed that wasn’t planted, but simply fell down to earth and took root randomly and at its leisure. And I would love to watch that tree spread its branches wide and relax to the midday breeze in full knowledge that it won’t be cut down in its prime. I would also like to see a fox… just seeing it would do! Enough dreaming.

So we are heading for self-extinction, which will be –let me explain it to you in detail – a slow and brutal death from lack of oxygen leading to painful asphyxiation, our eyes popping out, our lungs collapsing, our collective skin burnt by some potent pollutants, blistering and peeling off, black patches of agonising melanoma diving into our internal organs. The luckier ones of us - the chosen ones - especially in California, will escape that cruelty by promptly and efficiently burning to death in wild fires, and those in New Orleans (the real lucky bastards) will just drown. A few Japanese will stay in control until the end and commit honourable hara-kiri at the last minute before their island is devoured by a tsunami. The Russians and satellite republics’ inhabitants will naturally mutate and live on as cockroaches. But as far as the human race per se is concerned, that will be end of the world as we know it.

But why should we worry about that? I don’t. It’s seems so peaceful and remote comparing with the present and imminent danger of a terrorist attack that our United States superpower can and will inflict on all of us in one swift push of a button long before we ask for the right to remain silent.

A handsome bull has been made available to me, courtesy of a very nosy eagle.

I have had my sights on that bull for a while now – a healthy, muscular male with a thick neck and a pair of hard horns on him. No female could pass by him unaffected. Neither could I because as he is a full blooded male, so I am a full blooded female, and there is only one place we can let that blood, ahem... anyway… yes, yes, yes!!!

So now I have my own sex confession to weave into the rich fabric of the blog’s flourishing erotica.

We lay on a woollen blanket lent to us by a friendly sheep in the next paddock. The sheep had no more use for it – it was going to be butchered the next day. Its dying wish was to watch one last mating ritual. We obliged and the sheep got the first row seat on a bale of hay. The eagle watched too, as it was his wish despite having been told of the R18 rating. He said he wasn’t sure how old he was – so he may have been 18 at the time. We believed him. He wore thick spectacles and appeared mature beyond his unspecified age.

Firstly I nibbled on my bull’s hairy ear. It wasn’t very clean but I was undeterred. He twitched his ear in delight at which point his earing got stuck in the gap between my two front teeth, and came off cutting through his sensitive ear skin (the ring, not the teeth). He mooed for joy while I apologised profusely. He asked me to bite him on his tail and confessed to enjoying a bit of light spanking. I obliged on both accounts. He got horny, which was no surprise considering he had two horns to show for it.

He licked me on the cheek… I gasped. He silenced my gasps with another lick of his meaty, soft tongue. He then slid it down my neck, and lower sending me into shivers of ecstasy. I was aroused – his tongue approaching my nipples. With my left foot I began to shepherd him into the cowshed of my most intimate crevices, when… he recoiled and mooed in disgust, “You call these UDDERS???”
“No, I said, I wouldn’t go that far,” I offered a lame explanation. My breasts could by no stretch of imagination be called udders, I am afraid.
The bull dismounted my backside and walked away in dignified silence. The sheep on the hay bale bleated in terror. The eagle flew off and landed on a tree trunk, of which existence he had no idea as his spectacles were heavily steamed up (he had done a lot of breathing till then). My world tumbled from under my feet – I had been rejected!
Anger boiled inside me. I got up and stomped my hooves. He looked back contemptuously. I screamed, “I will have you! I will have you like it or not! I will have you medium-to-rare in mushroom sauce!”
He sneered, “Bullshit!”

America is in an iron grasp of a pro-Israeli lobby, called Aipac. When Aipac tells the US Congress to jump, the US Congress asks how high… or rather “how much?” and reaches for the cheque book. US$3 billion goes annually from the American taxpayer to Israel by way of economic “donations” and subsidies. US taxpayer virtually sustains the otherwise unsustainable vampire State of Israel.

