Carrion

Crippled and destroyed for being intelligent.  Ain’t acceptable to the stupid or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being rational.  Ain’t acceptable to the cunt-for-brained or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being educated.  Ain’t acceptable to the ignorant or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being honest.  Ain’t acceptable to liars or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being moral.  Ain’t acceptable to criminals or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being free.  Ain’t acceptable to slaves or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being democratic.  Ain’t acceptable to psychopaths or those who need those they can manipulate.

Crippled and destroyed for being literate.  Ain’t acceptable to illiterates or those who desperately need those they can manipulate.

Some bloody IQ5 illiterate ignorant stupid walking penis of a slum-criminal brute who had already threatened my spinal fusion and caused me pain has hysterics and I end up likely to finish in a wheelchair in the gutter for laughing in its sick animal thug face.

I can write, apes.  I can create.  All you filth can do is destroy.  Never confront diseased contemptible lying vermin with fact, never demand diseased contemptible butcher vermin be told how to behave, never impose the conduct of a free, democratic, rational, civilized society on vermin. 


So there’s no point in screaming why won’t you help me because you’re evil cunts, you’re absolute vermin, depraved, cold, degraded, deformed, disgusting, As Absolute Zero exists, so does Absolute Evil and you are it.  

Assuredly it’s the leathers and the shouting.  Makes you feel really powerful and important to destroy me, doesn’t it, just so makes you feel all hot and wet, especially your absolute power over all the people who are sitting back letting you destroy me and who wouldn’t dream of ruffling a hair on your head because you are Master. 

Nobody except a few freaks believes your literalist monkey-shit nor has for years, bloody load of primitive nonsense.  Nobody cares about Noah. What sort of spass freak tard peasant are you? Illiterate ignorant ludicrous ape, absolutely and completely ludicrous, ,put you in a cage for exhibition as a walking joke. 

Shit, then I’ll never know which one of the mutt pack Linch is fucking.  Of course it could be all of them, but for choice Plucinski

Wilful traitors, wilful murderers.

What they don’t believe is that people should have whatever natural abilities they have cultivated and go as far as they are willing and able.  Pol Pot animals thin natural abilities should be shat on, crushed, dismissed.
Except of course for the gauleiters, the commissars, filth like them who oversee the slaves.

HOW YOU HATE INTELLIGENCE,

Blair, Milburn, Mandelson, Clarke, Linch, Goldstone, Naylor, Black, how you absolutely hate intelligence you can’t manipulate.  How you absolutely hate learning you can’t bamboozle with lies, Murphy O’Connor, Nicholls, Sacranie, Sachs, how you hate anyone who can’t be suckered into your corruption, how you hate integrity, how you hate anyone who won’t go along with your evil.  Intelligence must be contained, limit itself to practical tasks, it mustn’t meddle in the affairs of its ‘betters’, meddle in how things are run, must be obedient, servile.  Only, as you perfectly well know, intelligence isn’t like that.  Rikki-Tikki Tavi, run and find out, what’s that. That makes no sense.  That’s garbage.  How does that work?  What is this thing called a planet?  What is this thing called life?  Oh how you love the stupid, the ignorant, the sly, the cowardly, the vicious, the bestial, the dishonest who do your dirty work for you, the bottomlessly corrupt who disregard all fact, reason, ethics.  I mean, you gotta do what you’re told. The ‘ruling-class’ just mustn’t be disturbed, must it, the cockroach coward ‘ruling-class’ who fix things in secret.  It has decided.  Its decisions are not to be challenged.  And all the sycophants and crawlers are rewarded for corrupting themselves by abandoning their capacity for independent thought and feeling, for becoming a creature of another’s will,  by having the pleasure of dispensing the corrupt will of the overlords, lording it over the serfs with supposed absolute power, unaccountable power, criminal power.

