Bosquejos sermones evangelisticos gratis
En un trabajo horrible, consigues clientes que son PEOR
2023.11.05 06:03 Myeyeshurtlolol En un trabajo horrible, consigues clientes que son PEOR
Ando por aquí para contar algo que pasó y porque siento que trabajar en servicio al cliente NO es buena idea a menos a que estés desesperado por experiencia como yo o no tengas nada mejor. Cuando escribí esto pensé que habia sido mas corto, ahora que lo veo se que nadie lo leerá completo jajajs
Contexto: Trabajo en un restaurante con hospedaje, basicamente en servicio al cliente y como secretaria. Me contrataron precisamente porque querían alguien que responda al telefono y maneje las reservaciones para todo el local. Para referencia, he de confesar que este es mi primer empleo y que llevo ya desde abril laborando. No es la primera vez que un cliente se hace el loco con su reserva para que le hagan reembolso y que la culpa al final la asuma yo, tampoco creo que será la ultima vez, pero si es la primera en que me molesta tanto.
El día de hoy las cinco habitaciones que tenemos fueron reservadas, dos de ellas por un pequeño grupo de padres que se conocieron en la escuela de sus hijos. La primera (una señora con cara bonita) fue de hecho la que planeó todo y con quien más hable; ella escribió y llamó por telefono varias veces para verificar las informaciones del lugar y cómo funcionan desde hace más de dos meses, e incluso tuvo que mover su reservación una vez debido a las tormentas por la temporada ciclonica y el clima horrible. Para hacer las cosas más faciles y tener constancia de que tenía todas las informaciones correctas, agarré y mientras le explicaba todo le mandé las informaciones por escrito, así también se las podía pasar a los otros padres para que las tengan a mano.
Desde el principio siempre fuí clara y dije que le incluye el desayuno. Nunca mencioné que las otras comidas estaban incluidas, siempre el desayuno. Digo yo que, si lees las informaciones y ves que no dice nada de almuerzo y cena pero menciona desayuno, deberias de pensar que solo te incluye lo que SI te dicen las informaciones, ¿no? Y lo repetí como disco rayado por meses.
Pues hoy, exactamente a la hora de yo cerrar la oficina e irme, saltan quejandose de que no es una reservación de todo incluido. Y que "¡A mi no me dijeron que eso no estaba incluido!"
¿En serio?
Si me descuentan lo que reembolsaron del hospedaje de mi salario, juro que no vuelvo a pisar ese lugar en lo que me queda de vida. No me importan las prestaciones, que si pierdo mi unica fuente de ingresos y tendré que volver a vivir de mis padres hasta acabar la universidad, ni que si blablabla. No es mi culpa que quienes piden una información no presten atención y no la lean para después venir a quejarse cuando estamos cumpliendo con lo que pagaron para tener, mucho menos cuando me tenían harta repitiendo las mismas vainas.
Tengo la teoría de que solo querían usar la piscina de gratis para luego agarrarse de cualquier excusa e irse con su dinero, pero lo que me pica de todo esto no es solo que esta gente me haya metido en lío. Lo que me pica es que tuve que negarles las dos habitaciones a mas personas que preguntaron por las mismas para hoy, y que todos mis compañeros de trabajo han tenido que hacerle frente a este problema sin mi presencia porque los hijos de sus preciosas madres empezaron a pelear después de que me fui.
Sé que ellos me echarán la bronca y que el lunes cuando vuelva me darán quinientos sermones como si yo no hubiera sido clara desde el principio, no importa qué evidencias muestre de que no es mi problema. Porque "el cliente siempre tiene razón".
La gente es basura.
submitted by Myeyeshurtlolol to cuentaleareddit [link] [comments]
Contexto: Trabajo en un restaurante con hospedaje, basicamente en servicio al cliente y como secretaria. Me contrataron precisamente porque querían alguien que responda al telefono y maneje las reservaciones para todo el local. Para referencia, he de confesar que este es mi primer empleo y que llevo ya desde abril laborando. No es la primera vez que un cliente se hace el loco con su reserva para que le hagan reembolso y que la culpa al final la asuma yo, tampoco creo que será la ultima vez, pero si es la primera en que me molesta tanto.
El día de hoy las cinco habitaciones que tenemos fueron reservadas, dos de ellas por un pequeño grupo de padres que se conocieron en la escuela de sus hijos. La primera (una señora con cara bonita) fue de hecho la que planeó todo y con quien más hable; ella escribió y llamó por telefono varias veces para verificar las informaciones del lugar y cómo funcionan desde hace más de dos meses, e incluso tuvo que mover su reservación una vez debido a las tormentas por la temporada ciclonica y el clima horrible. Para hacer las cosas más faciles y tener constancia de que tenía todas las informaciones correctas, agarré y mientras le explicaba todo le mandé las informaciones por escrito, así también se las podía pasar a los otros padres para que las tengan a mano.
Desde el principio siempre fuí clara y dije que le incluye el desayuno. Nunca mencioné que las otras comidas estaban incluidas, siempre el desayuno. Digo yo que, si lees las informaciones y ves que no dice nada de almuerzo y cena pero menciona desayuno, deberias de pensar que solo te incluye lo que SI te dicen las informaciones, ¿no? Y lo repetí como disco rayado por meses.
Pues hoy, exactamente a la hora de yo cerrar la oficina e irme, saltan quejandose de que no es una reservación de todo incluido. Y que "¡A mi no me dijeron que eso no estaba incluido!"
¿En serio?
Si me descuentan lo que reembolsaron del hospedaje de mi salario, juro que no vuelvo a pisar ese lugar en lo que me queda de vida. No me importan las prestaciones, que si pierdo mi unica fuente de ingresos y tendré que volver a vivir de mis padres hasta acabar la universidad, ni que si blablabla. No es mi culpa que quienes piden una información no presten atención y no la lean para después venir a quejarse cuando estamos cumpliendo con lo que pagaron para tener, mucho menos cuando me tenían harta repitiendo las mismas vainas.
Tengo la teoría de que solo querían usar la piscina de gratis para luego agarrarse de cualquier excusa e irse con su dinero, pero lo que me pica de todo esto no es solo que esta gente me haya metido en lío. Lo que me pica es que tuve que negarles las dos habitaciones a mas personas que preguntaron por las mismas para hoy, y que todos mis compañeros de trabajo han tenido que hacerle frente a este problema sin mi presencia porque los hijos de sus preciosas madres empezaron a pelear después de que me fui.
Sé que ellos me echarán la bronca y que el lunes cuando vuelva me darán quinientos sermones como si yo no hubiera sido clara desde el principio, no importa qué evidencias muestre de que no es mi problema. Porque "el cliente siempre tiene razón".
La gente es basura.
2023.09.21 01:37 DavidS17_Reddit Como obtuve 4 certificaciones Cloud en 4 semanas (Oracle Cloud Infrastructure)
Obtuve las siguientes certificaciones
Oracle Cloud Infrastructure 2023 Certified Foundations Associate (Básica)
Oracle Cloud Data Management 2023 Certified Foundations Associate (Básica)
Oracle Cloud Infrastructure 2023 Certified Architect Associate (Asociado)
Oracle Cloud Infrastructure 2023 Certified DevOps Professional (Profesional)
A principios de agosto de este año, me enteré de un evento de Oracle para certificarse en su nube pública, el evento es el Race to Certification, que hasta ese momento iba sólo hasta finales de agosto, pero luego a finales, lo extendieron hasta finales de septiembre (https://education.oracle.com/oracle-oci-certification#oracle-cloud-infrastructure).
