Loose Cannon

When the subject is world conflicts, we simply cannot overlook the main culprit on the block – Germany. And if a German is in action, there is bound to be a Pole getting under his feet. If it hadn’t been for the Poles the Germans would have taken the whole world without one shot being fired on their second attempt. But seriously, think about it, in the many-thousand-year World’s history, there have only been two World Wars, both of them instigated by the Germans. Not a bad track record, huh?

Back to horror. Germany is a male (that being due to high testosterone levels in an average German male’s – or female’s - bloodstream.) I would love to liken Germany to Frankenstein – the name is just right and so are the looks, but no, I will go for Werewolf. Think about it. Overall, on a good day, Germany is a good boy: he has his socks well mended, his shirts are properly starched, he is in school on time, two Minutens before the bell goes off. He knows his times-tables backwards. His gets married at 25, has three boys and a girl by 32, and… by 35 dies in another war (the last event being a bit of a bummer in the otherwise perfect German existence).
A German is well groomed (ok, he burps after meals but that’s only to show appreciation to his devoted German wife who is a bit deaf after all the explosions of the experimental rockets he has fired in their perfect German backyard, next to her washing line). He is also loyal. Not like you, the English! He never argues with his wife and never judges her appearance by comparing her unfavourably to the seductive Polish vixen who lives round the block and leads him into temptation, which he doesn’t fall for, of course. He values his Bratwurst mit Sauerkraut und Berliner Weiße too much to give it up for a moment of madness with a treacherous Pole.
So life is perfect as it should be for our good, prim and proper Germany, until the full moon. Sheiße! Something animalistic, bestial even, kicks in! Our poor German cannot control it or stop it. He starts growing ginger hair all over his back, arms and chest, his solid, square hands turn into paws, and his body expands thereby tearing his perfectly starched shirt. And then he has to go and conquer, hunt and feed on fresh meat. Oh yes, he howls at his misery! But what’s done, is done… And then when the Moon wanes, so does our werewolf’s facial hair and he promptly returns to his basement to write a philosophical dissertation about racial purity. It’s all well intended.

The German story does not leave much room for my Poles. So briefly – Poland is a woman. She is hauntingly beautiful, tall and slim. She is been brought up on Romantic notions to believe in a better world that apparently has once existed, but there is no evidence of it anywhere in sight. But Poland doesn’t care about such trivia as tangible evidence. Poland is an idealist and has been seen fighting tanks with swords off horseback, with some degree of success.
As for horror – Poland is a closet witch. Daytime she attends Sunday mass without a fail and goes to confession to talk about domestic affairs, but at night… At night she practices black magic, makes poisonous concoctions out of snake’s spit and foxglove to add them to the chicken broth she makes for her pain-in-the-arse neighbour who fell victim to some mysterious illness (she denies it had anything to do with her “Fuck my Neighbour” spell). She is so superstitious that her foot will never pass under a ladder, or on a crack of a broken paving stone, or across the path of a back cat! On Friday, the 13th she sleeps under the bed and always keeps her fingers crossed when she lies. She is a witch alright… And in her irrationality she so irritates her sensible, perfect neighbour that he screws her every chance he gets. And that gives him an excuse for another World War.

As the final clash for world domination looms on the horizon (it has to be resolved before we run out of fuel, you see, and that doesn’t leave us with much time), I think of the horrors that will come with that ultimate confrontation of bad faith. Then I think of all the horror movies that scared me shitless in my lifetime - Scoobie Doo amongst them.

Imagine if instead of nations the final battle between evil and more evil here on Earth is fought by horror characters. So who do we have in the race? Russia, America and the most unwelcome as they say in Washington – China. But China came in late, so here goes Russia and America.

