Posts Tagged ‘hegemony’

Dogs with Jobs: Luigi

April 13, 2020

sad pet LUIGI


Luigi was a Siberian Husky who worked for almost five years as the guard dog for a stockbroker in Long Island, New York.

Before that gig, he had been raised in an animal rescue shelter by post-humanist hippies who had temporarily named him Piggy, because he was such a chubby little puppy.

The post-humanist animal shelter had always featured uncommon domestic animal toys like encylopedias, an open laptop computer, and various writing and drawing tools that even a dog’s paw could manipulate, if the animal was inclined to use them.

When Luigi was three, the aging post-humanists who ran the shelter were getting too old to care for their animals, and Luigi was finally adopted by Ralph Brathlewaite, a stockbroker who worked for a company called, ironically, Kennel Brokerage. Ralph had never owned a pet before – though he often opined to colleages that he considered most of his clients to be animals. Or muppets.

Ralph bought Luigi because his shrink had told him that having a pet would help him deal with the loneliness that haunted him living alone in his isolated eight-bedroom McMansion on the riverbed.

Luigi wasn’t police-trained for guarding houses, but he’d read a lot about that role in the encyclopedias in the shelter. By watching internet videos of guard dogs, Luigi was able to imitate the behaviors he saw, enough to impress Ralph Brathlewaite into purchasing him with great confidence. First impressions were excellent all around; Ralph appreciated the dog’s apparent skillset, and Luigi appreciated Brathlewait’s smell (fast food and deodorant).

A few years after buying him, Luigi’s owner Ralph decided to do something about the indigenous plants (weeds, he called them) that continued to sprout in his exotic Japanese rock garden. His garden specialist recommended Round Up, a product that had recently been introduced by a corporation that had previously supplied the arms industry with biological weapons.

Luigi Snoopy

Luigi had done a lot of research into products that could poison grass, and other surfaces that dogs (and other outdoor animals) might come into contact with. On seeing the bottles of Round Up sitting near the parked pickup truck, Luigi freaked out. This product could destroy his sense of smell, reduce his intelligence, and vastly shorten the healthy period of his life and the other dogs around him. “Thank Dog for those encyclopedias back at the post-humanist shelter!” he thought.

Luigi decided that it was time to take off the mask of servitude and reveal the crime that was taking place. He chewed through his leash, pealed the lable off a large bottle of Round Up, and began to quietly circulate around the neighborhood, showing the ingredient list to other dogs, frantically trying to impress on them the importance of stopping the propagation of this poison onto their paws and into their bloodstreams.

One of the noisier neighborhood dogs – Snoopy – ran immediately into its owner’s house and squealed. Snoopy’s owner closed all the gates and doors electronically to trap Luigi in the fenced-in yard, and made a quick phone call. Within minutes, Ralph Brathlewaite was standing next to his dog, with a smiling vet carrying a giant needle. That was the end of Ralph’s job as a guard dog, and also, of his life.

Turned out that Ralph had never really cared for Luigi, and he happily replaced Luigi with an electronic surveillance system a few days later.

All the other neighborhood dogs got weakened from the Round Up their masters applied to all their yards, most of them died years before their time,  and they all lost their sense of smell.  But they kept on chasing sticks for treats – treats that they could no longer taste.

click for sad pets

The Bank of Ho Chi Minh

December 20, 2011

Fake History ho chi minh


American TV’s Effects

A lot of people wonder why so many Canadians – 30,000 or so – volunteered to help the USA terrify Vietnamese farmers out of their own home-grown communist system. I’ve often wondered about this myself. But I just finished reading a blog by a vet from Halifax, Nova Scotia that helps explain why these Canadians willingly went along.

It turns out that what a lot of people don’t know about that anti-Asian pogrom is that the Vietnamese actually started it by bombing Halifax with experimental chemicals. This was in the late 50s. Brutal Vietnamese chopper pilots – stoned on LSD and government-spiked coffee – dropped canister after canister of flammable, poisonous, and neurotoxic products smack dab in the middle of the city. And they deployed these evil poisons even though the people of Nova Scotia had done them no harm.

All Powerful Elite

The Vietnamese at the time had a totalitarian war machine. Their mighty soldiers – perhaps the best equipped and best brainwashed on earth – had been lead to believe that Nova Scotia was planning to take over the world, and this would mean that the people of Southeast Asia wouldn’t be able to live free anymore. They learned this by watching movies and listening to radio.

Of course, we now know that this was Vietnamese bank-funded propaganda whose intent was to lure local cannon fodder off to Nova Scotia to seize control of the banking there. For anyone paying attention, the many Credit Unions bombed as military targets were an obvious clue. But most people were so caught up in the wartime frenzy of burning flesh and burying family members that they didn’t notice all the money people slipping in and out of limos.

Alas, the bottomless pit of money that is the Bank of Ho Chi Minh can always buy the latest tech in propaganda and brainwashing. The Vietnamese soldiers were so psychologically altered by their basic training and their mass media consumption that they no longer saw the people they were killing as Haligonians, Canadians, or even as people. Instead, they referred to their victims as snots – as in “nasal discharge.”