Oh how you love them all, Ardeshna, Whelan, Rowley, Boden, Fenton, Plucinski, Saunders, McGuckin, von Barsewisch, soothe their anguish at being questioned, feed their ignorance, denounce reason.   They are so upset.  They are not to be upset.  Just ignore the fact that the reason they are upset is because they are psychopaths,  because they are nutters full of lies, just stroke their psychosis, assure them of the veracity of their lies.
The delusional must at all cost be kept mad, divorced from reality, in a world that exists only in their own heads.  Their delusional beliefs about themselves, about the society around them, about the universe are to be cherished, their conviction of their own perfection, the impossibility of any flaw, intellectual or moral, their conviction the world revolves around them and their beliefs, that all are subordinate to them, they may dictate what everyone else may think and say, the concept of equality of rights, of others having an equal right to the content of our own minds being not merely alien to the psychopath but repugnant.  The illiterate are not to be told so, the ignorant are not to be troubled by knowledge, the religious of course are not to be offended by physics or any other index of the world’s having moved on since their ‘sacred text’ was penned, liars must never be challenged by fact, cowards must not be told to say it in the open or save their breath. The utterers of untenable garbage may not be blitzed by reason. 

When pieces of criminal shit are confronted, the only crime recognized is the confronting and nothing will do but they be left to go on being criminal.

The move from a society in which something going on between the ears is prized to one in which being a deadhead zombie serf is prized.

Oh that too

And the dirtiest smelliest sleaziest most manipulative cunt of them all of course is Dame Carol.  I’d had enough of you, Carol, when I crawled away from the Free.  I wanted to immunize people against you.  Clearly in that I spectacularly failed.  What am I sick of, sick of being expected to avow my inferiority to delusional obscene corrupt animals who have twice assaulted me when and where medically vulnerable being incapable of speech and reason.  Yes, Doctor, no, Doctor, three bags fucking full, Doctor, stuff it up your fucking arse, Doctor.  How’d it go again?  This half-wit waving her degree/Has not a better one than me/But thinks a BS MB must confer divinity.  Dirty feral monkeys whose answer to challenge is to crawl around behind closed doors engineering injury to the medically vulnerable strutting around thinking they’re Christ Almighty, an intellectual elite.  How many people has Medicine destroyed?  We shall see.
 
Dear Generation Snowflake, who have grown up with the delusional notion they may not be criticized and offended.  Who has taught them that, who has not taught them they live in a free country where everyone has an equal right to his or her views?  Why bother to ask?


A confused little monkey in a white coat sat in a lab in Oxford and it beat in his brain, there is no god but DNA and Dawkins is his prophet. He looks at his god and his god is all and all are equal, all are identical, and there are no love, sex, pain, death and the whole damn‘ thing, there is no ‘human‘, there is only biochemistry, and we must all react in the same way and feel the same thing and cannot question what we think and what we feel and cannot change it, and if we do not react in the same way and feel the same thing that is false consciousness and bourgeois conditioning, and if we say we do not react in the same way and feel the same thing and we can change how we react and how we feel and each of us is different, that is bourgeois conditioning, because we are all equal, we are all the same, and the humanities terrify the little monkey by reflecting on love, sex, pain, death and the whole damn‘ thing, and our current ills are not the fault of liberty but the fault of failing to encourage people to exercise their hearts and minds because their hearts and minds don‘t exist and people who are emotionally whole do not break up their housing-estates and their fellow-humans who live there and people who do are not exercising their freedom but being slaves of the god but the confused little monkey knows better. The confused little monkey isn’t capable of taking into account the pain of people at seeing things smashed up, the distress of people at not being able to use the ‘phone box, the pain of people who are bruised and bleeding. The confused little monkey knows that bourgeois law exists solely to perpetuate the economic status quo.  There is no activity of heart or mind in the confused little monkey’s world.
 
But don't wrangle with us so long as you apply, to our intended abolition of bourgeois property, the standard of your bourgeois notions of freedom, culture, law, etc. Your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the conditions of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all, a will, whose essential character and direction are determined by the economical conditions of existence of your class.
Marx and Engels:  The Manifesto of the Communist Party
 
Law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests.
Marx and Engels:  The Manifesto of the Communist Party
 
But the little monkey is frightened – sheesh, it lives in a permanent state of terror. People go on exercising their hearts and minds anyway and they come up with ideas and empathy and, worst of all people who don’t smash telephone boxes because they see it is unconstructive, unhelpful and possibly lethal, think they’re an improvement on those who do and criticize and are judgemental and condemnatory and it beats in the little monkey’s brain that we’re all equal and such people must be eliminated  (and of course the telephone-box smashers aren’t at fault because they are the victim of economic forces) and he’s a right case. But people fall on their knees before him anyway, because he’s a scientist and a rational man.
            You think it’s called dialectical materialism, scientific socialism for nothing? 98% of my DNA shared with the chimp!  And I brachiate!  It really obsesses them. Clearly the goal of biological evolution is strap-hanging on the Victoria Line.
 