Russia is the vampire of nations. With her long history of sucking every other nation’s blood, she can only be a vampire. But she is also a vampire because she is so refined, well educated and philosophical. She ponders her failings. She floats around vast Siberia cast in perpetual ice, with a rueful smile, regretting the unintended victims of her own imperial survival. Russia is an elegant vampire, aristocratic – no longer a Bolshevik commoner, but a noble, a countess – true daughter of Count Aleksey, the Impaler. There is a lot of melancholy in Russia’s greed. It is soulful greed – vampiric greed of which the deep-thinking Russia is ashamed but which she cannot escape if she wants to live into another millennium. It is her cursed fate. She produced world’s best writers and composers, poets and scientists, and incidentally, she sucks dry every full-blooded nation that stands in her way.

America on the other hand has no historical justification on this planet. It (I shall call it “it” because it lacks clear sexual orientation) is a new arrival on the block, and it arrived from the outer space of course. America is the Dalek of Earth. It doesn’t think, its brain works on schematic circuit arrangements dictated by Hollywood series of “Die Hard” and “Mission Impossible” blockbusters. It isn’t very shapely by our earthly standards – it’s rounded all over, wobbly, it can’t climb the stairs because of the weight of double pounder galactic Macs with extra-large chips in its rear. Yes, America has a big arse… IS a big arse.
America is on a mission (sic “Mission Impossible”). It doesn’t need to dwell on the purpose or consequences of its mission, it just follows orders of its crooked-nose master who, surrounded by tubes and beeping sounds, has been on life-support since the Great Flood. Anyway, America believes its Master. America is a bunch of duped, retarded mercenaries praising the Lord while they detonate another atomic bomb.
The Daleks, not capable of producing its own thought, go around the globe kidnapping, amongst others, the great Russian and German scientists who then show the Daleks how to climb the stairs and, of course, how to shoot a gun. No matter how hard they try, they can’t teach them how to hold a fork.

Part II: Germany and Poland Part III: England and China

You can see why...

Obama will become the next US president riding solely the wave of his colour. The whites will vote (and have voted) for him because of their guilt trip into affirmative action (refer: post-Apartheid South Africa for details) and because they want to get on the good side of the future ruling ethnic majority of America. The financial oligarchy that pulls the strings of power in the US is colour blind as it is predominantly Jewish and thus their segregation runs along the lines of circumcision and being God’s chosen ones by virtue of descent from Abraham, and has nothing to do with race. They will place in power anyone – black, white or purple – as long he is prepared to dance to their tune and the majority of America is prepared to dance to his.

And that takes me to the majority of America. The one single largest race in the USA are the Blacks. They used to be a numb mass of manpower but since the 60-ies they have acquired a voice of their own and today they use it to wrench out what is due to them. They are not breaking any principles by demanding what is theirs. In democracy into which they have been conditioned since their ancestors’ capture on the west coast of Africa and transportation to cotton plantations, it is the majority that has the final say. So now that they have finally formed such majority through a few of centuries of relentless breeding in absence of other life opportunities, they can now appoint their own government and their own President.

It is only fair that America gets a black President – a guy who will tell the Whites where to stick it, who will form alliances with anti-White preachers and voodoo practitioners, witch doctors and Puff Daddies. The simple fact is that this is the society and the culture of modern America, and its face can no longer be a white Texan oil tycoon heir (as there are only a few whites and no oil in Texas these days) but a Black man with a spear in one hand and Bible in the other.

This trick wouldn’t work in Europe – not yet. You see, the Blacks did not ask to come to America. They were taken there and naturalised against their will and better judgment. Now they are entitled to take over the country’s way of life. On the other hand, Europe was chosen by other ethnicities as their way of life. By making the choice to come and live here, they have tacitly accepted the Roman rule (in Rome do as Romans do)… until of course, one day, they form the majority.

Good luck to Obama! Let’s hope he takes America back to a little thatched hut and sacrificing cocks to make rain. Maybe then, America’s attention will drift away from taking over the world towards break-dance. Yo, bro!