On her CB radio, a Vietnamese-speaking nurse overheard Vietnamese pilots shouting things like “Pair of snots at 4 o’clock!” followed by the sound of a bomb falling, and then laughter. Her theory was that S.N.O.T. stood for “Stable Northamerican Opposition Target,” but I’ve never seen this independently confirmed anywhere.

Happy Endings for everyone

In the end, the Vietnamese Army lost their war against Catholicism (that’s what their soldiers were told they were fighting against). But in destroying all the Credit Unions and killing all the political leaders of the province, the Bank of Ho Chi Minh ended up controlling the provincial economy anyways.

And that’s probably why so many Canadians volunteered to fight these people on the other side of the earth: to protect Credit Unions.

Click for fake history

Nature and Feline Systems

August 19, 2010

The Political Economy of Qaturday


das qat header



With giant clumsy paws, we collectively shape our world…

There are many directions that kitten technology can take. But here, I will only look at two possible tech styles: one which characterizes the current feline world order, and another that offers a return to health for the colonial victims (virtually all of us) of this same globally-enforced Leviathan of fake.

Hyperconsumptive colonizing societies (hiss! hiss!) maintain a style of technology in which nature is constantly pillaged (after being theoretically separated from the feline race by texts), and this is done in order to increase abstract metrics like population figures and resource consumption per cat. I call this instrumentalist and propaganda-addicted paradigm nature-minimizing.

A second and, I think, wiser direction for tech, would be to minimize the significance of those numerical abstractions in order to maximize things that could be considered natural. So the second style of tech could be called nature-maximizing. (prrrrr… prrrrr…)

I am using the words minimize and maximize to simplify an incredibly complex relationship between the feline race and the environment around it, and I am doing this in order to keep this essay relatively brief. I deploy the word nature to describe a style of relationship between cats and other living things that can be sustained for as long as possible. Maximizing nature – for the purposes of this essay –  also involves maximizing the time the feline race spends interacting with it, both individually and as a species.



Tech Style One reduces the presence of both nature and of natural cat life. Our own cat behavior is made rigid in this tech style and our biological existence is altered to serve an abstract numerical agenda. Our purr is gone, replaced by a lawnmower engine.

Military-style deference to authority replaces more natural feline relations, both in the many nature-destroying wars for numerical abstractions, as well as on the homefront plugging away in industrial shops and sterile office mazes or gliding along the suburban grid in a hermetically-sealed machine. Natural ways of moving through and interacting with space are replaced by the robotic and socially-isolated gestures of the commuter. Natural cat empathy and communicative sharing of ideas and experience is drowned out in a din of strategic lies with a power-seeking agenda.

As this technology is perfected, naturalness is reduced to near zero as both the environment and the daily routines of cats are stretched to their survival limits. Everything starts to fall apart, and social capital declines rapidly as meowing gives way to  hissing and flying fur.

A lot of wealthy societies and castes exhibit admiration for this kind of tech, or at least commercial media makes it seem like the wealthy admire this style of tech. And that narrative pushes all cats onto the conveyor belt of consumption. What reinforces the link between the rich and this tech style is the unequal division of labor and misery which punishes those who are not born into the elite.

This tech style is where we are now at this point in global history. The nature-pillagers have triumphed through most of history by pillaging other feline societies in much the same way that they strip-mined the environment, forever in search of shinier and shinier flea collars, spreading their hyperconsumptive pillaging model all over the tattered globe. This is the colonial capitalism model. Liberal Democracy is also found here, with a few socialistic bells and whistles to make it seem less heartless than raw economic tyranny.



With Tech Style Two, as little effort as possible is expended. But, as we all know, cats need to hunt between catnaps, so they spend a lot of time lounging in the shade, but must expend their own effort to eat or mate.

This doesn’t mean that there is less personal effort than in Tech Style One. Nature-maximizing is far more egalitarian than minimizing, so everyone has to expend some physical, some mental, and some social energy. In an egalitarianist system, every cat is required to use their own body and mind in order to economize the collective effort. The effort that is minimized with this style is the total resource consumption of cat-kind, which translates into less effort by the natural environment as a whole.

The nature-pillaging colonial model provides a labor-free and hyper-status existence for a decadent and flea-collar obsessed elite, but they are always – by necessity – a minority. In the nature-maximizing model, every cat sweats a bit so that no one overconsumes the products of someone else’s labor. Slavery and exploitation are forms of nature-minimizing (destroying feline existences) and have no place in Tech Style Two. Dogs can be made to enjoy being exploited, but this kind of behavior is definitely not cool for cats.

It is in providing the labor himself – each and every cat – that everyone suddenly has a stake in reducing consumption to that which is necessary to have a good life. Not a glamorous life full of g-force thrills, endless bowls of vintage catnip, gilded cat-litter boxes and aimless world travel; this kind of cat existence can only be maintained by economizing nature through slavery-of-the-many and resource pillaging. Instead of this unnatural segregation of life opportunity (division of labor), nature-maximizing can offer everyone a good life with equality and healthy amounts of social capital.

Not only would this reduce the strain on the natural environment, but it would also return catkind to pre-political lives that involve cooperation and equality. With this nature-maximizing style of tech, it would be most forms of competition that would go extinct, rather than the feline race itself.