Con este evento te dan 15 intentos gratis de las dos certificaciones básicas, y no necesitas un Proctor para el examen, y te dan 2 intentos de certificación de nivel asociado o profesional que si necesitan ser con un proctor, me preparé por mi cuenta.
Mi modelo de aprendizaje fue así:
Antes que nada, vi todo un video de preparación del Architect, me salté los quizzes de cada sección y lo vi a 2x mientras hacia otra cosas, mi idea era tener un bosquejo de los temas que se veían en la certificación.
Primero identifiqué el peso que le dan a cada sección, por ejemplo, para el Architect Associate era así:
Compute 20%
Networking 28%
Storage 22%
Observability and Management 8%
Identity and Access Management 10%
Security 12%
Segundo, me referí a exámenes de práctica, y cada pregunta la copie y pegue en Anki, pero no deseaba conocer la respuesta correcta en este paso, deseaba saber a que sección pertenecían cada una de esas preguntas. Esto me tomó sólo el primer día de la semana.
Al segundo y tercer día, y como tercer paso estudiaba esas preguntas e intentaba identificar mis debilidades, es decir, cuáles eran las preguntas que no entendía a qué sección del examen pertenecían, y tomaba notas para entender la jerarquía (Sección del examen - Servicio de OCI - Pregunta) de cómo se organizaba ese ejercicio, es decir, a diferencia de todo el mundo, que toma notas a medida que ve los videos, yo sólo tomaba notas de los puntos que más se me dificultaban, de mis debilidades.
Una vez ya había identificado el tipo de pregunta y la sección a la que corresponden, separaba cada pregunta en su sección correspondiente y me enfocaba en una sola sección con sus preguntas, en sí me enfocaba en la respuesta a la pregunta, no sólo se trataba de responderla correcta, sino que cada respuesta que yo daba, la comparaba con la explicación, el 4to dia estudie Compute y Networking, el 5to dia Storage y Observability and Management y el sexto día Identity and Access Management y Security. De nuevo tomaba notas de mis debilidades.
Es aún más largo el método, me gustaría compartirlo con ustedes en un video, pero no sé si valga la pena.
Así mismo me gustaría probar ese método con otras certs como AWS o Azure, pero no tengo el dinero para pagarlas, alguno sabe si yo pueda crear un "fund raising" para pagar esas certificaciones y a cambio yo puedo entregar un método completo, con un curso de estudia para cada certificación?
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Oracle Cloud Infrastructure 2023 Certified Foundations Associate (Básica)
Oracle Cloud Data Management 2023 Certified Foundations Associate (Básica)
Oracle Cloud Infrastructure 2023 Certified Architect Associate (Asociado)
Oracle Cloud Infrastructure 2023 Certified DevOps Professional (Profesional)
A principios de agosto de este año, me enteré de un evento de Oracle para certificarse en su nube pública, el evento es el Race to Certification, que hasta ese momento iba sólo hasta finales de agosto, pero luego a finales, lo extendieron hasta finales de septiembre (https://education.oracle.com/oracle-oci-certification#oracle-cloud-infrastructure).
Con este evento te dan 15 intentos gratis de las dos certificaciones básicas, y no necesitas un Proctor para el examen, y te dan 2 intentos de certificación de nivel asociado o profesional que si necesitan ser con un proctor, me preparé por mi cuenta.
Mi modelo de aprendizaje fue así:
Antes que nada, vi todo un video de preparación del Architect, me salté los quizzes de cada sección y lo vi a 2x mientras hacia otra cosas, mi idea era tener un bosquejo de los temas que se veían en la certificación.
Primero identifiqué el peso que le dan a cada sección, por ejemplo, para el Architect Associate era así:
Compute 20%
Networking 28%
Storage 22%
Observability and Management 8%
Identity and Access Management 10%
Security 12%
Segundo, me referí a exámenes de práctica, y cada pregunta la copie y pegue en Anki, pero no deseaba conocer la respuesta correcta en este paso, deseaba saber a que sección pertenecían cada una de esas preguntas. Esto me tomó sólo el primer día de la semana.
Al segundo y tercer día, y como tercer paso estudiaba esas preguntas e intentaba identificar mis debilidades, es decir, cuáles eran las preguntas que no entendía a qué sección del examen pertenecían, y tomaba notas para entender la jerarquía (Sección del examen - Servicio de OCI - Pregunta) de cómo se organizaba ese ejercicio, es decir, a diferencia de todo el mundo, que toma notas a medida que ve los videos, yo sólo tomaba notas de los puntos que más se me dificultaban, de mis debilidades.
Una vez ya había identificado el tipo de pregunta y la sección a la que corresponden, separaba cada pregunta en su sección correspondiente y me enfocaba en una sola sección con sus preguntas, en sí me enfocaba en la respuesta a la pregunta, no sólo se trataba de responderla correcta, sino que cada respuesta que yo daba, la comparaba con la explicación, el 4to dia estudie Compute y Networking, el 5to dia Storage y Observability and Management y el sexto día Identity and Access Management y Security. De nuevo tomaba notas de mis debilidades.
Es aún más largo el método, me gustaría compartirlo con ustedes en un video, pero no sé si valga la pena.
Así mismo me gustaría probar ese método con otras certs como AWS o Azure, pero no tengo el dinero para pagarlas, alguno sabe si yo pueda crear un "fund raising" para pagar esas certificaciones y a cambio yo puedo entregar un método completo, con un curso de estudia para cada certificación?
2023.01.27 08:03 HughEhhoule The Big Rock Candy Mountain Part 1
“In the big rock candy mountain, all the bulldogs have no teeth… “ Levi mumbled, tapping out the last brown crumbs from a wrinkled, tiny, dime bag into a spoon that started life with the best of intentions, but now found itself an unwitting participant in illegal activity.
There is a hundred reasons I won’t give you my real name, but for our purposes, you can call me Kevin.
“Again with that fucking song? “ I say, my bank card moving like the trowel of a master bricklayer, creating three equal lines of off white powder.
Levi looks to me with a half-there grin, the dog kibble in his spoon starting to melt and sputter, “ You wouldn’t get it. “ he almost whispers, giggling to himself.
I don’t press the issue, but I find myself thinking that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
Levi and myself, we’ve been through everything from kindergarten to weekend jail together. Small towns make close friends, hard drugs make shit-brothers, between the two of them, Levi and I may as well be the same damn person.
But lately… he hasn’t been himself.
The sharper folks out there may have caught on to the fact that neither of us are what you’d call, positive role models. And while it’s true the two of us like to live like rockstars in the 6 hours a day we don’t work, this change, it’s not getting in a little over your head with coke or pills. It’s something else.
The steel straw seems to ring as I make short work of the lines, my heart begins to kick, and a grin begins to brew, one that only slightly falters when I see Levi fall back to the couch, rig still sticking out of his arm.
I can’t say I’ve never touched a needle, but that shit being your go to, shows you’ve taken the first step to giving up on life. For a better person, the sight of their best, almost only, friend in this state would be a wake up call. And maybe, it would have been for me as well, but I had to listen.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. “ Levi mumbles, finally taking the blood stained needle from his arm, and placing it on the table.
I know it’s nothing more than heroin ramblings, but I’m in the takeoff stage of a night of uppers, so paint drying would be golden globe worthy to me.