That’s it! I’ve had enough of people! I have already applied for a visa to the Animal Kingdom. Upon examining some glossy brochures I can tell it is a beautiful place situated in the heart of dark, dark forest, or – if you prefer – in the yellow savannah, or even under the ocean (but to qualify for that outpost I would have to develop gills like Kevin Costner in Waterworld. I’m working on it by submerging myself in my bath water and letting out bubbles, ahem… through my ears, of course.)

I am packing my suitcases, taking my daughter with me (she agreed to come with as long as the cat comes too. He said yes – he has some unfinished business with our local population of frogs who have also emigrated to the Animal Kingdom (last year it was.) So anyway, we are going. My husband decided to join us on the condition that I wear the body glove he got me from Ann Summers, and that I pretend I’m a mermaid. It suits me perfectly (both the glove and the idea) since, as you know, I’m currently learning to breathe underwater.

I’m fed up with people. I have already expressed my views about our greedy, unscrupulous and hypocritical leaders and their henchmen who go, pillage and murder in the name of ill-conceived freedom and their own self-gratification. There is nothing I can do about the current state of affairs in my world due to the fact that I would have the majority of our mentally and morally distorted society to reckon with if I were to articulate views contrary to their moronic system of beliefs. So I am off (and if anyone says “good riddance”, well… it’s your freedom of speech so exercise it while you can, but not on my blog.)

People tell me I must be out of my mind. When you go into the jungle, forget the rule of law and our proper moral standards, they say, because in the jungle … jungle law applies. The weak die, the smaller animal gets eaten by the bigger one and no one, absolutely no one, gets social benefits of any kind. It sounds barbaric, doesn’t it?

Well, let’s have a look at it. That’s how it works: an early bird eats the worm, then the bird gets eaten by a bigger bird, who then –if it is not careful – gets snapped by the crocodile. However, if the bird and the crocodile have a dental services deal, it is unheard of that the crocodile should ever attempt to consume a bird who is attending to his teeth. Now, amongst people deals and alliances don’t mean shit – one minute you are Rumsfeld’s best friend, next thing Rumsfeld captures you in your cosy hideaway under the ground, has your beard shaved off to your total humiliation and you get executed. This sort of conduct would never occur in nature. In nature, everyone knows where everyone stands.

Look at the leader of the Animal Kingdom, the mighty Lion. Yes, he kills others and eats them alive, hooves and all, but he does not do it for sport, he does it when he his hungry. He goes hunting (well, he actually sends his trusted girls to do the job for him while he is replenishing his spermcount sleeping the shadow of a baobab tree) and does not firstly starve his victims by imposing 10-year sanctions against them and their young ones. He targets the weak ones who are about to die anyway. He goes for the throat or the heart first so that the victim does not have to suffer unnecessary inconvenience. And he does not, ever!, spread untrue rumours about his potential victims in the kingdom so that everybody thinks they are evil and pose an imminent danger to the whole world and so they must be annihilated. The King does not do that – he keeps his conscience clear not by false propaganda but by being direct and honest about his intentions. He kills because he his hungry, not because he wants to take over the patch of yellow grass belonging to the springbok tribe known to be rich in golden pollen.

And when the King becomes slightly senile in his old age (as well as sexually inefficient), his girls chose themselves another king based on his mating skills (including foreplay) and the length of his “instrument”, but not the depth of his pockets (in fact, he has no pockets and is totally unbribe-able.)

Finally, when the King dies, he doesn’t get selfishly mummified for public amusement, but his body is presented to the kingdom’s general public for consumption. The hyenas get some, the vultures get some, and the rest is effectively dealt with by the ants. Then the bird comes and eats the ant, the bird is then eaten by a bigger bird, who then… Perfect world! I am going there as soon as my visa comes through. Bye, bye…

I am nauseous with the phoney rhetoric of soldier ethos in the Middle East wars.

