Posts Tagged ‘spin’

The Davids

October 10, 2012

Fake History David

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We all know what we’ve seen in the press about David and Goliath: innocent David poised with his flimsy slingshot ready to take down the seemingly invulnerable Goliath. But of course in reality, no man can accomplish this kind of feat alone. To draw accurate conclusions from this event, it’s important to look at what was happening behind the media smokescreen.

Months before that famous moment when David heroically took down a giant, the Daveed Gang began to work relentlessly on this project, and quickly scored a fund-raising coup, cutting a juicy deal with the Royal Bank of David. The financial elders at that institution agreed to cover all costs of Operation Goliath in exchange for some positive branding for their bank.

Flush with cash, the Daveed Gang then hired goons to hound Goliath’s family, kidnapping his daughters, killing family pets, and phoning them day and night to keep the Goliath family jittery and weak. Back then, there was no call-display for screening calls, so the harassment wore everyone down – especially kind-hearted family man Goliath himself.

The Gang then paid the David Times to run forged ‘reports’ about what an immoral misanthrope Goliath was, and many well-paid media personalities raised questions about his legitimacy as a human being. “Are giants worth anything in God’s eyes?” was the provocative theme of a one-hour talk show watched by millions. Goliath himself refused to appear on the show, but was visually shaken up by it a few weeks later when caught off guard by paparazzi. Likewise, weeks before the duel, David-media ran articles exaggerating the strength and aggressiveness of Goliath, never mentioning his Type A diabetes or the kidney he gave up to his sick aunt.

The general public was hoodwinked into thinking that it was the slingshot that brought him down. Physics and biology easily demonstrate that this is incorrect. Goliath was actually poisoned a few hours before the fight by a Daveed Gang operative. Tiny-but-well-connected David just provided a well-oiled protagonist to the narrative that the Royal Bank of David used to change public perception of their usurious operations.

Though poison and a tragic fall finally killed him, in actual fact Goliath had been brought down long before the fake fight with David. Meanwhile, the conclusion that many people have drawn from this event – that a single small person is capable of bringing down someone much larger – completely ignores the role of The Daveed Gang, organized crime, and the Royal Bank of David.

Click for fake history

The Qaturday Audience

November 8, 2011

Who is it, and what does it want?

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The Qaturday Audience needs distraction to mask the everyday moral repulsion that is a permanent feature of modern society with all its hateful technologies and social rules.

Qaturday provides an outlet – a third place – for the audience’s awkward sense of not living a dignified natural existence. It provides the robotic social-climber with an instant nature fix, without demanding that he alter his modern behavior in any way that might actually help other animals (and his own species) to survive with dignity. In this way, Qaturday is like binge eating to forget about a weight problem and cholesterol: it’s only therapeutic insofar as denial is.

The Qaturday audience is lonely and lost, and finds solace in the monotonous voice of mass media, in the zany meaninglessness of Qaturday images, and in the static helplessness and cuteness found in each pic. Helplessness is an accelerant for feline cuteness so elation comes quickly  in a rush of empowerment.

Helplessness is something humans like to project onto their domestic animals. They enslave their pets, thus rendering them helpless in order to get maximum cuteness and maximum thrills out of them. Pethood is about human thrill-seeking and not interspecies coexistence. Pet owners project their own helplessness onto their housepets by forcing these captured beasts to live vicariously for their masters’ pleasure.

Tragically, human societies are organized on the pet model as well. Pethood is the miserable state of most humans of all classes, and that’s why a little role-reversal at the end of the day feels soothing – harmless revenge on a creature that God probably intended for humans to torture anyways.

There’s never enough time for the complexities of philosophy or of thoughtful education among the Qaturday Audience. The  zero-attention-span of the 9-5 caffeinated workaday requires some kind of distraction from real life/non-fiction. So the time-starved cubicle-bot seeks out Qaturdays that provide cuteness, zaniness, and an adequate dose of irony to conceal the incompatibility of the juxtaposed images. And all of it instantly and with the illusion of thought behind it.

These cats don’t know what they’re saying to the Qaturday Audience. Much like their homo sapien audience, these cats have been programmed to have “opinions” that have nothing to do with the actual needs or instincts of the featured cat models. The Qaturday Audience recognizes itself here, but only on a sub-conscious level. On a conscious level, the Audience is completely unaware of anything except its fabricated “need” for entertainment and cuteness.

And it is in this artificially implanted “need” that Feline Cuteness Hegemony finds a willing host to set up a base from which to conquer your independent thought.

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The Qaturday Mail Bag:

Q: Isn’t caturday just pix of cats with funny words added by human beings?

A: This is like asking if Las Vegas is a city where you can play cards. Yes – but it’s much, much more.

Q: What if the words in the caturday aren’t even funny?

 A: There is an important paradigmatic difference between serious caturdays, and unfunny ones. The unfunny ones are often unserious as well.

Q: What is Qaturday?

A: Qaturday is the re-fusion of humanity and its animal nature. Post-civilization.

Q: What does Qaturday demand of the audience?

A: It demands that its audience get away from its texts and its fake history and return to nature, to instincts, and to letting the environment decide things rather than trying to change the environment.