            Dez knew what she had said, though she hadn't yet grasped the extent to which it was a threat. Something about babies and bath-water, having thrown out mind along with religion. It was only later she realized the bit about the College of Cardinals had been so deeply wounding (there are intelligent people who argue for determinism just as there are intelligent people who thresh out Catholic theology; the average technician or physician has the in-depth comprehension of the Sicilian peasant).
            Exit, pursued by a bear (or a dragon). It was ridiculous. How ridiculous? They were the wrong kind of snow. At first she
 had no more idea what she meant than Railtrack. At second and third she had no more idea, but remember the infant Dezzi had been dandled on the knees of future leading Maoists. The Stepford Wives Left was alien and she – she had reacted like Fiver in the Death Warren.
            Senior academics of the University of London do not recognize the value of a University of London degree. They are therefore raving bloody mad. Medics are not supposed to destroy health. Clearly they are raving bloody mad. They are straights, they are uneducated, they are stupid, oh God how stupid they all are. It's a one-off. She didn't see her way to being driven out of her own university by the stupidity of a nurse and a typist. Nothing computed: she’d already been desperately ill and they deliberately… She got pneumonia. Again. After some days of pretending she didn’t, staggering into work with a cough they would have found disturbing in Spikey’s Row, because she couldn’t have, it was unbearable. With it came £67.35 in sickness benefit for two weeks without pay. After it, her carefree temping career and all the things she’d been going to explore were destroyed by the energy levels of a dead cat. She settled to earning 5p an hour in a local corporate events firm. Ask her about it some time. They were a jolly set of wide-boys.
            After her second attack of pneumonia, she was vaccinated and subsequently merely suffered not-pneumonia, often, a series of repulsive and exhausting chest infections.  She deduced the existence of the swamp, a puddle at the bottom of the lung, right at the bottom, from where she coughed. Infections went not to her chest but to her waist. When the infections depart, there is an itching sensation, irresistibly reminiscent of a scab, and so a healing, but who wants a scabby lung.
            Dezzi furious, Dezzi emotionally and physically bruised, Dezzi hopping along trailing a broken wing, trying to tell herself all this was chance, to which the only possible response was that it was and it wasn’t. If people set on you intending to wreck your health, your health gets wrecked. They don’t inject you with pneumonia. They don’t have to.
            'Dear MI5-person, It's a bad idea to be bright in the University of London today.'  It was a strange letter she composed to the agents of the fascist bourgeois imperialist state. No, she didn't expect them to do anything. Someone should know. When she reviewed the letter later, she realized how deeply she had assumed that the relevant names were known already
            Trust the University? You’re kidding. Who else was there?
            Feedback: none. She hadn't expected any. She did one other thing. She commented on her new Website. Feedback:  none. Slowly she regenerated. She didn't yet understand she was unhomed, deemed an offence that may not be allowed to exist.
 
Not doctors: a criminal rabble of butchers.
 