Those guys are mercenaries, trained and hired killers whose job is to commit genocide and completely destroy a foreign world. They go there to murder, plunder, steal and wreck destruction until no stone remains unturned. Torture belongs to their favourite pastimes alongside firing at civilians and taking out people’s homes with bombs.
They are the invaders. They are conducting unjust wars. Their wars are not in self-defence, they are invasive wars which are conducted on foreign soil and against civil populaces. The battles they fight are not in the skies of England, or in the territorial waters of Great Britain or on land somewhere in Dover or Glasgow. Those guys aren’t defending anyone, aren’t protecting anything – they are aggressors.

What comes with their job is the risk of being injured or killed. It’s a calculated risk. It must be worth it for them to take it – either the pay is good enough, or the pleasure of murder and destructions compensates for the risk. So why the hell should I shed tears and pull my hair out, feel despondent and regretful when they die?

History will judge them and no chance in hell will there be songs sung about them, stories told about their bravado and sacrifice. No way will they be commemorated with monuments in little town squares. What may happen though is that some of them (and now only God and their victims know how many) will be tried and condemned for crimes against humanity. So why should I shed tears when they die?

The political spin has it that they are our defenders – defenders of our world, our lives, our borders and our cities. What a pile of dog shit!

They are compared with the RAF fighters of WWII or men who fought in the Great War on the fields of France, giving their lives to bar the enemy from entering this land. How disrespectful is that towards those real heroes!

If you must compare the legionnaires of the XXI-st century who have invaded and are still occupying two countries whose people have done nothing to us with anyone at all then the Fascists or the Bolsheviks spring to mind. Choose one, but don’t get drawn into the propaganda of greed and murder.

Behind every great leader there stands a great nation, and it goes without saying that behind every crap leader…

Men (less so women) with personalities of Titans and hearts made of cement created imperia, or at least preserved existing ones. Men with personalities of candy floss and hearts made of chicken livers enjoyed their place in the world’s pecking order without ever challenging it. Their nations degenerated to a bunch of fat cats oblivious to the idea of catching a mouse (or anything other than fleas). A nation needs constant stimulation into a fight for survival (real or imaginary) which means confrontation and casualties that call for perpetual revenge. That is what makes a winner.

Let’s look at France: after all the incompetent, lazy and feminine Louises I to XIV, it seemed the nation’s gradual descend into oblivion was irreversible. And then came Robespierre and cut off a few wigged heads. The nation awaked into action. Napoleon followed, small by posture, great by ambition. The French took over Europe (until of course they broke their teeth in Moscow due to adversary weather conditions, not to mention the hiccup of Waterloo). Anyway, ultimate defeat notwithstanding, the French felt great for a little while in history. Did they feel as good when they were reduced to some Vichy province of the Third Reich? Even though they managed to stay alive?

That takes me to another greater than life leader – Hitler. Again, he didn’t have the most fashionable haircut and his barber consistently failed to trip his nasal hair extensions, but hey! He pulled the Germans out of depression occasioned by low-self esteem caused by the post-WWI financial strains, and took them to new heights as a nation. They spread like a wildfire that the Californians could research and actually, for a change, learn something from. They grasped the entire Europe by the throat like a pitbull terrier and shook it so hard that all of our guts went flying all over the Atlantic and some bits were even found on North Pole. They stole, burned, murdered and raped, still maintaining their very high opinion of themselves as the Masters. We knew not to bite the Master’s hand, except for one Winston Churchill.

Again, another leader created another nation. Only a great nation could stand up to another great nation, only a great leader could stand up to another one. It is called “balance”. And so Winston said he couldn’t be arsed with Adolph’s short man’s complex – he was short himself and as it were, had enough on his plate (and in his glass). He told his nation that they could take it – and they did! He smoked cigars, was rude to ugly women and had nothing to lose. With a leader like that the English nation of easy going, no-imposition, too polite to cause a stir individuals turned into the gladiators of Europe.