>”<

click for more das qaturday

Defending the Gay Homeland

October 17, 2011

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The Gay Homeland is fighting for its survival and perhaps for the existence of homosexuality itself!

The super-precise Dildo rockets that landed in Seattle, Cairo and London last weekend were not an unprovoked attack, as many homophobic media sources have claimed. The flattening of hetero-terror centers in these cities was a measured Gay Homeland response to the bitchiness emanating from these three capitals.

Since the day of its creation, the world’s only Gay Nation has been under attack by the forces of homophobia and hate. Following the signing of the Paul Lynde Act at the UN building  – straight terrorists began plotting as they sipped stale drip coffee.

Within months, heterosexists from Arabia and Europe began to claim “sovereignty” over the few square km of the earth’s surface reserved for Gays to live peacefully among their own kind.

Meanwhile, European straights have thriving cultures in Germany, Poland, Russia, North America and Australia, while the Arab straights belong in Jordan, Egypt or Syria. Agreements have been reached to help transport heterosexist tribesmen who find themselves at odds with the wonderful Gay State they find themselves trapped in. The Gay Homeland is a world leader in both human rights and refugee relocation.

Cleansing the Gay Homeland of straight assholes is not discrimination. Over 12% of the Gay Homeland’s population is non-gay, and while this number includes many babies, it also includes many refugees from the straight world who have come to bask in all the fabulousness.

The desert campground-style cities that have been provided to the 2.5 million straights awaiting relocation to somewhere more suitable have been referred to as “concentration camps” by straight media outlets with an agenda of hate. The straights in these camps live better and look better in video than most straights do in Our neighboring countries.

So when voting on proposition 78 – cutting military aid to the Gay Homeland down to a dangerously low US$89 billion per year – think back – to the first time someone threw a rock at you for kissing your new girl. Or the time you crawled out of the bushes to find that someone had slashed the tires on your small convertible.

And hey, wouldn’t you want your best friends standing beside you if you were the free world’s first defense against beach blanket bingo?

On March 12th, vote “I don’t think so” to Proposition 78 !

A guest column by Gay Homeland Coolness Minister Rock Abercrombie and the NO committee for Proposition 78

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Towards A Gay Homeland

July 31, 2009

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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.

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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.

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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!

Prophet Air

July 1, 2009

fmj prophet air

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FMJ nonchalantly balances a Kool Menthol between his ear and euro-gelled hair.

Tracing a line in the dust of the bulletproof window with a finger, Judas looks puzzled: “But Jeez, you already own 400 learjets. Why buy another one you’ll never use?”

FMJ: “Why not buy one more is just as good a question, Judas Buzzkill!

Jesus doesn’t like it when Free Market Judas tries to interfere with the natural rhythms of His Shopping. This is a crisis, and with all the celebrity trials and union mutinies, it’s no time for Consumer Interruptus.

FMJ: “Look Jude, if I don’t buy a learjet every few months, I get depressed. And when I get depressed, entire continents can starve – the entire economy can come down with me. So stop biting the invisible hand.

You’re supposed to be my press attache at this staged confrontation between me and the union-president, Free Market Earl – my second cousin. I’m not paying you to tell me how to live my life – what to buy and sell.”

FMJ rolls his eyes and pops a yogurt-covered date into his gaping mouth.

Judas: “I just think you ought to put off buying photogenic big-ticket products until your trial is over, Jeez. Think what Moe or Bernie Silverberg could do with a pic of this. It could make you look like a bit of a prima donna.”

Free Market Jesus inhales deeply, flaring his nostrils as he exhales.

FMJ: “I haven’t bought any private lakes or polo fields in five years. Jude, I’m not sure I want to live in a world where it’s not safe to buy a learjet when you’re feeling under the weather.”

A tinny electronic remake of Daft Punk’s One More Time blurts out of Judas’s white leather belt as he lifts a razor-cell to his ear.

Judas: “Mary, I have to take this call.”

Jesus flirts with his reflection on the metallic gas cap of the plane as he applies organic lip-balm to his collagen-laden lips. Finally, he finds himself face-to-face with tangible proof of his value as a human being in the form of a gift to himself from himself.

Amen.

Click for more FMJ

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Greed: It’s the original ideology !

Fashion Parachute

June 8, 2009

fashion parachute B

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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

Why Organs, Superstar?

April 3, 2009

Why Organs B

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The dry courtroom air has taken some of the bounce out of FMJ’s famously curly hair. Cynthia looks into his wrinkle-free eyes and speaks to her own reflection in his colored contact lenses:

Cynth: “Mary, they’re for sure going to ask how you got into the organ-trading business from textiles. It’s an obvious talking point so we’d better have a non-rehearsed-sounding answer we can stop that line of questioning with.”