“Every culture has one, you know. A place better than heaven, the romans had the land of wine and cheese, we have the big rock candy mountain. “ For a second I hear a little of the old Levi. Before we both decided it was easier to weld 18 hours a day and fry our brains for another 4.
I’ve always been a bit of a dumbass, I’ll be the first to admit it. But for a while, it looked like Levi was going to get out of this shit hole little southern Ontario town. Debate club, international exchange, even a bit of a scholarship.
But at the end of the day, where I went, Levi went, and by the end of grade twelve, I wasn’t going anywhere good.
He stayed on that nod for hours, spewing crazy shit about tunnels under our old high school, free drugs, smokes and booze. Just real dope-head fantasy crap.
But high as I was, I wasn’t going to stop listening.
I’ve seen a lot of friends fall to drug use. Probably one of the most common side effects of using your brain as a chemistry set. But the month long rocket train from Gonzo Journeyman to meth goblin I saw Levi take, it shocked me, it fucking disgusted me.
Not even 30 days later, early December, I was staring at a shadow of the man I knew.
We’ve always had an unspoken rule, our problems, our business. And while Levi hadn’t borrowed or stolen a cent, I couldn’t let him keep screwing up his life to this extent.
Fired, homeless, he’s wearing a spring jacket, jeans stiff with grime, and a shirt I hope wasn’t white at one point in time. His hair is peach fuzz and psoriasis, and his gaze is vacant.
“Man, you need to get your shit together. “ I’m not angry, or even loud, I want to reach him.
“My shit hasn’t been this together in years Kev. “ regardless of his look, his voice is clear, with it, despite all evidence to the contrary, he seems sober. “ I know you think I’m just going down the same road all our old friends did, but I’m not man. You’re never going to understand it, but I’m Christopher Columbus, or Buzz Aldrin. I’ve found something new, something real, something God damned awesome.
But getting there, it isn’t just a matter of finding the place. It’s not a physical journey, but a spiritual one. “
I spent a lot of time thinking of what Levi might say when I called him out, and how I was going to respond. I thought I was ready for anything, but I find myself staring at him, dumbfounded.
“I know you think I spent my life just riding in your wake, but I realised something pretty early.
I’d never be happy being one of those poor assholes who get out of this place for a couple years only to come back, strap on a hardhat and work myself to death on a pipeline. I wanted something more, or at least, something different.
And I found it man, after all this time, I God damned found it. “ Levi has a look of cultist bliss on his face.
I find myself at the same time wanting to dump out every bag in my place, and dying for a hit of something. With a snort I make the wrong decision.
“So why haven’t I found this place Levi? “ I say, out of my depth.
“Different kinds of people Kev. I love you man, but drugs, they are not doing you any good. In fact, that’s why I came tonight. Not for your almost intervention here, but to tell you something.
After tonight, I’ll be gone. I don’t want you wasting your time trying to find me. If I could take you, I would man, but this is where we part ways.
For your own good, just move on, from all of this shit, me, the booze, the coke, and all the rest of it. I worry about you. “ Levi’s voice is that of a professor, his body a mess of minor wounds, filth and sores.
I handle the stark truth about as well as someone addicted to stimulants (for the most part) can, I scream and rage, defensively protecting my ego and making only petty, snide comments toward Levi’s situation.
He keeps that Buddhist level of calm, replying to me with acceptance bordering on pretention.
I didn’t see him pick up the box cutter, and I was too slow to stop him jamming it deep into his left arm and wildly dragging it through his flesh.
He doesn’t scream, or bleed, the flesh hangs open, tattered, glistening, but missing even a single drop of crimson.
He wiggles his fingers, it should be impossible, tendons and flesh hanging like ruined wiring. At the limit of my mental capacity, I fall to the couch, stunned. Levi says nothing else, simply pulls his jacket over his arm, giving me a look that says “You don’t understand, but that’s okay. “ as he walks out the of my apartment for the last time.
It wasn’t the last time I saw him though. That was when I was brought to the city morgue to identify his body.
He looked great, healthy, ripped, no signs of the hard turn into pure addiction he took about a year previous. I chalked it up to coming to his senses, maybe a good stint in rehab. Something else drew my attention more than the 40 pounds of muscle, or the clear skin, his nails.
Could have been polish, or gloss, or whatever the hell people use, but it looked too deep, too dark.
“You noticed it as well? “ the coroner says. Flying in the face of tradition he was a large, dark skinned jovial man, “ keratin vascularization, rare, but not unheard of at all. In affected individuals the body supplies keratin, nails, hair, etc. With an overabundance of nutrients via tiny, almost filament like veins. Nothing life destroying, but from what I hear, makes haircuts and nail clipping a bit of a chore. “
I understand about half of what he says, but that’s enough to make me break out into a cold sweat that, for once, has nothing to do with narcotics.
I leave, a coroner is a bit too close to being a cop for my liking, and while I know I had nothing to do with Levi’s death, pigs will find a way to screw you over given enough time. If I felt like being dramatic, I’d say this is where my journey started. But that’d be a lie, my journey started at about age 15 when I decided that every bit of good advice I was given didn’t compare with playing Pac man in the medicine cabinet.
Smart people, they don’t start that kind of journey.
I didn’t come to some eureka moment, no, my fixation was immediate, blunt, and unfocused. Hours after I left the cold, antiseptic morgue I was doing a shit job of research with a lot of gusto.
I cut down on the drugs since the night Levi decided to play operation. Though that still leaves me somewhere between casual user and waste of skin, my mind is as sharp as it’s been in a long time.
It's boring at first, but as I find myself swimming deeper into this ocean of myths, religion, conspiracy theories and urban legends, I book weeks, then months off work.
The first and most obvious point, is that, Levi was right, the concept of a sub-heaven, a place that isn’t connected to the divine or the infernal, but still a paradise was a trend going back to the first depictions of the afterlife.
But it was more than that. It wasn’t simply a running trope, or a bit of religious copy and paste. The more you looked, the more you could pinpoint this concept, changing and evolving.
Which, of course, lead me to the song I’m sure a lot of, if not all of you are aware of.
If you haven’t heard it, I’ll spare you the trouble, it’s a stupid sounding fucking song. Seriously, I’m not trying to be dismissive here, the song is dumb as hell, given context, or not.
But no one has ever lost money betting on the lowest common denominator. Stupid can spread in certain circles faster than herpes.
A catchy tune, promises of one legged cops, and cigarette trees, well, it spread quickly through folks down on their luck. Stupid, sure, but when you are half dying of starvation, half insane from self induced brain rot, and all the way given up on life, what’s the harm in trying to find the end of the rainbow?
Levi didn’t have some rare condition, something changed him, and as much as asking the scariest people I knew if they had heard of “The big rock candy mountain. “, made me feel like a complete God damned idiot ( and once got me punched in the face.) I knew it was the only way to find answers.
Answers name, as it turned out, was Johnny. And it cost me 1500 and a handful of gratis party favors to find him.
Junkies man, I probably talked to thirty old heads who thought they could bullshit me into a payday. But this guy, he didn’t seek me out, he didn’t even seem to want to talk once I found him, but with a little bribery, begging and being a bastard, I got him to agree to a sit down.
I meet him in an old run down warehouse, par for the course as far as my day to day life goes, but this place…
It wasn’t somewhere he knew, I could tell the moment I turned the rusted doorknob, and saw inside, this was where he lived.
He was 60, studded leather jacket barely restraining his shirtless gut. He was a relic, someone old when punk was new, and holding on to its long since purchased morality with every ounce of strength he had.