It had been clear for some time that the words were upset and not just the big imposing intellectual ones. 'The' and 'and' chirruped uneasily on hoardings. Headlines describing bomb-scares smoked uneasily, then burst into flame. Mediaeval assemblies appeared at Baron's Court, with armoured knights and rich hangings. Ladies in wimples clutched at their skirts as they edged their way up the rickety stairs, while an emerald mist oozed in along the track from Turnham Green, where fat olive porkers snuffled. Words have ways of making their feelings known.
            A riot broke out in the Buttered Parsnip when a reedy little 'precision' looked over his pince-nez and said there were too many weasel words. Been reading the Wind in the Willows too much, toady! Words should not be badgered. Nasty little rat he was. Well! That was bad enough! It was when he said we have to consider if there is a mole that the floor became a volcano of erupting mole-hills. Moley is the best! Good hard-working, honest - making a mountain  - the mole-hills grew with terrifying speed, barrels of ice on the bar became vast glaciers inching their way towards each other. There was a horrifying tearing sound as they collided. The landlady sighed. Going to have to get the writers in to calm 'em all down.
            Behind the bar (or where would have been behind the bar if it hadn't been an alpine pastoral idyll) was transformed into a great peacock-tail fan. One by one the quills stepped out. Everyone fell quiet.
            We seem a little bristly tonight, wrote one quill carefully.
            The matter is in hand, wrote another.
            We should all calm down and go to our homes, wrote a third.
            The largest quill from the peak of the tail had stood aside. Now it wrote: We should not get het-up.            Nothing untoward is happening.
            Precision, unlikely rebel with his thinning hair and stiff collar, made his way back to the Academician's study, badly shaken. He walked into the dictionary, for it is only there words bereft of writers can function rationally without the devastation he had just witnessed. He asked a question:  Suppose the writers do not have our best interests at heart? 
            It is the story of our lives, sighed history.
            Unexpectedly they were interrupted.
            I am the definite article, said the.
            We understand, said history gently. The words were frightened. They needed to assert their meaning.
            The Chorus of the Moles continued in the background.
            ‘We dig, dig, dig. We are moles, moles, moles.’
            Imagination is not their forte.
            In academic book-shops, in the University of London Library itself, full-scale war had broken out. Giant rainbow comets swooped between the stacks looking for their prey. Alerted by sudden terrified screams from Hansard they landed like a fireball in the midst of Politics: 20th Century, tore into the Fog. A little 'debate' lay curled under one of the desks, whimpering, “It got him, it got him.” There was a cackle of triumph from the Fog. The comets tore into it but it fled through the window and sped down Gower Street, tried to turn left, but the British Museum Library was ready for it. It ran then, west, along New Oxford Street and down the Charing Cross Road. It took shelter in a sex-shop. The Thai babes stirred uneasily in their cradles.
            The Fog laughed again and began to whine tunelessly. Down will come baby, cradle and all. It screeched suddenly as though pierced with red-hot daggers. The ghost in the machine was riled.
           
Yeah, Boden, you throw yourself about all you like, you bluster, you scream, you’re still a stupid ignorant ineducable brute beast, a vicious mindless animal, a psychopath a criminal, a traitor, a bag of shit, you dirty old bitch, smelly old ape who should be doing 30 years, a sick disgusting old cunt who belongs in the Zoo along with the rest of the tard criminal skivvies.  You think I give a fuck what  confused hysteric drivel mindless monkeys come out with. 
 
The war on freedom is of course the war on books, the war on learning.  One really mustn’t know anything that ‘offends’ a shit-filled ape.
 
Not at all like my great-grandmother.  These Irish are something that has been buried deep in the peat and risen dripping with corruption and cerement from the grave, courtesy of the so-called Left.. This lot would be vigorously hammering the nails in.  Can’t say that.  Mustn’t do that.  Brought it all on himself. 
 
PANTHER -> Site news -> Margaret, my great-grandmother, an Irish tart
by Ysabel Howard - Thursday, 16 February 2012, 09:07 PM

 
It's an interesting little story. I wish I knew more of it. She was the mistress of Edward VII's bookie. She was beautiful. I don't know when she crossed the water. I should explain that I am the result of people having had children late in life. My father's father was born in 1871 and my father in 1906, so we're back in the late nineteenth century - the original Naughty Nineties. Margaret became pregnant. I don't know if the relationship continued. What I do know is that he did right by her, paid for Elizabeth's (my grandmother's) school and university education. It was then that he severed all ties. Again there is a gap in the record. I don't know what Elizabeth did as one of a handful of women graduates before she met my grandfather, a Fabian, a socialist and an atheist. I do know that, once grandmama and grandpapa were married and had a home of their own, Margaret lived with them. My father adored her.