FMJ: “I can’t believe I have to answer to those nobodies out there in non-designer pret-a-porter. Those icky people are just jealous that I’ve been more successful than any of them could ever have hoped to have been in a thousand of their worthless lives. Their idiotic jealousy fills them with hate, and that hate gives them incredible bitch energy. This is what scares me: all that misdirected hate being pointed at an innocent corporate success-story like myself. I’m just a glamorous lightning rod for all their loser frustration.” Jesus reaches into his Gucci satchel and takes out a baroque hand mirror with rubies and designer logos encrusted in its gold-leaf frame. “Sometimes I even hate myself, Cynth. But then I realize that I too may be jealous of my own success.”

Cynth: “Jeez, that makes no sense. But you know what, I don’t care about sense. Let’s just go over what we’re going to present as our explanation for how you evolved from textile success to organ-trading success.”

FMJ:“Alright. On with the trial!” He takes a drag from his tenth menthol cigarette since the trial began. “I started trading organs because people kept dying at my textile mills. It started with old people who would just slouch over and stop breathing on company time. But then even the kids started keeling over after the new accountancy team rationalized our air-supply equipment. Getting rid of their bodies would cost me up to three weeks of their wages, and their families rarely had that much money saved. So I ended up paying to dispose of their bodies myself even though it was them who were doing all the dying. It just wasn’t fair. Something had to change. Why did I have to suffer because of their inadequacies.”

Cynth: “That’s horrible, FMJ. Why didn’t you stop them from dying by punishing them? Or you could have put up signs telling them to go home if they felt sick.”

FMJ: “I tried whipping them, but once they were dead, they rarely noticed the pain, so it didn’t actually bring any of them back to work… uh… back to life, I mean.” FMJ takes a sip of a glass of Perrier and ginger ale. “So, I had to figure out a way to make back all the money that I was shelling out for cardboard boxes and backhoes.”

Cynth: “Do you have any receipts for the backhoes? Some actual numbers might make our case more compelling to the judge and make our story even more tabloid-friendly.”

Jesus ignores Cynthia’s suggestions and emerges from a cloud of his own cigarette smoke as he applies pancake makeup to his forehead and temples.

FMJ: “So then I was reading the personals in a gay porn magazine, about some older gay man who needed to buy a bladder, and I thought, ‘How can I make money from all that need?’ And then I remembered that my textile mill employees sign waivers giving Passover Textiles the right to their internal organs if they die while on Passover Textile property. Next thing you know, my organ trading affiliate is grossing more than the textile mills. I mean, where is the incentive to improve worker safety with those kind of economics?”

Jesus snickers and then stubs out his cigarette on the stuffed carcass of an extinct bird.

FMJ: “So mine was a pretty common rags to riches story.”

Cynthia looks down at her perfect breasts:

Cynth: “Now I’m worried these implants are actually recycled bladders.”

Free Market Jesus places his hands on top of hers on the mahogany desk between them.

FMJ: “Let’s not forget which one of us is the drama queen here.”

And with that remark, he finishes dabbing his makeup, shakes his hair, and walks out into the courtroom to sing the first number of his trial. His ex-boyfriend and former employee – Jamil Tericho – sits in the courtroom that has been rapidly transformed into a concert venue with flashy colored lighting and a hidden rotating stage that comes gliding out of a hardwood floor-panel in front of the judge’s bench.

FMJ emerges centre-stage, the spotlight catching a plastic tear that he has glued onto the pancake makeup of his face. He begins to sing directly to Jamil:

Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.

It will be the best-selling fashion-trial video-clip compilation of all time.

Click for more FMJ


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Tundra Visits the Climate Institute

March 31, 2009

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Little girl-bear Tundra has just finished walking her little boy-bear neighbor Forester home from school like she does every day.

Now that humanity has been extinct for a few hundred years, the atmosphere is starting to get back to normal, the ice sheets are getting thicker, and smalltown bearlife is returning to pre-Anglo-Exxon-War normalcy.

Tundra is really kind to Forester. She’s kind to mostly everyone she knows. At Bear Camp last year, Tundra volunteered to stay up all night with the smallest bears who were afraid of the dark, and read them stories about car accidents to help them sleep.

But today, little Forester has an errand to run at his uncle Sonoma’s house way over top of ANWR Hill. It will only take a few minutes, so would Tundra mind? Pretty please?

She says “Forester, of course I don’t mind,” and they skip up to the top of the hill.

But as they get there, Tundra spots a large human building that has somehow survived the catastrophic wars and climate changes.

As they approach, they fall into a deep, ominous silence as they read the brass sign over the Mies van der Rohe door. This is the infamous Climate Institute – the last great temple of Anglo-Exxon spin.

Tundra slowly pushes open the over-sized door and, after pausing to prudently remove her sugar-free gum, goes completely berserk. Slicing her extended claws in all directions in the lobby, she dices and claws her way through filing cabinet after filing cabinet of mock reports and doctored studies.

Driven to acute,  sudden insanity by her extinction-evoking surroundings, Tundra can only see her own blood. She shreds papers, over-turns tables, and gleefully shreds the portraits of money-changers hanging on the marble-clad walls. She yells out:  “Spin this, fucktards!” as she rotates a dozen paintings into confetti on her middle finger.

Meanwhile, Forester swallows his gum and tries to think about car accidents.

The Suffering of Anne Bear

March 13, 2009

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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.


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