If it sounds like I’m shit talking him, I’m not. What I’m saying is, this guy, he had a vibe, no, more than that, a fucking aura.
He smiles, sunglasses reflecting the flames of a toxic smelling fire in a vented barrel. It’s damn near 3 in the morning, but he seems to have no trouble seeing me.
Numerous, horrible tattoos, faded by years and fights, shift as he points to me, cheap rings covering almost every finger.
For a second he appears more Roma shaman than Sex pistol.
“You don’t look nearly fucked enough to wanna talk about this. “ he’s drunk, even if I was deaf I’d have smelled the astringent waft of his 100 proof breath.
“When you have to spend 1500 on a conversation, doesn’t leave much for smack. Been doing conspiracy theory rehab you could say. “ I survey the ground for anything pointy before I sit beside the man.
He rummages through a leather sports bag, the contents within shuffling and clinking together, I notice his smell, something off, but could just be the dozens of half empty takeout containers scattered around the hovel.
“Oh were gonna fix that tonight, my son, don’t you worry. “ Johnny says, producing what I can say with no exaggeration, has to be the world’s largest freebase pipe. It’s a it’s a home brewed monstrosity, an ancient neon tube, still stained a faded pink, the bowl, I later found out was made out of a glass piece, usually used to connect power lines, a fist sized Hollow glass half sphere.
“Big enough set up, bud? “ I say, legitimately shocked.
Johnny laughs, a toxic, phlegm ridden, cough filled chortle.
“It’s never big enough, kid. You see, the hippies, and the shaman, all those self discovery assholes and Hunter S Thompson wannabes, they’re dumb as fuck. Not as touched as your average Joe Lunchpail, but at least Joe fuckin Lunchpail isn’t trying to figure anything out.
They got down how to find a car, but never learned now to drive, if ya follow. If you are looking to start a journey that doesn’t end anywhere the rules apply, there’s only one way, little guy.
And it sure as shit isn’t droppin acid and making mushroom tea. “ The old man gives me a rotten grin, packing the pipe full of a combination of the worst things you can pay for as he talks.
“All I want to do is know what happened to a friend of mine. “ I reply.
“Oh, you want me to tell you a bunch of stories you’re gonna stop believing in about a week? Naw, that’s not how this goes. You asked for what might be the most sensitive information in the whole fuckin universe. And more than that, kiddo, you asked me to tell you about the only time in my life I’ve been scared. “ Johnny shakes his head, I don’t like the unspoken malice in his voice, and despite the fact he has to be old enough to be my grandfather, something is holding me back from just grabbing the old bastard and beating what I want to know out of him.
“You want to know? Well, you have to understand, and if you want to understand… “ Johnny pops a long wooden match, running its orange flame around the glass bowl, after a few seconds the contents begin to crackle and hiss.
He takes a pull of this arm sized stroke waiting to happen, that’d have been impressive if it was filled with nothing more than tobacco. I try to remember any cpr, and realise if this old prick starts to O. D., I’ve got nothing other than good wishes until the ambulance shows up.
But he doesn’t, he simply keeps smoking, the thick yellow puffs, reeking of battery acid and cat piss begin to build up until they are floating like low hanging clouds.
I begin to get impatient, waiting for the old man to start talking, and staring to wonder how in the hell the cloud of bad decisions and broken dreams around me isn’t just blowing away in the drafty warehouse.
A contact high begins to set in as Johnny puts down the pipe and suddenly shoots out his right arm, holding it in front of the fire.
One by one he begins to take off the rings covering his fingers, dropping each one onto the ground with a high pitching ringing.
I find myself entranced, my heart beginning to race, why? Maybe high, maybe something a little harder to explain, who’s to say?
He pauses for a moment when he gets to his pinky finger, the rings begin to pop off, seemingly of their own accord. As the last one falls what I see sends me scrambling backward, reaching to my waistband for the Saturday night special I purchased in the event things got shittier than expected.
It's gone, Johnny holds it in one hand, cylinder open, bullets no where to be seen.
“Thought going around armed to the teeth was an American thing? “ he says, as he stands, the flames rise, and I can make out the tattoo across his chest through the scars and grime, it’s a Caterpillar heavy equipment logo, that I’m sure has quite the story behind it.
But all of this strangeness pales in comparison, to what those pinky rings were hiding.
It started folded, thin black segments, like a spiders leg bound by the metal rings. When it unfurled it was nearly two feet long, with a wicked looking flat point. The fire made its glossy surface shimmer and flare with light. Johnny reaches down with the appendage, it begins to poke and prod the smoldering narcotics, expertly rearranging substances to keep the bowl lit and the smoke billowing. And with one final ‘fuck you’ to any rules of reality I’ve ever known, the proboscis starts to glow red, heat haze shimmering off of it, as it, somehow heats the bowl.
Johnny drops the gun, walking over to me, I still haven’t managed to stand, transfixed as I am, I take the pipe when offered.
My brain screams with overload, my ears ring, and I hit the floor, coughing, gagging, then puking.
My world is out of synch, speech won’t come, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open, no matter how fast my heart is hammering.
“Little present from my time at the mountain. “ Johnny answers a question I don’t remember asking, “This is how far things can and will go, you know what I was before all of this? “
The thin black tendril runs it’s point down my cheek.
“ A fuckin anthropology undergraduate, I went into finding the mountain with a paid for staff, doctors, lawyers, even a couple hard men just to make sure we all stayed safe.
I was so close I could taste it, I had evidence, and plenty of it, as God damned out there as the concept was, it can’t hide itself completely.
But what I failed to realise, was this isn’t a journey you can take with other people. At the mountain there are plenty of other idiots who think they found Valhalla, but to get there, you’ve got to take that challenge on yourself. “ Johnny preaches, there is power in that voice, and his sermon holds me rapt, “ But, silver linings and all that shit. Losing my career, my home, my reputation, well, that put me in the perfect place to actually find the mountain.
Or rather, have the mountain find me. See, there is no actual place, no entrance, all of the bull shit junkies spew about secret tunnels, or abandoned factories, that’s metaphor wrapped in exaggeration, filled with idiocy.
It isn’t desperation that gets you there. Fuck, if that was the case it’d be full of cancer patients and hurricane victims.
What gets you there, is a full and deep understanding of what you are giving up and what you are willing to take in return. And piece by piece, bit by bit, if you are strong enough, dedicated enough, you find your way there, already changed and welcomed with open arms. “
Johnny snaps his fingers a half inch in front of my nose, and in an instant, I find myself brought back to reality, the air around me, somehow lo longer a toxic miasma, the man in front of me no longer some Demon Priest, but a high, blown out old rocker once again.
“But you already know that’s not really what the place is doing, don’t you? “ Johnny asks, bending down with a groan of pain, and beginning to collect his rings from the floor.
“Yeah, pretty sure they…. It…. Whatever killed a friend of mine. “ I reply
“Not unheard of, but a little strange. The mountain, it does everything it can to keep the folks housed there, living. It gets what it needs from willing subjugation, corpses aren’t too good at that.
Your friend, he must have came across something he shouldn’t, and not to make you shit yourself too hard, but the fact they let someone find the body, that’s likely a warning. “ Johnny sits, starting to put the rings back on.
“Fuck them, I’ll… “ I start, but get interrupted by a hoarse laugh from Johnny.
“You will do what exactly, little boy? You think you’re the first person to try and go in there all piss and vinegar?