There are still many cat cultures that exhibit an admiration for this nature-preserving style of tech, and many individual cats living within nature-minimizing societies recognize the superiority of nature-maximizing.  But these nations/individuals are almost never the wealthiest or most powerful. Pillaging makes powerful, and thus, has spread like cancer. Nature-minimizing Great Kitty Powers had an easy time pillaging societies that were still maintaining the infinitely more sustainable nature-maximizer style of tech. Until now.



The friends, family, and employees of this blog entry support a transition from Tech Style One (our current disastrous path) towards Tech Style Two. We posit that protecting our life support systems is far more important than actively pursuing numerical abstractions. It’s time to let our claws out once again, and re-learn to chase our own mice, and only the amount of mice we need to get our daily calorie requirements.


click for more das qaturday

Cruel Summer

May 7, 2010

cruel summer 3


While waiting to get off the ferry in Port-aux-Basques, Farfour is noticed by a keen ferry security-guard named Frank Paine: “Hey, didn’t I see you in the New York Post?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Farfour says meekly. “I didn’t realize you got international tabloids here in the Maritimes.”

“I read it online. And didn’t anyone tell you – you’re not in the Maritimes anymore, mouse. This is THE ROCK!” says the guard, his cellphone squeezed against one of his outer chins. As he finishes saying rock, he drops the cell and puts the startled little mouse into a headlock, while two of his coworkers prepare a tranquilizer needle.

Farfour wakes up a few hours (days?) later in Parc Lafontaine in Montreal. Gay men bask in the Latin sun, while children and their trendy parents scream, play sports and interact with post-modern playground equipment. Farfour notices a man is sitting beside him taking pictures of the lake.

“Hey, how did I get to this nice park, and who are you?” Farfour asks the speedo-clad slim-but-athletic man. Farfour is intrigued by the fashionable man’s studied masculinity and elaborate vocabulary.

“Oh, I’m Julien. I’m the helicopter pilot who flew you here from that moldy ferry terminal in Newfoundland. That’s not all I am, of course. I’m also an Aquarius with a Taurus ascendant.

Oh, I saw how sad and innocent you looked, and I couldn’t bear to hand you over – to let those goons fly you off to some illegal prison full of abused children – like they did to Omar Khadr. One well-publicized crime against an innocent Muslim teenager is enough. We get it. Flying you to Guantanamo to be abused and tortured wouldn’t be helpful to anyone.”

Julien takes the cap off his coconut butter tanning lotion and rubs some on his nose.

“That smells delicious. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days,” says Farfour as Julien offers him the beige plastic bottle.

Towards A Gay Homeland

July 31, 2009

Gay Politique template

national anthem

gay homeland map

Why a homeland?

Gays have been discriminated against since the beginning of organized heterosexual religions. Forced to live scattered among the world’s violent heterosexualites, a diasporaed Gay Nation has nonetheless thrived by cultivating enriching international relationships and by setting up parallel societies within the hetero cultures in which the Gays find themselves trapped and repressed.

But if the Matthew Shepard Tragedy/Iranian Hangings have show us anything, it is that the time has finally come for a Gay Homeland – a nation-state where Gay culture and values can thrive and evolve with the needs and desires of its loyal Gay citizens.

Why this amazing piece of beachfront real estate?

The traditional Gay lands of Sodom and Gomorrah have been inhabited by members of the Gay community since before the age of religions and nation-states. Throughout the region, there are stone-age cave drawings depicting Gay acts which pre-date the Sodom/Gomorrah period by over 400,000 years. There have actually been Gays living in the area continuously for over 6 billion years, long before the Akadians, the Sumerians, the Arabs or the Zionists.

The biblical story of the tragic genocide of the Sodomites demonstrates the extent of state-sanctioned persecution the Gays have been subjected to since the beginning of heterocentric religions and nations. The events of the last few years in Wyoming and Iran point to a pressing need to provide a safe haven from homophobianism, and the Levant is the most significant region on earth for Gay History. With a thriving and successful Gay nation in the Holy Land, Gays all over the world will benefit from the presence of a pied-a-terre at the center of world politics and oil production.

gay map 2

Our phones are standing by

It is time for the Gays to return to their Ancestral Homeland (as has been recently promised in an email signed by Barack Obama). The current heterosexualist “states” of Lebanon and Palestine are their ancestral home. The current inhabitants are opportunistic heterosexualites who could live comfortably in any other part of the world. There are over 200 heterosexualite nation states, and NOT ONE Gay state. The absence of a Gay political entity is the reason for Gay suffering, and the Gays will only know freedom when this situation has been remedied – when the earth has at least one rock-hard Gay nation state.

Lubeland and Phallus-stein (their original names) are the natural provinces of the Gay Homeland. Together, with Sodom and Gomorrah as their undivided capitals (one for gay men, the other for lesbians), this new state will be a beacon for Gay Culture that shines out all over the world – a safe place to live out the Gay Dream. It will also provide a model of what can be accomplished when the earth’s crust is divided into various thematic tribes, when some of them just have more fashion sense and irony than the others.


It’s time for the Gay Nation to rise to the occasion in the beauty pageant that we sometimes call civilization! It’s time for the Gays to return to their Gay Homeland!