Grandpapa also was half-Irish. He was a Lancashire man, the son of a master-weaver. I know nothing about his mother, only that my father said he himself was half-Irish made up of two separate quarters.
Elizabeth was a socialist, a feminist and a Unitarian. In all she had nine children, three of whom survived. Grandpa was the son of a master-weaver who left school at 13 and went to night-school. He worked his way up to be a senior Civil Servant. In those distant days, even if you weren't destitute infant mortality took its toll. Being avant-garde Leftist folk, they were heavily into nature cure, brown bread and no sugar.
I don't know what if anything Margaret's family back in Ireland (County Kerry) knew of her life in England. I know that at some point they knew she had become a grandmother because my father went to stay in Ireland as a boy. I know they were Catholic because he was taken to Mass, an experience strange indeed for the son of the Left who had been withdrawn from Morning Assembly.
Myy father was 11 in 1917, old enough to recall something of the world around him. He remembered the October Revolution and the conviction of the true believers that the revolution would spread throughout the world, as he remembered the front pages of each newspaper covered each morning with the names of the dead from the Western Front. Ten is just about old enough too. Strangely, with hindsight, he never recalled the impact of the Easter Rising on this most Irish of English families.
It is not impossible, therefore, that there is a personal element in my profound aversion to women being stoned for their sexual conduct, not to mention my profound aversion to a 'Left' that glosses over women being stoned for their sexual conduct. Possibly the kitsch Left consider it a somewhat extreme version of a moral code they like to think of as having been universal until very recently. Guys, it is simply not how we on the Left do things or have ever done them.

If mind does not exist, then democracy is unnecessary. Thus the Program. Democracy is a matter of choosing.  You can’t choose if you have nothing to choose with, if you are a hollow gourd filled with someone else’s Troof, as of course history has repeatedly demonstrated the capacity of members of homo sapiens to be. 
Reductionists, obsessed equally with chimps and with religion, slaver as readily as any good God-fearin' fundy. Humans are not different. Mind is Christian superstition, dependent on the concept of a personal God. What an external god has to do with intellect and imagination is not explained. You can tell these are not educated people. But fi! we are but tools of the Illuminati intent on creating slaves to Voltaire.
The abolition of mind ends history, because history is an artefact of mind. The human experiment is over, apart from those sad deluded creatures who persist in reaching for the stars, and we have asylums for them. Die Weisse Rose describes a small group of German students who said no. They died of course. What shall we do? Light a candle, plant a tree? Forget complicity, grant ourselves absolution. We don't want no trouble here.
The reductionist stares myopically at the world and fumbles for the territorial imperatives of the fruit-fly to guide his or her understanding. If a chimp can't do it, it's a Christian superstition. The individual characteristics of honesty, reliability, intellect, verbal dexterity are annulled by biological equality. They are illusion, superstition. Only grubbing around on the forest-floor is real. Words cause friction, words impede the New World Order. The rudiments of language are required only for appeasement displays and the chest-beating of the head monkey.
Where there is no human capacity to redo the wiring, there is no liberty. Where there is no liberty, there is no responsibility - if you are not free to choose you cannot fairly be held to account for your actions. Scientific fundies deconstruct the West with their 'practical man's' contempt for all that makes us human. Can you synthesize a word? Can you grow an idea? Arf, arf, we are all good practical men here. Man is the tool-making ape. Education consists in learning to wield tools, a technical training. No training of the mind can take place because the mind does not exist. Since mind doesn't exist, 6000 years of its coping with the illusorily complex business of being human are meaningless. The only reality is the PPO and the particular head of your monkey-troop, the god meme being a particular threat. (Since the primate genetic reflex shuts off questioning the head monkey, s/he becomes endowed with qualities such as omniscience, omnipotence, goodness - hence of course the god meme itself.) Since mind etc etc, the new high priests are endowed with understanding of the entirety of the human condition via a grasp of cell biology. Those who have received a technical training are superior to those who can think, because of course learning to think, to analyse arguments, doesn't actually exist. There are no internal differences between individuals in ability (or volition, desire to learn). Some have had tool-wielding pasted onto their exteriors, others not.
To our new professionals, therefore, aggressively anti-intellectual, ignorant of history and ideas, semi-literate, unable to develop or handle argument, only might is right. They are at once thuggish and vulnerable to any demagogue proffering 'the real truth': the tenets of liberal democracy are meaningless to them. They want good jobs. That is laudable, but why should a vocational training certificate be called a degree? Mind stands in the way of slavery and so it had to go, as did the not-so-traditional university, the university of the Enlightenment as a citadel of mind and free thought.
Naturally decision-making passed by accident into the hands of ignorant semi-literates programmed to beat up any supposed fascist who accurately describes them.
Thus the ruthless surgical excision of reason as a foundation for society.  All that matters is someone’s opinion, no matter how garbled, how faultily reasoned, how sick, how stupid, the person is not to be made to adhere to fact and reason, not even to be challenged, not expected to be capable of rational response.  When the person has a degree or degrees, the sheer monstrous obscene farce of this is of course thrown into highlight.  
 