Mary’s tits, kid you’re thick.
I got out because of pure luck, I got out almost as soon as I got in, and I still didn’t come out whole. That is what all this has been about. Showing you, this isn’t a fight you want, and even if you are so damn stupid you think it is, , that it’s not one you can win, because there is no fight to be had.
You could nuke the fucking world to glass my son, and somewhere in the centre of the fish bowl, the mountain would still be there. “ I want to argue, but based on every bit of information I’ve gathered Johnny is right.
But I didn’t come to this Voodoo meth shack to argue. I didn’t even come here expecting some kind of road map to my own damnation, I’d already did my work, that map was pretty much drawn already. But Johnny gave me that last, but most crucial piece any map needs, scale.
Link to part 2
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/10phn14/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_part_2/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
submitted by HughEhhoule to nosleep [link] [comments]
There is a hundred reasons I won’t give you my real name, but for our purposes, you can call me Kevin.
“Again with that fucking song? “ I say, my bank card moving like the trowel of a master bricklayer, creating three equal lines of off white powder.
Levi looks to me with a half-there grin, the dog kibble in his spoon starting to melt and sputter, “ You wouldn’t get it. “ he almost whispers, giggling to himself.
I don’t press the issue, but I find myself thinking that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
Levi and myself, we’ve been through everything from kindergarten to weekend jail together. Small towns make close friends, hard drugs make shit-brothers, between the two of them, Levi and I may as well be the same damn person.
But lately… he hasn’t been himself.
The sharper folks out there may have caught on to the fact that neither of us are what you’d call, positive role models. And while it’s true the two of us like to live like rockstars in the 6 hours a day we don’t work, this change, it’s not getting in a little over your head with coke or pills. It’s something else.
The steel straw seems to ring as I make short work of the lines, my heart begins to kick, and a grin begins to brew, one that only slightly falters when I see Levi fall back to the couch, rig still sticking out of his arm.
I can’t say I’ve never touched a needle, but that shit being your go to, shows you’ve taken the first step to giving up on life. For a better person, the sight of their best, almost only, friend in this state would be a wake up call. And maybe, it would have been for me as well, but I had to listen.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. “ Levi mumbles, finally taking the blood stained needle from his arm, and placing it on the table.
I know it’s nothing more than heroin ramblings, but I’m in the takeoff stage of a night of uppers, so paint drying would be golden globe worthy to me.
“Every culture has one, you know. A place better than heaven, the romans had the land of wine and cheese, we have the big rock candy mountain. “ For a second I hear a little of the old Levi. Before we both decided it was easier to weld 18 hours a day and fry our brains for another 4.
I’ve always been a bit of a dumbass, I’ll be the first to admit it. But for a while, it looked like Levi was going to get out of this shit hole little southern Ontario town. Debate club, international exchange, even a bit of a scholarship.
But at the end of the day, where I went, Levi went, and by the end of grade twelve, I wasn’t going anywhere good.
He stayed on that nod for hours, spewing crazy shit about tunnels under our old high school, free drugs, smokes and booze. Just real dope-head fantasy crap.
But high as I was, I wasn’t going to stop listening.
I’ve seen a lot of friends fall to drug use. Probably one of the most common side effects of using your brain as a chemistry set. But the month long rocket train from Gonzo Journeyman to meth goblin I saw Levi take, it shocked me, it fucking disgusted me.
Not even 30 days later, early December, I was staring at a shadow of the man I knew.
We’ve always had an unspoken rule, our problems, our business. And while Levi hadn’t borrowed or stolen a cent, I couldn’t let him keep screwing up his life to this extent.
Fired, homeless, he’s wearing a spring jacket, jeans stiff with grime, and a shirt I hope wasn’t white at one point in time. His hair is peach fuzz and psoriasis, and his gaze is vacant.
“Man, you need to get your shit together. “ I’m not angry, or even loud, I want to reach him.
“My shit hasn’t been this together in years Kev. “ regardless of his look, his voice is clear, with it, despite all evidence to the contrary, he seems sober. “ I know you think I’m just going down the same road all our old friends did, but I’m not man. You’re never going to understand it, but I’m Christopher Columbus, or Buzz Aldrin. I’ve found something new, something real, something God damned awesome.
But getting there, it isn’t just a matter of finding the place. It’s not a physical journey, but a spiritual one. “
I spent a lot of time thinking of what Levi might say when I called him out, and how I was going to respond. I thought I was ready for anything, but I find myself staring at him, dumbfounded.
“I know you think I spent my life just riding in your wake, but I realised something pretty early.
I’d never be happy being one of those poor assholes who get out of this place for a couple years only to come back, strap on a hardhat and work myself to death on a pipeline. I wanted something more, or at least, something different.
And I found it man, after all this time, I God damned found it. “ Levi has a look of cultist bliss on his face.
I find myself at the same time wanting to dump out every bag in my place, and dying for a hit of something. With a snort I make the wrong decision.
“So why haven’t I found this place Levi? “ I say, out of my depth.
“Different kinds of people Kev. I love you man, but drugs, they are not doing you any good. In fact, that’s why I came tonight. Not for your almost intervention here, but to tell you something.
After tonight, I’ll be gone. I don’t want you wasting your time trying to find me. If I could take you, I would man, but this is where we part ways.
For your own good, just move on, from all of this shit, me, the booze, the coke, and all the rest of it. I worry about you. “ Levi’s voice is that of a professor, his body a mess of minor wounds, filth and sores.
I handle the stark truth about as well as someone addicted to stimulants (for the most part) can, I scream and rage, defensively protecting my ego and making only petty, snide comments toward Levi’s situation.
He keeps that Buddhist level of calm, replying to me with acceptance bordering on pretention.
I didn’t see him pick up the box cutter, and I was too slow to stop him jamming it deep into his left arm and wildly dragging it through his flesh.
He doesn’t scream, or bleed, the flesh hangs open, tattered, glistening, but missing even a single drop of crimson.
He wiggles his fingers, it should be impossible, tendons and flesh hanging like ruined wiring. At the limit of my mental capacity, I fall to the couch, stunned. Levi says nothing else, simply pulls his jacket over his arm, giving me a look that says “You don’t understand, but that’s okay. “ as he walks out the of my apartment for the last time.
It wasn’t the last time I saw him though. That was when I was brought to the city morgue to identify his body.
He looked great, healthy, ripped, no signs of the hard turn into pure addiction he took about a year previous. I chalked it up to coming to his senses, maybe a good stint in rehab. Something else drew my attention more than the 40 pounds of muscle, or the clear skin, his nails.
Could have been polish, or gloss, or whatever the hell people use, but it looked too deep, too dark.
“You noticed it as well? “ the coroner says. Flying in the face of tradition he was a large, dark skinned jovial man, “ keratin vascularization, rare, but not unheard of at all. In affected individuals the body supplies keratin, nails, hair, etc. With an overabundance of nutrients via tiny, almost filament like veins. Nothing life destroying, but from what I hear, makes haircuts and nail clipping a bit of a chore. “
I understand about half of what he says, but that’s enough to make me break out into a cold sweat that, for once, has nothing to do with narcotics.
I leave, a coroner is a bit too close to being a cop for my liking, and while I know I had nothing to do with Levi’s death, pigs will find a way to screw you over given enough time. If I felt like being dramatic, I’d say this is where my journey started. But that’d be a lie, my journey started at about age 15 when I decided that every bit of good advice I was given didn’t compare with playing Pac man in the medicine cabinet.