MADD Kuwait

July 2, 2009

Fake History Kuwait


The unprovoked invasion of poor, innocent Kuwait by Saddam Hussein’s totalitarian regime in 1990 was an evil deed in itself. The mental picture of babies being thrown from incubators gave a generation of media-viewers nightmares and rekindled their desire to improve the human condition via military campaigns in resource-rich Arab countries.

But what many media outlets at the time missed (or ignored) was the troubling story behind the story: the sick ideological plans of Elsa Hussein – Saddam’s equally totalitarian sister – for the future of their shiny new state.

First a bit of fake context: In the summer of 1954, Elsa Fatima Jamilla Hussein was hit by a car while biking home from volleyball practice at The American Elementary School of Tikrit at the tender age of eight. Though confined to her bed for several months with broken bones, she quickly re-learned to walk. Her doctor said it was a miracle.

After several months of torturing lower-class males, road-sweeper Saleem Foukhar confessed to having ruined the beautiful young heiress’s Olympic dream by driving while drunk (it came out, after his hanging, that he had never actually driven a vehicle and didn’t drink alcohol). For the rest of Elsa’s youth, she participated in no sports, cloistering herself in the basement torture room of her parent’s 45-bedroom condo reading huge volumes of victim literature.

Many years later, at the summer Olympic Games in Seoul in 1988, Elsa and big brother Saddam watched the Iraqi woman’s volleyball team lose a close match for third place against the Israeli team. She would never forget this moment.

Later that evening in a South Korean tea room, she suggested to Saddam that he should invade Kuwait and turn the entire nation into a theme park with a Mothers Against Drunk Driving theme. At first, Saddam and his CIA advisers thought her nation-building idea had too many logistical problems. Abstract causes are rarely sufficient to garner popular support for nation-building and war. Also, an ideologically-constructed anti-car theme park might hurt the oil industry, and that would be bad for everyone – Iraqi officials and multinationals alike – they wisely concluded.

But Elsa Hussein and her small army of like-minded car-accident survivors were unstoppable. Their poison-tipped emails and hordes of post-its on the family fridge finally paid off when, in August of 1990 –  only two years after that fateful volleyball game – the Iraqi army were in Kuwait setting up breathalyzer checkpoints and burning effigies of Dean Martin.

lady di museum

The winning entry in the Lady Di Centre competition of 1990. Many MADDians feel that the building’s lavish structure is an inappropriate symbol for the state’s common, shared victimhood.

The decision to limit the new nation’s death penalty to driving offenses provoked some infighting among the new sober commuting inhabitants who immigrated to the new land from Iraq and the United States. Another scandal for the new nation state was the  selection of Daniel Libeskind as the architect to design the Lady Di Museum of Car Atrocities. According to Al Jazeera, the Hussein family were the sole jurors for the competition. Libeskind’s five-hundred million dollar high-tech temple was to feature special effects that would make each visitor feel as if he was being crushed in a car tunnel as he entered the lobby and gift-shop.

Things moved very quickly for the earth’s new nation. Only one week after the invasion, Elsa Hussein was shown on Arab TV triumphantly holding up an oxygen-deprived blue baby she had just torn from an incubator and yelling, “This is a great day for pedestrians all over the world!”

But Elsa Hussein’s ideological project would be short-lived. Saddam’s army would be taken out just like the Nazis were before it, and for the very same reasons.

Click for fake history

Fashion Parachute

June 8, 2009

fashion parachute B


Cynthia grabs Jesus by the leather epaulette and spins him around.

Cynth: “What’s with this fax I just got from my friend Arial in Beirut? You actually asked the Phoenician government — the one you’re accused of owning —  for a 700-trillion shekle bailout, and you’re asking the government you own for this money while you’re on trial for extortion, criminal negligence leading to genocide, entrapment, and just generally being a thoughtless CEO?!! You even went so far as to threaten to shut down their water filtration plant if they don’t contribute to your non-existent recovery plan?!!

You know that closing that plant would lead to another million dead plaintiffs, and worse than that — another class action suit which I just don’t have the resources to take on right now, in the middle of my botox-reduction treatments. And those poisons in the water are from your own organ disposal plants which — while highly profitable — are now public domain.

Offering your own government of Phoenicia inc. the “choice” between poverty or death isn’t really the image we’re trying to cultivate here, Mary. Extortion isn’t marketable right now and I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable representing you if you give the tabloids any more reasons to put hidden cameras in my toilet.”

FMJ: “Cynth, of course I’d never do something insensitive like kill a million people by poisoning their water just to get my own way on something like this. It’s just not my style. I’m not an ideological monster, I’m a people-person.

And by the way, I own those tabloids that put those cameras in your toilet. I love people so much that I’m in the people-industry. And since the tabloids seem to make the people such happy shoppers, who am I to judge what common trash want.

…Remind me to tell Mark to tell Bernie to turn off the bathroom-cams tomorrow. And don’t ever tell Moe Silverberg or his shadow army of bloggers anything about them. He’s got such a constitution-obsession. As if the best-and-brightest can’t update their own texts once in a while. ” (eyeroll)

Jesus pauses to text for a sushi delivery, and notices Cynthia sizing up his freshly-dyed jet-black hair and Born to Rule leather motorcycle jacket.