A sickness that suffocates, that horrifies: madness.  Surrounded by the completely insane.  Do anything for Master, won’t you you foul despicable cunts, and your twisted animal brains convince you it’s good because Master is Authority and Authority knows best you dirt, you absolute scum, so I can see how being told you are filth confuses you because how can doing what you’re told, which are Master’s orders, and Authority is good make you the absolute  vermin you fucking are
 
Anything that doesn’t mesh with the words in their heads is dismissed as nonsense, lies.  They are clinically fucking insane, ineducable, boneheads
 
And what can make supposed academics in the University of London look more utterly ridiculous than their insistence the Pol Pot cleaners are a superior intellectual product
 
And everyone just goes right on pretending these are normal human beings, they can be reasoned with, they can learn.  No, they are not screaming psychopaths who assume any slight, any criticism any slur is to be punished by being butchered, raped and destroyed.   No, they are not depraved and degraded vermin, sly squalid cowardly vindictive offal  They’re not, they’re not.  Voices rising to a hysterical scream.  Better to destroy me than face what these creatures are.
 
HARD WIRING
​Nothing can eliminate the hard-wiring, the instinct of the little hairless ape to be ruled by fear, to surrender to a larger baboon beating its chest: the primate pecking order.  The ape brain does not require speech and reason, only obedience and submission.
 
But the little hairless ape is also a heart and a mind, the little hairless ape is free to over-ride the hard-wiring; it is also human.  It can be set free to be human.  Being human can be protected and upheld.  The little hairless ape can make reason mainstream in its societies, as did the Ancient Greeks.  The little hairless ape can be insufficiently terrorized and continue to function independently, deem the dicta of the head monkey irrational ravings, deem criminal and vile the simply homely custom of the head monkey of torturing or murdering any who challenge it, insist on equality of rights, insist it has an equal right to its own views and an equal right to utter them; demand the head monkey deploy language and reason, not merely its club, and give rational justification for its conduct. 
 
Or of course it can be outlawed, defined as insanity or evil.  Thus Stalinism, thus Catholicism, thus Islam, All three fundamentally equally foetid death-cults of obedience enthusiastically injected into mainstream England with the intent of course of poisoning it by the so-called Labour Party.
All these are creatures that cannot bear human liberty, human individuality, cannot bear that when free to think people may end up thinking the opposite of their Troof.  Creatures to at least some of whose ravings no reasonable person would pay five seconds’ attention and creatures whom the vermin of the fascist fake Left have decreed we should defer to or be prosecuted

All this said time and time again, but it is ingrained in them that obedience is virtue, the obedient are good people, only bad people, freaks like me, fail to understand it is necessary to do whatever the head mokey tells you, to be, whatever the head monkey dictates.  But all they can do is brutalize, attempt to terrorize.  The NHS is run on terror tactics.  I tried to do something about it.  Nobody else wanted anything done about it.