US Army fights Israeli wars, US soldiers die for Israeli causes (and so do British, Polish, Australian and other allied nations’ young men). 9/11 happened as a result of US unconditional and blatant serving of Israeli interests in the Middle East. Iraqi War happened in order to protect Israel’s status as the only nuclear power in the region. US runs Israeli errands like there is no tomorrow – and there probably isn’t if things go on like that unchecked! We are heading for a combined doom concocted for us goys by our Jewish masters for who we are only as good as our next cheque or the blood of our next soldier.
Americans obviously have no mind of their own, or no religion of their own other then the derivative of Judaism in the shape and form of Evangelical happy-clappy lunies who say this,
“Israel is the only nation Christians are told to pray for in the Bible," he said in a recent interview.
"Because the Bible is the compass of our faith, we do what it says. Every anti-Semite is going to spend eternity in hell without God."
I rest my case.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/5258240.stm

Since I was a little girl I have been boycotting the circus. Seeing poor animals being whipped into burning hoop jumping made my cry alongside the weeping clown (only he was pretending and I was for real). I just cannot digest the sight of oppressed animals out of their natural habitat and made into fucking finger puppets. And I can’t stand the smug, heavily made up and ridiculously dressed, vicious sadistic exhibitionists who can’t wait to show the public the new trick they have beaten into those hapless animals (those bastards should be incarcerated!). So I don’t go nowhere near the circus. Except that now the circus has come to me.

I have been watching the verbal acrobatics of David Cameron and his attempts at whipping Gordon Brown into the hoop of calling early elections. I have also watched Gordon giving clownery his best shot when he tried to joke and sound casual at his press conferences of late. I have watched the mutual slamming, stone throwing and throttling between Labour and the Conservatives, who have even put on display a proper ole dinosaur in the person of long mumified John Major. I wonder if they had first gotten permission for exhumation.

I must admit that this is the first circus I am actually thoroughly enjoying. The players deserve one another, and after all, we all know it is all only pretence. They are not really at each other’s throats – in fact, they are probably good mates once they’re back in the closet after a day of mud slinging work. They only do that for show – for us, the public!

Come to think about it, there is nothing they are arguing about. Their policies don’t differ on principle – they both “strive” to improve education and grant people access to the NHS, get rid of crime and keep armed forces in the Middle East. The only bone of contention is who shall be steering this leaky ole ship called Great Britain, and who shall retire in the shadows. That’s all. The rest is just one jolly circus.

Postman Pat and his cat are on strike again. I jeered at them not long ago wondering what good they were for in our modern day of paperless, electronic communication. I was telling them to go join Bobby the Blacksmith and Jenny the Seamstress who were guest appearing in their local museum at the Exhibition of Extinct Occupations. But I since had a change of heart.

There was a brief period of insanity I underwent about two years ago when, unaware, I had been drawn into the seedy world of internet chat dungeons. I had since discovered that the IQ level of communication facilitated by those outlets was in negative numbers, the topics were at best fresh from the local flea market’s gutter and the language indecipherable. It seems people of all ages and persuasions flock to those places to… blabber. There is no conscious thought in those conversations, no ideas, no meaning. It’s just a high speed train station drowned in the stream of disturbed sub-consciousness of very boring and bored individuals killing one another with details of their stomach content.

You can’t hold a conversation there. I knew a few people who, like me, tried to converse via those “messengers” but sooner or later, we would all succumb to intellectual inaction, to splashing in mud of shallow, lazy stupidity where talking was the purpose in itself. Not even the form mattered! In fact, I think those messengers and chat rooms will ultimately kill the last standing conventions of written language. Soon we will all be articulate but illiterate.

Yesterday I listened to an interview with Philip Roth who expressed his regret about the death of public interest in literary fiction and the emergence of what I would call sensationalised abridged novellas (a la Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code) as the mainstream fiction of our times. It is still better if people read Da Vinci Code rather than languish on MSN reading some illiterate uncle’s accounts of his last visit to the toilet, but it isn’t exactly lineal progress from Shakespeare and Dickens in cultural development of the Western World either.

So that brings me back to Postman Pat and letter writing – proper, grammatically correct, meaningful letter writing where you think before you put pen to paper, where you construct your thoughts and sentences carefully, where no one is rushing you on the other side with nudging alarms and moronic smiley faces, where you actually have something to say. I miss that. I know people who I would love to receive a letter from if only once a year, rather than spend every evening blabbering on with about their piles. And the smell of ink before it dries – priceless! SO BRING BACK POSTMAN PAT!!!

The Burmese uprising has been crushed like ice in a strawberry smoothie - cold, red and dead.

Clearly the Burmese lot would have nothing to offer by way of payment in kind for services that could be rendered by the international community and great superpowers who, let's be honest, don't get out of bed without at least a small oil deposit in sight. So the Burmese have been sacrificed just like the Zimbabweans, just like the Kurds before them and the Czechs earlier on, just like evey other poor sod out there who is not topical in the stellar constallation of international politics.