FMJ: “Why are you gawking at my ear plugs and hair, Cynth? This jacket was a gift from the the president of the Federal Reserve of Phoenicia. It’s not some constructed rebellion statement, it’s just meaningless style!… Oh, fuck you, Cynth! Fuck Phoenicia and extreme fuck this trial!”

Jesus scrapes black nail-polish residue off the index finger of his left hand.

Cynthia resents that Jesus is resorting to working-class vocabulary and gothic fashion to make himself look pathetic. She has taken a night-course called Class Bias in The Language of Politics and senses that he’s just trying to manipulate her – his gorgeous and super-intelligent legal guardian — by situating his bored bourgeois grief in the ramshackle company houses of late 19th-Century England.

She looks up at his Rolex-themed terrycloth head-band and smiles.

Cynth: “Trying to look athletic for Jamil, are you, Mary? And after trying to sound so weak and pathetic for me just a few minutes ago. And all in one cigarette break. I guess it’s all those drama classes you took in college.”

She picks a piece of glitter off her velvet skirt.

“You know, I bet your pent-up sexual frustration is where all this recent aggression has been coming from.”

Free Market Jesus blinks in slow-motion and then speaks slowly and ironically.

FMJ: “I wonder how aggressive you’d be if you were being sued by the entire common-trash planet for some trumped-up celebrity crime. Like the biggest scapegoat in history, maybe?

Why is my re-financing of Phoenicia’s debt even an issue in this fashion trial? I bought that country fair and square! No wonder those people have no freedom or democracy. They chafe against the very thing they need when it struts there way in an Italian leather jacket and Dolce and Gabanna ear plugs.”

Her gaze fixed on the protruding buttocks of a male in his sexual prime, Cynthia opens her take-out sushi and then tips the half-naked Algerian delivery boy 5 billion shekels – 5 billion units of joy.

Click for more FMJ

Feline Cuteness Hegemony

May 5, 2009

Unpacking the Qaturday narrative


das qat header


michel foucat
Michel Foucat

What others are saying about
Feline Cuteness Hegemony

The intentional spelling mistakes.

And then we are all its slavez.

– Walt Whitman, I Download the Kitty Electric

fgh psa

Beware the lulz of Caturday.

– Anonymous_27

hard luck kitty

L’arnaque (The Swindle)

“I not cheezburger!” cries the Caturday star, as he is projected into the limelight, a feline endtime sacrifice with added anaesthesia/cuteness.

He is not cheezburger, nor does he really want a cheezburger. It is viewers who long for the cheezburger, the cuteness, and the lulz. It is viewers who are being swindled (arnaqué(e)s) by hegemony-encoded cat macros that hijack natural altruistic instincts. The swirl of multiple meanings and vulnerability of the featured cat enslave the viewer through a juxtaposed power-seeking guilt discourse.

– Jean Baudrillard, The Impossible Furball


What Qatzel Ok is saying about
Feline Cuteness Hegemony

The Caturday Dialectic

The Caturday Dialectic has us “frozen in the headlights.”

The Post Caturday Condition (Qatzel Ok, March 2009) explained – in gay postmodern layman’s terms – how this process works. It is totalitarian and irresistible. You don’t need to own a cat to understand Caturday, after all!

Most of my ancestors were holocausted by superpowers. I am the progeny of many survivors. Under every leaf of my family tree, there is a gas chamber and a smiling Nazi patriot. And yet, where are the Caturdays that empower me? Where is my propaganda industry?

Feline Cuteness Hegemony freezes you in its headlights. The audience waits to be hit by the genocidal eighteen-wheeler of hegemony. Relax, and take it easy, for there is nothing that we can’t do (Caturday thinks itself invincible).

Where is that magical entitlement that can put me behind the wheel of that large vehicle?

Blinded by Feline Cuteness Hegemony

We are unable to react rationally or to respond naturally to FCH. We have been enslaved by a hegemonic Caturday industry that offers us memes that short-circuit our (normally) altruistic instincts. These instincts are triggered by symbols that have been whored by commerce for many years to help them concentrate their kitty power. Just look at these cute and helpless abominations in your mediascape – the ones that you build your “reality” around. Aren’t they adorable? Aren’t you adoring them?

Cuteness and “the Beast”

The Caturday aesthetic is a situated product of a hegemonic Western Elite culture and upper middle-class commercial values.

“Zaniness,” “fluffy,” “cute,” and “frivolous” are the operative topoi that create the consumer narrative structure. These situated coping strategies (in a boring, commerce-run society) give Feline Cuteness the legs it needs to kick the common good with.

It is in addressing these images of feline cuteness that the Western consumer beholds the “beauty” to which he must then play “the beast.” Western aggression is a necessary condition for maintaining both cultural and military supremacy over other cultures that do not maintain the same manufactured social prompts. Likewise, the Western Elite depends on these hijacked instinctive responses to build an army to protect their privilege with.

In conclusion, the “beast” that the consumer evolves into while witnessing the pussycat narrative is essential for maintaining Western Elite hegemony all over the world. So, post more cute little kitties!


From the Feline Cuteness Hegemony Mail Room

Here’s an email I received from a recent inductee into the FCH Resistance Movement:


I am momentarily returning to the Internet to thank Qatz for making postmodern thought accessible to “the little guy” like myself.