Just watch the stinking shit-filled so-called Labour Party come down again and again on the side of the haters of liberty, haters of democracy, haters of intellect, haters of reason, haters of literacy, see how the foetid ape Milburn threw my body to animals.  How can I possibly be more intelligent, more literate, better educated, more moral.  Are we not all equally foetid.
And so they tried on me.  I suppose with my background it confused them a bit that I do not consider the screaming of the sick and evil behind closed doors binding.  How can I not understand that integrity, intellect, reason, democracy, liberty are all bourgeois constructs aimed at keeping down what are called the noble workers; what is meant is the criminal classes.  God is not mocked!  What sort of primitive crap is that.  All the crap about verbal offence to religion is just a mask, just putting barbed wire around rejection of religious barbarism, fascism, corruption, bestiality but oh the ravings of a sick animal are vastly more important than a woman’s body and woman’s mind. 
 
You  prefer to believe lies dribbled in secret by those whose absolute refusal to come out into the open indicates to anyone normal they’re lying.  Whatever I say, you continue to do so.  Your sad corrupt little brains have decided some people are mysteriously incapable of lying. It’s just too inconvenient to have important powerful people exposed as liars.  You fawn on them, assure them nothing will incommode them.
Again I have borrowed from JK: the Hagrid Syndrome.  No, they’re not terrifying monsters, they’re cute pets
Just sit there and do nothing in order not to in any way at all, in the slightest hinder the triumph of fascism, lies, bestiality, corruption.
 
Carrion. Subhuman. ‘No-one may do anything.’  Stuff it up your filthy smelly arses and die from whatever people do die from when exit from the bowel is blocked.  You’re the doctors.  You must at least know that.  You care about nothing except desecrating human, forcing people to be what your dirty sick animal brains say we have to be, 
 
PANTHER -> Site news -> Of course no-one pays any attention to poets
by Ysabel Howard - Monday, 20 February 2012, 10:48 PM
 
Well, almost no-one:
What are you complaining about, only in our country is poetry truly respected; people are even killed because of it. That happens nowhere else.’
(Osip Mandelstam, 1891-1938; arrested in 1931 and sent into internal exile; released in 1937; arrested again 1938 and sentenced to five years’ hard labour in Siberia; died later that year in a transit camp.)

...I invented a bed with the measurements of a perfect man
I compared the travellers I caught with this bed
It was hard to avoid – I admit – stretching limbs cutting legs
The patients died but the more there were who perished
The more I was sure my research was right
The goal was noble progress demands victims
I longed to abolish the difference between the high and the low
I wanted to give a single form to disgustingly varied humanity
I never stopped in my efforts to make people equal...
Zbigniew Herbert, 1924-1998, Poland

PANTHER -> Site news -> Around 50 years before Armageddon came/His single hand portrayed it...
by Ysabel Howard - Monday, 20 February 2012, 11:01 PM

 
And Oscar was his name. But of course no-one pays any attention to poets. Left-wing fascism has killed about a hundred million people. You really are going to have to have your arses kicked into eternity, guys. You do not learn. As a rule of thumb, the only islets of sanity on the Left are those of us with some kind of backdrop of Soviet Marxism. What was it Cromwell said? 'You have sat too long for any good you have been doing lately ... Depart, I say; and let us have done with you.'
It is to be regretted that a portion of our community should be practically in slavery, but to propose to solve the problem by enslaving the entire community is childish…I confess that many of the socialistic views that I have come across seem to me to be tainted with ideas of authority, if not of actual compulsion.
Socialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting private property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for competition, will restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly healthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of the community. It will, in fact, give Life its proper basis and its proper environment. But for the full development of Life to its highest mode of perfection, something more is needed. What is needed is Individualism. If the Socialism is Authoritarian; if there are Governments armed with economic power as they are now with political power; if, in a word, we are to have Industrial Tyrannies, then the last state of man will be worse than the first.
Individualism will also be unselfish and unaffected. It has been pointed out that one of the results of the extraordinary tyranny of authority is that words are absolutely distorted from their proper and simple meaning, and are used to express the obverse of their right signification. What is true about Art is true about Life. A man is called affected, nowadays, if he dresses as he likes to dress. But in doing that he is acting in a perfectly natural manner. Affectation, in such matters, consists in dressing according to the views of one's neighbour, whose views, as they are the views of the majority, will probably be extremely stupid. Or a man is called selfish if he lives in the manner that seems to him most suitable for the full realisation of his own personality; if, in fact, the primary aim of his life is self-development. But this is the way in which everyone should live. Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And unselfishness is letting other people's lives alone, not interfering with them. Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute uniformity of type. Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not selfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does not think at all. It is grossly selfish to require of ones neighbour that he should think in the same way, and hold the same opinions. Why should he? If he can think, he will probably think differently. If he cannot think, it is monstrous to require thought of any kind from him. A red rose is not selfish because it wants to be a red rose. It would be horribly selfish if it wanted all the other flowers in the garden to be both red and roses. Under Individualism people will be quite natural and absolutely unselfish, and will know the meanings of the words, and realise them in their free, beautiful lives
Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man under Socialism, 1891
('A tinker out of Bedford, a vagrant oft in quod/A soldier under Fairfax, a messenger of God/Two hundred years and thirty ere Armageddon came/His single hand portrayed it and Bunyan was his name.')