Shall I even mention the nation of nations led by Stalin in the headlong crash of giants of WWII? I mean the man was prepared to deep freeze and starve most of his citizens if that meant giving the Germans a bit of a slap in Stalingrad. That’s what I call a leader – an unscrupulous, amoral, rabid wolf! Ave!

Today, I am worried. After a decade of toothless old mummies, the Russians had got themselves Putin and after the politically impotent but sexually active (though he denied it) Clinton, the Americans got themselves Bush. One wears tight jeans and leather biker jackets, the other talks directly to God and can’t pronounce words consisting of more than two syllables. I can already imagine the two great nations rallying behind these two caesars! WOW! Run for cover, world!

And what do we have in the corner of the land of gladiators: one asthmatic Scot who looks like a fish pulled out of water two minutes before it is rolled in batter, and the other is a cycling, closet Yorkshire terrier owner. The future looks as bleak as did the future of the French monarchy a day or two before the Revolution. Say your prayers.

The other day I had a plumber.

He came! I couldn’t believe my eyes when he did actually turn up on my doorstep, dead on time!

My taps were leaky (they degrade with age and frequent use, I’m afraid). He brought his own. He always comes, he said, well equipped… with a complete set of personal tools, including spanking new spares, and he lubricates them regularly with best quality fluids, then polishes them by rubbing up and down until the job at hand is done.

But of course, he prefers when it is done with a customer who comes too… with taps of their own. It’s a better fit that way as the customer knows best the size and shape of their plumbing holes; especially the ladies.

Anyway, the preliminaries over, he told me to get in the bathtub (it is less mess that way, especially if there is a danger of a major outpour, he informed me), and to hold his taps in a tight grip while he screwed from the bottom.

He was screwing astoundingly hard (his tools are stiff, pure titanium - fit for the purpose!). His taps, as he was screwing, were turning in my hands. I am not used to working with my hands so there were a few slippery moments but then I got a better grip at the base when the inlet meets the hole. We worked in perfect harmony from then on: he at the bottom, I on top (of my bathtub, that is). I got dizzy from all that screwing and grasping.

Finally, he said there was no point holding off and we should see how it went, if there was no blockages in my tubes. So he turned his taps on and WHOOSH! the fluid gushed into my… bathtub. Good pressure, he said, I’ surprised myself, and I had to agree.

When he rested, I made a cup of coffee. He wanted it with froth on top. I whipped up nice foam from fresh cream. It was enough for both of us. He had his with lots of sugar, I had mine strong.

Then he was gone. I must say I was gaping ruefully as his square shoulders and tight buttocks disappeared through my neighbour’s front door. Shame he was only a plumber, I have a faulty electric socket. Never mind… I might add he had a lovely smile too.

Upon reading Matt’s Rant. I decided to post this highly informative piece of personal information that will most likely lose me a few blog friends, and by no means will it generate any new ones.

Though I think Matt is one hell of a utopian idealist, I agree with him (to the extent of course that it suits me).

But I have a confession to make – I am all for the European Union. At this point I may have already lost a couple of friends. Alas I can’t lie. My mother told me it was a sin. My father told me it was against the law.

Those who are still here, listen good (please). My roots are in the two presently most disliked in the UK– bar the French – European nations. They are both the two most potently nationalistic, fanatical, chauvinistic, anti-Semitic, argumentative and unforgiving collections of common DNA that has ever walked this beautiful planet of ours. Just to give you an example – if asked about the causes of concentration camps they’d tell you in one united voice that it was the Jews who brought them about. The camps wouldn’t have happened, you see, if the Jews had never left Israel. This is the kind of perspective that they share even though they hate each other like cats and dogs (though in comparison the cats-dogs feud fades into innocuous sandpit game).

Unfortunately for you over half of British indigenous population also shares their DNA and the other half is currently at their mercy for proper functioning of their loos and kitchen sinks. Enough said. I may have now lost the rest of my blog friends.