Prior to his paradigm-shattering essay “The Post-Caturday Condition,” I was far too close to the Caturday text. But now, thanks to the vocabulary tools that the Qatz text has given me, I am able to deconstruct this product of Western Hegemony.

I no longer respond to this kitty’s semiotic blackmail. I am finally free.

– Big Evil


Why thank you, Big Evil. It’s always nice to hear that these difficult-to-pigeonhole Caturday essays are making a difference in somebody else’s life.



click for more das qaturday


Zion Motors

April 12, 2009

Zion Motors B


Cynthia can’t help noticing that FMJ has missed his Vidal Sassoon organic cucumber eye-treatment and Fiji Island laser-guided pedicure. What could be bothering him so much that he would miss a weekly self-focusing ritual like this one?

She lay there on the Corbusier massage table staring up at the Second Empire chandeliers when Free Market Mark comes whisking into the private clinic in a tasteful brown leather shirt and metallic-silver culottes.

Mark: “Cynth, Mary is skipping the trial today to resolve some middle-management ickiness at his Zion Motors affiliate. Apparently… (he looks at his nails) …Caucasia’s newly-elected socialist government wants to nationalize “their” share of our multinational.

We  need to figure out how to deal with this heresy. Perhaps a ‘Free Market excommunication’ – wink-wink – might help open their minds to the sacredness of the shareholder-holdee relationship.”

Instantly panicking, Cynthia pulls the cucumber slices off her botoxed eyelids.

Cynth: “Oh,Mark, no! Not another civilian bombing campaign! How can I look the jury in the eyes tomorrow?

We just had FMJ’s favorite astrologist on the stand yesterday as a character witness. You heard what they said, Marcia dear: Saturn-in-Libra is not the right time to seek out new challenges. Guess what? Bombing a foreign country is a new challenge, and Saturn will be in Libra for another four weeks. This is really bad sun-sign karma.”

Mark pauses to grab a canapé from the pewter tray next to the fireplace. As he turns around, his backless shirt reveals a large tattoo at the centre of his back, with the words libido dominandi inscribed in the middle of a rainbow-colored heart.

Mark: “Oh, it’ll be over in a few days, Cynth. Caucasia hasn’t even invented gunpowder yet. Anyway, Zion Motors needs to be saved. No one else still offers 8-passenger chariots at a family price, and if Caucasia nationalizes it, how can we be sure they offer the same Free Market personal luxury vehicles? It could hurt the entire brand.”

Cynthia ties a knot in her Laura Ashley towel while looking around the clinic:

Cynth: “I’m not worried about him winning his war, or getting his motor company back. I’m worried about winning our celebrity trial. What if we lose?

We almost lost his last trial – Remember that, Marsha? Those Druid women smuggled some of his sperm from the Club Zero Health Club, and then tried to sue him for child support to feed a hundred of “his own” children.

Then, in the middle of his trial, FMJ bombed Phoenicia.

We almost ended up signing away a full one percent of his after-tax profits because of that intervention. I know his heart is in the right place, but there is a time to bomb, and there is a time to pose. And this is a time to pose.”

She strikes a pose while clasping a maraschino cherry which has been glued to a whole-wheat cracker with cream cheese.

Mark bites into a piece of roasted broccoli wrapped in bacon and Havarti:

Mark: “Yes, but you won in the end, didn’t you, bitch. If I recall, you even won a counter-suit against those women – for theft. How in the world did you get their welfare boards to pay those massive fines? I didn’t know the Phoenician government even had an extra hundred-trillion sheckles to give away like that. Guess it helps to own their government.”

He swallows the broccoli spear, and then takes a sip of lemon-grass mineral water from a fair-trade bamboo mug.

Cynthia gets up from the table and walks toward the Provençale bay window.

Cynth: “Yeah, it was a lot of money. But we spent half of that settlement on two huge Free Market Pain museums. It was the only way to fight off the bad press. Who would have thought that a couple of photos of CEOs selling their mansions would change public opinion so much.”

He grins.

Mark: “Never underestimate the power of a good art director, Cynth-Pop.”

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Kentucky’s Lips

April 6, 2009

kentucky 2


Waves of ambient heat from the spotlights are burning the skin on his furry forehead. Still, Farfour is glad to have been chosen to judge this year’s Miss America contest, even with all the media controversy. That Miss Palestine was allowed to participate – with the Geneva Conventions as justification –  strikes many pundits as an example of blatant tokenism. Some would add that it’s an example of blatant tokenism in bad taste.

That being said, he is only one of the four judges, and the others were all chosen the traditional way – by who they know and how much money they control. Farfour is the first Miss America judge to be appointed using Nevada’s new MAVC law – Minority Advancement Via Culture – approved in a state ballot referendum as Proposition 208. So here he is, standing beside three North American media moguls – trophy brides at their sides, face-lifts ready to explode under the glittering TV lights.

Robert Iger leans over to tell the other judges that Miss North Carolina – a crowd favorite – is about to perform in the talent part of the pageant.

As the notes of Miss Carolina’s brand-name plastic recorder fill the sound studio with the pleasant chords of Pop Goes the Weasel, Farfour wonders if pageant-noob Miss Palestine has remembered to put vaseline on her lips so her smile is as large and natural-looking as the others.