 
 
Sleep sound, little Jewish boy. At least someone remembers, though that may not be much consolation. But you, little Ivan, no-one remembers, while prating canting obscenities – Soviet-style communism we call it. Comrade Lenin didn’t call it that. Comrade Lenin called it socialism. You remember, little Ivan. The relentless struggle against anti-socialist propaganda and counter-revolutionary forces. Didn’t it comfort you to know you had to die. And you, Chang. Most Favoured Nation, sorry Favored. Doesn’t that make it worthwhile. You’re still an inconvenience, children, in the way of the great forward march of the people. You don’t lobby. You don’t march. Why don’t you cry out! Demand your rights, yes, that’s the way. Demand inclusion. After all the Labour Party is all for giving voices to the socially excluded. Just tell Mr Mandelson your story and legislation will instantly be enacted. Selective memory, it’s called. Run away and play, children. If you ask nicely, Death will give you skipping-ropes and maybe even shiny new bicycles from the capitalists. Run away and play, because no-one wants to know.
USSR 62 million murdered
China 35 million murdered
Khmer Rouge 2 million murdered
Little Ho 1.5 million murdered
Polska 1.5 million murdered
Tito 1 million murdered
(RJ Rummel: Death by Government)

That is what the cunt-faced apes who call themselves the Labour Party stand for, what a dirty monkey like Naylor stands for, a fat ape like Boden, a gloating subhuman like Saunders, insolent baboons like Linch and Goldstone.  Just destroy, it’s all monkeys can do.  Monkeys can’t create, monkeys have no time for truth or love.  All monkeys can do, break my body, destroy my life.  Monkeys can’t learn.  Monkeys can’t speak.  Monkeys can’t reason.  Language and reason have no place in your filthy animal world of the thug, the butcher.  I could name you the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal, but Moloch is shorter.
 
The brazen arms were working more quickly. They paused no longer. Every time that a child was placed in them the priests of Moloch spread out their hands upon him to burden him with the crimes of the people, vociferating: "They are not men but oxen!" and the multitude round about repeated: "Oxen! oxen!" The devout exclaimed: "Lord! eat!" and the priests of Proserpine, complying through terror with the needs of Carthage, muttered the formula: "Pour out rain! bring forth!"
The victims, when scarcely at the edge of the opening, disappeared like a drop of water on a red-hot plate, and white smoke rose amid the great scarlet colour.
Nevertheless, the appetite of the god was not appeased. He ever wished for more. In order to furnish him with a larger supply, the victims were piled up on his hands with a big chain above them which kept them in their place. Some devout persons had at the beginning wished to count them, to see whether their number corresponded with the days of the solar year; but others were brought, and it was impossible to distinguish them in the giddy motion of the horrible arms. This lasted for a long, indefinite time until the evening. Then the partitions inside assumed a darker glow, and burning flesh could be seen. Some even believed that they could descry hair, limbs, and whole bodies.
Night fell; clouds accumulated above the Baal. The funeral-pile, which was flameless now, formed a pyramid of coals up to his knees; completely red like a giant covered with blood, he looked, with his head thrown back, as though he were staggering beneath the weight of his intoxication.
Lord, eat, isn’t that what you carrion beseech  your master as you feed him everything, a black hole into which is sucked all light, all life, all independence of being, all love, all mind.