If by some inexplicable tenacity of character you’re still here, let me tell you this: I passionately dislike both nationalistic gangs (and thus I am a self-hating globetrotter with no place I will ever call home though I have always respected laws and traditions of all colonies I lived in and I always tend to come back to this God-forsaken continent anyway – it’s in my DNA, you see).

Back to the point, I think nationalism is a myth that no longer has any justification in science as there are no longer any ethnically clean nationals anywhere in Europe on the scale that there are in the Amazon Jungle. Here in Europe, we all are a bundle of teeth-baring mongrels on a mission to mass self-destruction. That is why I believe in European Union (so that Europe can be saved).

European Union reflects the true state of the population of Europe – the fact that due to 2000 years of mutual invasions and conquest we are all intermingled and genetically contaminated with each other’s DNA. There are no longer any pure Germans, Poles, Prussians, Dutch, French or English in this continent – there are only Europeans.

Where I beg to differ with Matt and other dreamers is that there is a common cultural foundation to being European and the problem with external immigration lies in the possibility of that cultural foundation being rejected. To that the Europeans are likely to object violently, and this is where therefore we have to be extremely careful. External immigration is good as long as it involves cultural assimilation. And this is where I probably lose the rest of my friends.

Bribery: this post is to be followed by something really, really saucy. I swear!

Awaken from my holidaying slumber by a distant murmur of canons, remotely operated missiles, nuclear submarines, tanks rolling over rubble and a few trifle screams of horror, I thought it would be good to get my head around the latest development in the long line of the very fashionable Middle East “oil-for-the people” military conflicts. As I was recovering from my utter shock of discovering that the US of A were not involved other than by proxy (the erstwhile fatherland of one Joseph Stalin, currently USA’s puppet fondly called Georgia), the conflict was over.

Now that’s what I call one hell of der Blitzkrieg, Damen und Herren! Fast, brief and to the point! Heil Putin! Ja, ja, wunderbar!

My apologies for sliding into German, but I tend to do that each time there is a war to be salivated over. It’s just that German is most suited for the topic. Just as French would the most appropriate medium of communication when one talks love (and I guess that is precisely why my French is limited to two expressions “faux pa” and “no, merci”, thank you very much). Similarly, I would most certainly pray in Polish if I was hellbent on getting God to do me a few favours – there is nothing better than Polish when it comes to unconditional religious reverence (read: bigotry). And then I will speak English when I can’t be bothered or I don’t want to be a bother – which is most of the time.

Anyway, back to der Krieg (whoops, Deutsch again, even though my forebears ceased expressing themselves in it in 1945 to escape immediate repatriation to a land which they had left a good couple of hundred years earlier), the Germans could learn something from the Russians in the department of blitzy warfare. Protecting the long suffering Russian minority in Ossetia is an old German trick, but the refusal to sign ceasefire because you don’t fancy the other country’s president is something else (although I do agree that he has disconcertingly shifty eyes). To be honest I wouldn’t like him either if I knew he was no more than a symbiotic pimple on American arse. But such is the nature of war: no one is good, no one right and no one’s going to win.

Naturally, the Russians and the Yanks are inadvertently pulling the strings and I do wish now that the Cuban Crisis had ended differently and those two serial warmongers obliterated each other then and there. We wouldn’t be having these unsavoury holiday interruptions we have now, would we?

Over and out
ABE

PS: My sincerest apologies for brining up (almost literary) war news. I realise it isn't pleasant, and most disturbing, but here it is whether we like it or not. I could try talking about the Olympics but the Olympic medals are rather scarcer than Iron Crosses especially when you aren't Chinese or at least American.
Thank you for reading and NOT being rude to me. Incidentally, I greatly value people reading and applauding me loudly. What I will not stand for is people who come here to make me sad and miserable. To all those -this time I will tear out your liver, grill it with burning cigarettes and eat it with ketchup! Verstehst du!?