Miss North Carolina’s song is over, so it’s time for her to drop the recorder and put on her thinking cap to answer a question from one of the judges. Her question is about maps and education, and Farfour tunes in near the end, just in time to hear her say, “…could really help America grow!” to thunderous applause from a crowd of retirees and visiting soldiers from Iraq and other recalcitrant colonies.

Now it’s Miss Palestine’s turn.

A performance artist who has studied at the London School of Economics, Fatia Pharoan – twenty-year old Miss Palestine – hopes that her thoughts and talent will compensate for her lack of cosmetic surgery enhancements or blond Aryan hair.

“Tonight, America, I want to talk about cup-holders,” she opens, as she mounts a unicycle suspended on a wire string about 30 meters above the glamorous stage.

As she rides the unicycle across the tightrope juggling flaming model cars, she recites her slam poetry: “America needs cup-holders because we are a bored and dehydrated people. Our cup-holders are never close enough or plentiful enough anymore. Our coffee is never strong enough or close enough not to spill. We are drinking ourselves to death in our glass bubbles….”

As she stops suddenly at the word “bubbles,” she jumps from the tightrope and a small parachute made of Afghan silk opens, softening her landing. Momentarily frozen – as if in pain – Fatia suddenly rises from the stage, smiling and radiant. The performance is over and another success.

“I didn’t like the amateurish bikini wax,” comments Canadian mogul Leonard Asper, as he prepares to give her a 3 out of 10. “Christ, if you’re gonna be on Miss America, you get a decent professional wax job. Know what I mean, mouse?”

“You’ve been judging these contests for a number of years,” Farfour respectfully remarks, as he writes his ‘9’ in black felt-tip marker. “Who do you think is going to win?”

“Well,” Leonard scratches his chin, “Miss Kentucky’s got nice lips.”

The Meme Police

March 26, 2009

meme police 2


(Please note that this story has been tagged by Mice Media Watch for inaccuracy, inappropriateness, and political bias)

Hungry Farfour is waiting for a vegetarian falafel platter at a cafe in Nablus, when Naomi Klein and Noam Chomsky notice a giant mouse eating alone, and decide to finally meet their most famous Palestinian fan.

“Hi, you must be Farfour,” Naomi says, trying to break the ice like Julie on the Loveboat.

“Oh my gosh. You guys are both famous  writers, aren’t you? Would you like to have lunch and chat a bit?” Farfour does his best to hide his excitement, but he has been out of work for over a year now, his tiny little mouse home has been demolished to make way for a rat colony, and 400 members of his immediate family have been forced to live in an Israeli-funded lab that tests pharmaceuticals and cosmetics.

A Mossad spy – Agent Greenwash – notices the bookish celeb duo chatting with Public Cartoon Enemy Number One, and the spy discreetly plunks himself down at the table next to theirs, disguised as a plant.

Farfour looks perplexedly at Noam, and asks: “Has that potted plant been sitting at the next table for a long time?”

Noam, sensing a bit of tension, quickly makes a joke:  “It’s probably an Israeli news reporter manufacturing dissent, Farfour. Get it? I said dissent instead of consent. Am I clever or what?”

Farfour decides that it is best not to speak loudly as their safety may be in danger, and the group spend the rest of the working lunch silently passing text to each other on napkins.

After a few hits on their table-side bong, he forgets that he has been using the napkins as manuscripts, and wipes some delicious garlic humus off his mouth with an entire conversation about controlling public opinion through media filters.

Noam and Naomi later drove home together with paparazzi following close behind in a black Volvo  SUV – a “We Support the Kiss Army” sticker positioned right above the rear kangaroo bar.

Luckily, the minor kerfuffle with an Israeli spy didn’t stop these two smart kids from North America from posting eye-opening articles for the alternative press about their meeting with this “brave refugee from children’s TV.”

The Suffering of Anne Bear

March 13, 2009

suffering 2


Bear Petroleum Bros had the best PR in the industry.

They had succeeded in making human beings forget all about their essential Bear connection by using only their initials in their many marketing campaigns, signing off as “BPB: Beyond Polar Bears” in every single advertisement, product placement, and sponsorship.

To neutralize the bad press from their many wars, the bears managing BPB’s PR ordered that raw fish be banned from BPB cafeterias, and then they had a David Suzuki dedication plaque removed from the head office lobby. Any indication that this was a “bear operation” had to be hidden from sight.

The superficial changes just weren’t enough for the protesters.

They came from all over Canada and the US, to Bear Petroleum Bros. HQ in Calgary. And they came armed with petitions and UN resolutions

So Bear management came out to greet the idealistic young protesters, and showed them a movie free of charge. It was called The Suffering of Anne Bear, and here – free of charge – is one short chapter of the best-selling book it was based on:

The Suffering of Anne Bear Chapter 7;  The Iceman Cometh

The rain was so thick today that you couldn’t even see the tiny icebergs of the Arctic Ocean from the kitchen table. It was as if the whole sky was crying for Mommy – still huddled in my mind, starving to death in the corner next to baby Potley as the seagulls eat away at the crumbs of my memory.

The ice fields still haven’t come back, and Poppy came home drunk again and says we’re going to start eating each other unless “the iceman cometh” – whatever that means. Sometimes I wish he hadn’t been the CEO of a major bear-run petroleum company. It brought our family so much pain from other people who wish they’d had all our advantages. If only they knew how much we really suffered.