My heart bleeds for the Burmese. They knew their only weapon was spirit over matter, and in our materialised world ... spirit just does not matter.

Mr. Osborne must have been reading Modern History – part 2 where I bragged about my non-domicile status prospects. Damn! Now he wants a piece of me – the £25,000 piece, greedy man! Me and my Russian and Greek magnate colleagues will start a rebellion then. Expect some fireworks from us around the Guy Fawkes day! We won’t go down without a fight! There will be a diplomatic stalemate of international proportions, believe me! Especially when some of the Russian activists, who all happen to be millionaires enriched on post Soviet privatisations and live happily ever after in the British tax haven, are forced to repatriate to Russia to save themselves the £25,000 pocket money. Mr. Putin has a Welcome Committee waiting at the Moscow airport.
But well done, Tories! It’s high time the idle government dug into the coffers of those who scavenge of this country without spending as much as a penny for the public toilet!

Have the Tories got one over Labour? They will most certainly appeal to first time home buyers who normally being young, angry and radical would vote Labour.
The Tories will also attract legions of middle class oldies who, while standing over their graves, are wondering whether their offspring will be able to pay the inheritance tax to keep the family home in the family. Let’s just hope that those oldies live long enough to be able to give their vote in the next elections – it doesn’t look like Gordon will call them now in a hurry in a suicidal attempt to end his brief prime ministerial career. So the oldies may have to hang on to their life support machines and put off dying for a while yet.

Personally, I am not attracted to the Tory offering. I am not a first home buyer anymore and in my vengeful, petty mind I begrudge the stamp duty I had to pay last year and will have to pay each time I move house as I will never again be a first home buyer. Of course, I could just stick with my present home until I die in hope that my daughter escapes the 40% inheritance tax. That’s assuming of course that by the time I die, some old people’s home where I will no doubt be placed before dying, won’t appropriate my home in order to cover my accommodation and medical bills.

Having dealt with the property market (expect the prices to rise again when and if the Tories do abolish stamp duty for first home buyers because people like me will then incorporate the stamp tax we have to pay on our next home into the price of the house we’re selling – it’s a vicious circle) I would like to hear more about Tories’ foreign policy plans and things that matter on a grander scale than my own backyard. Over to you Mr. Cameron?

Gordon Brown has been on about “Britishness” with enthusiasm of a toddler who has just discovered Lego. It must be the omnipotent feeling that goes with building something out of nothing – just like God when He created the world in seven days. I suppose Gordon Brown believes he can now build a whole new nation in seven days too. The only problem is that in divine terms 7 God’s days would be equivalent to 7 human millennia – a revelation that appears lost on Gordon Brown. He has no time to procrastinate – who knows, he may only have until the next elections!

I am not exactly sure what “Britishness” is but I imagine it is the same phenomena as the Yugoslav or Czechoslovakian nations were at the time of the Eastern Block Soviet-backed sustenance after the post-War border reshuffling, or the “Rainbow Nation” in South Africa after the desperate attempt to prevent post-Apartheid ethnic cleansing payback. They are all artificial hybrids incapable of self-preservation. The common factor shared between them is that they have all been built rapidly and with dilettante amateurism, and as history shows, they fell as rapidly and spectacularly to pieces, some of them only in shame, others in bloodshed.

It does not bother Gordon Brown that much that as we speak (or more precisely, as HE speaks of Britishness) the Scots are seriously contemplating stepping out of the Union altogether, and the Northern Irish have been campaigning for separation (more or less violently as the decades of unwanted marriage progressed) since its inception. As far as Gordon is concerned the whole bunch of tenants occupying the British Isles constitutes the British Nation, and if you do not feel British first and foremost and over and above any of your tribal loyalties, then you can always move to France, or wherever the hell you come from.

I must say that in Great Britain I have so far met only the English, the Irish, the Scots, the Indians and quite and few Welsh, all emphatically pronouncing their nationality with unashamed separatism. I only met one British – it was a second-generation Jamaican bloke, but he somewhat qualified his “Britishness” when he informed me that he was in the process of tracing his roots back… to Africa.

I wonder what it is with nations building these days – it is some sort of architectural trend displayed by people in authority who clearly like to re-define and re-shape national identities and loyalties which have taken centuries to evolve to what they are now. Why not leave them be? Why not let the English be Poms and the Irish be Paddies? What is wrong with letting people be who they are?