Smart people, they don’t start that kind of journey.
I didn’t come to some eureka moment, no, my fixation was immediate, blunt, and unfocused. Hours after I left the cold, antiseptic morgue I was doing a shit job of research with a lot of gusto.
I cut down on the drugs since the night Levi decided to play operation. Though that still leaves me somewhere between casual user and waste of skin, my mind is as sharp as it’s been in a long time.
It's boring at first, but as I find myself swimming deeper into this ocean of myths, religion, conspiracy theories and urban legends, I book weeks, then months off work.
The first and most obvious point, is that, Levi was right, the concept of a sub-heaven, a place that isn’t connected to the divine or the infernal, but still a paradise was a trend going back to the first depictions of the afterlife.
But it was more than that. It wasn’t simply a running trope, or a bit of religious copy and paste. The more you looked, the more you could pinpoint this concept, changing and evolving.
Which, of course, lead me to the song I’m sure a lot of, if not all of you are aware of.
If you haven’t heard it, I’ll spare you the trouble, it’s a stupid sounding fucking song. Seriously, I’m not trying to be dismissive here, the song is dumb as hell, given context, or not.
But no one has ever lost money betting on the lowest common denominator. Stupid can spread in certain circles faster than herpes.
A catchy tune, promises of one legged cops, and cigarette trees, well, it spread quickly through folks down on their luck. Stupid, sure, but when you are half dying of starvation, half insane from self induced brain rot, and all the way given up on life, what’s the harm in trying to find the end of the rainbow?
Levi didn’t have some rare condition, something changed him, and as much as asking the scariest people I knew if they had heard of “The big rock candy mountain. “, made me feel like a complete God damned idiot ( and once got me punched in the face.) I knew it was the only way to find answers.
Answers name, as it turned out, was Johnny. And it cost me 1500 and a handful of gratis party favors to find him.
Junkies man, I probably talked to thirty old heads who thought they could bullshit me into a payday. But this guy, he didn’t seek me out, he didn’t even seem to want to talk once I found him, but with a little bribery, begging and being a bastard, I got him to agree to a sit down.
I meet him in an old run down warehouse, par for the course as far as my day to day life goes, but this place…
It wasn’t somewhere he knew, I could tell the moment I turned the rusted doorknob, and saw inside, this was where he lived.
He was 60, studded leather jacket barely restraining his shirtless gut. He was a relic, someone old when punk was new, and holding on to its long since purchased morality with every ounce of strength he had.
If it sounds like I’m shit talking him, I’m not. What I’m saying is, this guy, he had a vibe, no, more than that, a fucking aura.
He smiles, sunglasses reflecting the flames of a toxic smelling fire in a vented barrel. It’s damn near 3 in the morning, but he seems to have no trouble seeing me.
Numerous, horrible tattoos, faded by years and fights, shift as he points to me, cheap rings covering almost every finger.
For a second he appears more Roma shaman than Sex pistol.
“You don’t look nearly fucked enough to wanna talk about this. “ he’s drunk, even if I was deaf I’d have smelled the astringent waft of his 100 proof breath.
“When you have to spend 1500 on a conversation, doesn’t leave much for smack. Been doing conspiracy theory rehab you could say. “ I survey the ground for anything pointy before I sit beside the man.
He rummages through a leather sports bag, the contents within shuffling and clinking together, I notice his smell, something off, but could just be the dozens of half empty takeout containers scattered around the hovel.
“Oh were gonna fix that tonight, my son, don’t you worry. “ Johnny says, producing what I can say with no exaggeration, has to be the world’s largest freebase pipe. It’s a it’s a home brewed monstrosity, an ancient neon tube, still stained a faded pink, the bowl, I later found out was made out of a glass piece, usually used to connect power lines, a fist sized Hollow glass half sphere.
“Big enough set up, bud? “ I say, legitimately shocked.
Johnny laughs, a toxic, phlegm ridden, cough filled chortle.
“It’s never big enough, kid. You see, the hippies, and the shaman, all those self discovery assholes and Hunter S Thompson wannabes, they’re dumb as fuck. Not as touched as your average Joe Lunchpail, but at least Joe fuckin Lunchpail isn’t trying to figure anything out.
They got down how to find a car, but never learned now to drive, if ya follow. If you are looking to start a journey that doesn’t end anywhere the rules apply, there’s only one way, little guy.
And it sure as shit isn’t droppin acid and making mushroom tea. “ The old man gives me a rotten grin, packing the pipe full of a combination of the worst things you can pay for as he talks.
“All I want to do is know what happened to a friend of mine. “ I reply.
“Oh, you want me to tell you a bunch of stories you’re gonna stop believing in about a week? Naw, that’s not how this goes. You asked for what might be the most sensitive information in the whole fuckin universe. And more than that, kiddo, you asked me to tell you about the only time in my life I’ve been scared. “ Johnny shakes his head, I don’t like the unspoken malice in his voice, and despite the fact he has to be old enough to be my grandfather, something is holding me back from just grabbing the old bastard and beating what I want to know out of him.
“You want to know? Well, you have to understand, and if you want to understand… “ Johnny pops a long wooden match, running its orange flame around the glass bowl, after a few seconds the contents begin to crackle and hiss.
He takes a pull of this arm sized stroke waiting to happen, that’d have been impressive if it was filled with nothing more than tobacco. I try to remember any cpr, and realise if this old prick starts to O. D., I’ve got nothing other than good wishes until the ambulance shows up.
But he doesn’t, he simply keeps smoking, the thick yellow puffs, reeking of battery acid and cat piss begin to build up until they are floating like low hanging clouds.
I begin to get impatient, waiting for the old man to start talking, and staring to wonder how in the hell the cloud of bad decisions and broken dreams around me isn’t just blowing away in the drafty warehouse.
A contact high begins to set in as Johnny puts down the pipe and suddenly shoots out his right arm, holding it in front of the fire.
One by one he begins to take off the rings covering his fingers, dropping each one onto the ground with a high pitching ringing.
I find myself entranced, my heart beginning to race, why? Maybe high, maybe something a little harder to explain, who’s to say?
He pauses for a moment when he gets to his pinky finger, the rings begin to pop off, seemingly of their own accord. As the last one falls what I see sends me scrambling backward, reaching to my waistband for the Saturday night special I purchased in the event things got shittier than expected.
It's gone, Johnny holds it in one hand, cylinder open, bullets no where to be seen.
“Thought going around armed to the teeth was an American thing? “ he says, as he stands, the flames rise, and I can make out the tattoo across his chest through the scars and grime, it’s a Caterpillar heavy equipment logo, that I’m sure has quite the story behind it.
But all of this strangeness pales in comparison, to what those pinky rings were hiding.
It started folded, thin black segments, like a spiders leg bound by the metal rings. When it unfurled it was nearly two feet long, with a wicked looking flat point. The fire made its glossy surface shimmer and flare with light. Johnny reaches down with the appendage, it begins to poke and prod the smoldering narcotics, expertly rearranging substances to keep the bowl lit and the smoke billowing. And with one final ‘fuck you’ to any rules of reality I’ve ever known, the proboscis starts to glow red, heat haze shimmering off of it, as it, somehow heats the bowl.
Johnny drops the gun, walking over to me, I still haven’t managed to stand, transfixed as I am, I take the pipe when offered.
My brain screams with overload, my ears ring, and I hit the floor, coughing, gagging, then puking.