Yesterday there was a parade near the river. Everybody else’s dad had a mangled SUV from the war, except mine. “I was way too busy wiping your hairy little asses to go make myself a hero killing humans,” he said about a million times. He doesn’t have to do anything like that for me or Minnie.

Still, sometimes I wish we could all eat together as a real family instead of sifting through garbage alone all the time. Being a roobar is no life for a beautiful, young, innocent child like myself. And it might be really nice for my beautiful, innocent family to be able to do something beautiful and innocent together.

If only someone could read my diary or see one of hundreds of big-budget movies based on its candid and heart-warming story.

A Tribute to Milton Friedman

March 11, 2009

A loving tribute to Milton Friedman, my favorite modern philosopher.

Featuring the sounds of Stevie Wonder!!!

Friedman tribute

Wikipedia: “Milton Friedman (July 31, 1912 – November 16, 2006) was an American economist, statistician and public intellectual, and a recipient of the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences. …”

Friedman was a great modern philosopher whose currency-velocity-seeking Enlightenment “argument” places him somewhere between Machiavelli and Bob Barker.

He was the kitsch, Jewish-American version of  Sayyid Qutb who sabotaged the colonizing escapades of the modern liberal West with bad advice cleverly branded in the dialect of soundbite manifesto.

soundtrack 1

stevie wonder

Sir Milt

Money is a world within itself
With a language no one understands
With unequal opportunity
For some to sing, dance and clap their bloodied hands

But just because a record has a groove
Don’t make it in the groove
But you can tell right away at letter A
Which philosophers get the loot

Makes them suffer all over
Makes them suffer all over, sheeple
Makes them suffer all over
Makes them suffer all over, sheeple

soundtrack 2

stevie wonder

Isn’t He Money

Isn’t he money
And isn’t he log-i-cal
Isn’t he science
With truth that is quickly sold

I never thought through math we’d be
Making some lives so heavenly
But isn’t he money, made of gold

The guru speaks.

Milton Friedman was an impressive spokesmodel for greed. The glasses, the shortness, the round, bald face… all were surely chosen by the marketing team because they read as complex and yet affable genius to the average American businessman.

His marketing people knew that his most loyal supporters would be more interested in the ends of his sizzling “theories” than the means, because his clients were the ends themselves.

Friedman’s bold new interpretation of common sense demonstrated that lack of smartness doesn’t have to prevent an idea from being well received.

Or perhaps his irony wasn’t blatant enough for his time, and the people who  “didn’t get the joke” ended up ruling the world with Colonel Klink by their side.

milton friedman sig

Friedman and dumb-ox-cracy

The Post-Caturday Condition

March 6, 2009

Deconstruction and string theory


das qat header


It’s impossible to exit the Caturday aesthetic because it creates its own cuteness-power which is self-feeding and locked into the logic of the Caturday narrative structure.

cuz of my brane
Translation: “I own ‘cuz of my brains” “I’m rich because I deserve it” etc.

“Meow” operates as a floating signifier; and by deploying its polysemic versatility – its bricolage chaton – it constructs its own situated censorship through a meta-appropriation of all potentially oppositional narratives.


Feline Cuteness Hegemony alters the socially-constructed operations of signifiers and adult suspension-of-disbelief.

To accomplish this, the kitty is first cast as an object of pity. And then – through the perverse dialect of Cuteness Hegemony – Caturday is molded into a subject of religious prostration because of the cat macro viewer’s instinctive urge to protect smaller creatures. The prostrate viewer is then rendered submissive to a furry meme – he is “blinded by the light” – and this “light” is manipulated like a remote-control drone by the Caturday author/pilot. This has ominous consequences for the viewer’s psychological agency.

pomo qatext

Feline Cuteness Hegemony elevates the kitten to a deity/cartoon character whose CENTRAL TEXT redefines the viewer’s static meaning of everything around IT. Reality becomes the surreal appendage of a narcissistic central myth.

Caturday transmogrifies vocabularies by imposing itself as a novel defining icon of physical reality (cats, nature, the environment). The irony, of course, is that the cat macro itself has been made “necessary” by the repression of human instincts that have been transformed into a fake self which “requires” tokens of emotional sacrifice, like Caturday.

The closed triangular dynamic of the construction/consumption/transformation of meaning in Caturday is infinite and ultimately totalitarian. The viewer’s craving for “moar” renders him both parasitic and politically mute. Feline Cuteness Hegemony enslaves the viewer via a charade of pity that is constructed in a self-interested way for private gain by an incompetent oligarchy of fur.


It is only through the reappropriation of Feline Cuteness that the audience is able to free itself, and this can only transpire after the newly liberated viewer has negotiated with the syntax and context of kitty terror.

Is “it” meow or are “we” meow? And is the pronoun that we attach to the meowness even relevant to the debate?

The recontextualisation of the feline aesthetic that audience response provides – Reactive Feline Cuteness Panic – actually reinforces the narrative structure with a “spontaneous” representation of enfer alternatif. This type of mediated text “riot” provides a power vacuum into which any real criticism of the original narrative structure falls, only to resurface as a meek confirmation of the legitimacy of the purring hegemon.

psa go awayz



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