My world is out of synch, speech won’t come, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open, no matter how fast my heart is hammering.
“Little present from my time at the mountain. “ Johnny answers a question I don’t remember asking, “This is how far things can and will go, you know what I was before all of this? “
The thin black tendril runs it’s point down my cheek.
“ A fuckin anthropology undergraduate, I went into finding the mountain with a paid for staff, doctors, lawyers, even a couple hard men just to make sure we all stayed safe.
I was so close I could taste it, I had evidence, and plenty of it, as God damned out there as the concept was, it can’t hide itself completely.
But what I failed to realise, was this isn’t a journey you can take with other people. At the mountain there are plenty of other idiots who think they found Valhalla, but to get there, you’ve got to take that challenge on yourself. “ Johnny preaches, there is power in that voice, and his sermon holds me rapt, “ But, silver linings and all that shit. Losing my career, my home, my reputation, well, that put me in the perfect place to actually find the mountain.
Or rather, have the mountain find me. See, there is no actual place, no entrance, all of the bull shit junkies spew about secret tunnels, or abandoned factories, that’s metaphor wrapped in exaggeration, filled with idiocy.
It isn’t desperation that gets you there. Fuck, if that was the case it’d be full of cancer patients and hurricane victims.
What gets you there, is a full and deep understanding of what you are giving up and what you are willing to take in return. And piece by piece, bit by bit, if you are strong enough, dedicated enough, you find your way there, already changed and welcomed with open arms. “
Johnny snaps his fingers a half inch in front of my nose, and in an instant, I find myself brought back to reality, the air around me, somehow lo longer a toxic miasma, the man in front of me no longer some Demon Priest, but a high, blown out old rocker once again.
“But you already know that’s not really what the place is doing, don’t you? “ Johnny asks, bending down with a groan of pain, and beginning to collect his rings from the floor.
“Yeah, pretty sure they…. It…. Whatever killed a friend of mine. “ I reply
“Not unheard of, but a little strange. The mountain, it does everything it can to keep the folks housed there, living. It gets what it needs from willing subjugation, corpses aren’t too good at that.
Your friend, he must have came across something he shouldn’t, and not to make you shit yourself too hard, but the fact they let someone find the body, that’s likely a warning. “ Johnny sits, starting to put the rings back on.
“Fuck them, I’ll… “ I start, but get interrupted by a hoarse laugh from Johnny.
“You will do what exactly, little boy? You think you’re the first person to try and go in there all piss and vinegar?
Mary’s tits, kid you’re thick.
I got out because of pure luck, I got out almost as soon as I got in, and I still didn’t come out whole. That is what all this has been about. Showing you, this isn’t a fight you want, and even if you are so damn stupid you think it is, , that it’s not one you can win, because there is no fight to be had.
You could nuke the fucking world to glass my son, and somewhere in the centre of the fish bowl, the mountain would still be there. “ I want to argue, but based on every bit of information I’ve gathered Johnny is right.
But I didn’t come to this Voodoo meth shack to argue. I didn’t even come here expecting some kind of road map to my own damnation, I’d already did my work, that map was pretty much drawn already. But Johnny gave me that last, but most crucial piece any map needs, scale.
Link to part 2
https://www.reddit.com/nosleep/comments/10phn14/the_big_rock_candy_mountain_part_2/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
2023.01.27 08:01 HughEhhoule The Big Rock Candy Mountain 1/?
“In the big rock candy mountain, all the bulldogs have no teeth… “ Levi mumbled, tapping out the last brown crumbs from a wrinkled, tiny, dime bag into a spoon that started life with the best of intentions, but now found itself an unwitting participant in illegal activity.
There is a hundred reasons I won’t give you my real name, but for our purposes, you can call me Kevin.
“Again with that fucking song? “ I say, my bank card moving like the trowel of a master bricklayer, creating three equal lines of off white powder.
Levi looks to me with a half-there grin, the dog kibble in his spoon starting to melt and sputter, “ You wouldn’t get it. “ he almost whispers, giggling to himself.
I don’t press the issue, but I find myself thinking that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
Levi and myself, we’ve been through everything from kindergarten to weekend jail together. Small towns make close friends, hard drugs make shit-brothers, between the two of them, Levi and I may as well be the same damn person.
But lately… he hasn’t been himself.
The sharper folks out there may have caught on to the fact that neither of us are what you’d call, positive role models. And while it’s true the two of us like to live like rockstars in the 6 hours a day we don’t work, this change, it’s not getting in a little over your head with coke or pills. It’s something else.
The steel straw seems to ring as I make short work of the lines, my heart begins to kick, and a grin begins to brew, one that only slightly falters when I see Levi fall back to the couch, rig still sticking out of his arm.
I can’t say I’ve never touched a needle, but that shit being your go to, shows you’ve taken the first step to giving up on life. For a better person, the sight of their best, almost only, friend in this state would be a wake up call. And maybe, it would have been for me as well, but I had to listen.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. “ Levi mumbles, finally taking the blood stained needle from his arm, and placing it on the table.
I know it’s nothing more than heroin ramblings, but I’m in the takeoff stage of a night of uppers, so paint drying would be golden globe worthy to me.
“Every culture has one, you know. A place better than heaven, the romans had the land of wine and cheese, we have the big rock candy mountain. “ For a second I hear a little of the old Levi. Before we both decided it was easier to weld 18 hours a day and fry our brains for another 4.
I’ve always been a bit of a dumbass, I’ll be the first to admit it. But for a while, it looked like Levi was going to get out of this shit hole little southern Ontario town. Debate club, international exchange, even a bit of a scholarship.
But at the end of the day, where I went, Levi went, and by the end of grade twelve, I wasn’t going anywhere good.
He stayed on that nod for hours, spewing crazy shit about tunnels under our old high school, free drugs, smokes and booze. Just real dope-head fantasy crap.
But high as I was, I wasn’t going to stop listening.
I’ve seen a lot of friends fall to drug use. Probably one of the most common side effects of using your brain as a chemistry set. But the month long rocket train from Gonzo Journeyman to meth goblin I saw Levi take, it shocked me, it fucking disgusted me.
Not even 30 days later, early December, I was staring at a shadow of the man I knew.
We’ve always had an unspoken rule, our problems, our business. And while Levi hadn’t borrowed or stolen a cent, I couldn’t let him keep screwing up his life to this extent.
Fired, homeless, he’s wearing a spring jacket, jeans stiff with grime, and a shirt I hope wasn’t white at one point in time. His hair is peach fuzz and psoriasis, and his gaze is vacant.
“Man, you need to get your shit together. “ I’m not angry, or even loud, I want to reach him.
“My shit hasn’t been this together in years Kev. “ regardless of his look, his voice is clear, with it, despite all evidence to the contrary, he seems sober. “ I know you think I’m just going down the same road all our old friends did, but I’m not man. You’re never going to understand it, but I’m Christopher Columbus, or Buzz Aldrin. I’ve found something new, something real, something God damned awesome.
But getting there, it isn’t just a matter of finding the place. It’s not a physical journey, but a spiritual one. “
I spent a lot of time thinking of what Levi might say when I called him out, and how I was going to respond. I thought I was ready for anything, but I find myself staring at him, dumbfounded.
“I know you think I spent my life just riding in your wake, but I realised something pretty early.
I’d never be happy being one of those poor assholes who get out of this place for a couple years only to come back, strap on a hardhat and work myself to death on a pipeline. I wanted something more, or at least, something different.
And I found it man, after all this time, I God damned found it. “ Levi has a look of cultist bliss on his face.
I find myself at the same time wanting to dump out every bag in my place, and dying for a hit of something. With a snort I make the wrong decision.
“So why haven’t I found this place Levi? “ I say, out of my depth.
“Different kinds of people Kev. I love you man, but drugs, they are not doing you any good. In fact, that’s why I came tonight. Not for your almost intervention here, but to tell you something.
After tonight, I’ll be gone. I don’t want you wasting your time trying to find me. If I could take you, I would man, but this is where we part ways.
For your own good, just move on, from all of this shit, me, the booze, the coke, and all the rest of it. I worry about you. “ Levi’s voice is that of a professor, his body a mess of minor wounds, filth and sores.
I handle the stark truth about as well as someone addicted to stimulants (for the most part) can, I scream and rage, defensively protecting my ego and making only petty, snide comments toward Levi’s situation.
He keeps that Buddhist level of calm, replying to me with acceptance bordering on pretention.
I didn’t see him pick up the box cutter, and I was too slow to stop him jamming it deep into his left arm and wildly dragging it through his flesh.
He doesn’t scream, or bleed, the flesh hangs open, tattered, glistening, but missing even a single drop of crimson.
He wiggles his fingers, it should be impossible, tendons and flesh hanging like ruined wiring. At the limit of my mental capacity, I fall to the couch, stunned. Levi says nothing else, simply pulls his jacket over his arm, giving me a look that says “You don’t understand, but that’s okay. “ as he walks out the of my apartment for the last time.
It wasn’t the last time I saw him though. That was when I was brought to the city morgue to identify his body.
He looked great, healthy, ripped, no signs of the hard turn into pure addiction he took about a year previous. I chalked it up to coming to his senses, maybe a good stint in rehab. Something else drew my attention more than the 40 pounds of muscle, or the clear skin, his nails.
Could have been polish, or gloss, or whatever the hell people use, but it looked too deep, too dark.
“You noticed it as well? “ the coroner says. Flying in the face of tradition he was a large, dark skinned jovial man, “ keratin vascularization, rare, but not unheard of at all. In affected individuals the body supplies keratin, nails, hair, etc. With an overabundance of nutrients via tiny, almost filament like veins. Nothing life destroying, but from what I hear, makes haircuts and nail clipping a bit of a chore. “
I understand about half of what he says, but that’s enough to make me break out into a cold sweat that, for once, has nothing to do with narcotics.
I leave, a coroner is a bit too close to being a cop for my liking, and while I know I had nothing to do with Levi’s death, pigs will find a way to screw you over given enough time. If I felt like being dramatic, I’d say this is where my journey started. But that’d be a lie, my journey started at about age 15 when I decided that every bit of good advice I was given didn’t compare with playing Pac man in the medicine cabinet.
Smart people, they don’t start that kind of journey.
I didn’t come to some eureka moment, no, my fixation was immediate, blunt, and unfocused. Hours after I left the cold, antiseptic morgue I was doing a shit job of research with a lot of gusto.
I cut down on the drugs since the night Levi decided to play operation. Though that still leaves me somewhere between casual user and waste of skin, my mind is as sharp as it’s been in a long time.
It's boring at first, but as I find myself swimming deeper into this ocean of myths, religion, conspiracy theories and urban legends, I book weeks, then months off work.
The first and most obvious point, is that, Levi was right, the concept of a sub-heaven, a place that isn’t connected to the divine or the infernal, but still a paradise was a trend going back to the first depictions of the afterlife.
But it was more than that. It wasn’t simply a running trope, or a bit of religious copy and paste. The more you looked, the more you could pinpoint this concept, changing and evolving.
Which, of course, lead me to the song I’m sure a lot of, if not all of you are aware of.
If you haven’t heard it, I’ll spare you the trouble, it’s a stupid sounding fucking song. Seriously, I’m not trying to be dismissive here, the song is dumb as hell, given context, or not.
But no one has ever lost money betting on the lowest common denominator. Stupid can spread in certain circles faster than herpes.
A catchy tune, promises of one legged cops, and cigarette trees, well, it spread quickly through folks down on their luck. Stupid, sure, but when you are half dying of starvation, half insane from self induced brain rot, and all the way given up on life, what’s the harm in trying to find the end of the rainbow?
Levi didn’t have some rare condition, something changed him, and as much as asking the scariest people I knew if they had heard of “The big rock candy mountain. “, made me feel like a complete God damned idiot ( and once got me punched in the face.) I knew it was the only way to find answers.
Answers name, as it turned out, was Johnny. And it cost me 1500 and a handful of gratis party favors to find him.
Junkies man, I probably talked to thirty old heads who thought they could bullshit me into a payday. But this guy, he didn’t seek me out, he didn’t even seem to want to talk once I found him, but with a little bribery, begging and being a bastard, I got him to agree to a sit down.
I meet him in an old run down warehouse, par for the course as far as my day to day life goes, but this place…
It wasn’t somewhere he knew, I could tell the moment I turned the rusted doorknob, and saw inside, this was where he lived.
He was 60, studded leather jacket barely restraining his shirtless gut. He was a relic, someone old when punk was new, and holding on to its long since purchased morality with every ounce of strength he had.
If it sounds like I’m shit talking him, I’m not. What I’m saying is, this guy, he had a vibe, no, more than that, a fucking aura.
He smiles, sunglasses reflecting the flames of a toxic smelling fire in a vented barrel. It’s damn near 3 in the morning, but he seems to have no trouble seeing me.
Numerous, horrible tattoos, faded by years and fights, shift as he points to me, cheap rings covering almost every finger.
For a second he appears more Roma shaman than Sex pistol.
“You don’t look nearly fucked enough to wanna talk about this. “ he’s drunk, even if I was deaf I’d have smelled the astringent waft of his 100 proof breath.
“When you have to spend 1500 on a conversation, doesn’t leave much for smack. Been doing conspiracy theory rehab you could say. “ I survey the ground for anything pointy before I sit beside the man.
He rummages through a leather sports bag, the contents within shuffling and clinking together, I notice his smell, something off, but could just be the dozens of half empty takeout containers scattered around the hovel.
“Oh were gonna fix that tonight, my son, don’t you worry. “ Johnny says, producing what I can say with no exaggeration, has to be the world’s largest freebase pipe. It’s a it’s a home brewed monstrosity, an ancient neon tube, still stained a faded pink, the bowl, I later found out was made out of a glass piece, usually used to connect power lines, a fist sized Hollow glass half sphere.
“Big enough set up, bud? “ I say, legitimately shocked.
Johnny laughs, a toxic, phlegm ridden, cough filled chortle.
“It’s never big enough, kid. You see, the hippies, and the shaman, all those self discovery assholes and Hunter S Thompson wannabes, they’re dumb as fuck. Not as touched as your average Joe Lunchpail, but at least Joe fuckin Lunchpail isn’t trying to figure anything out.
They got down how to find a car, but never learned now to drive, if ya follow. If you are looking to start a journey that doesn’t end anywhere the rules apply, there’s only one way, little guy.
And it sure as shit isn’t droppin acid and making mushroom tea. “ The old man gives me a rotten grin, packing the pipe full of a combination of the worst things you can pay for as he talks.
“All I want to do is know what happened to a friend of mine. “ I reply.
“Oh, you want me to tell you a bunch of stories you’re gonna stop believing in about a week? Naw, that’s not how this goes. You asked for what might be the most sensitive information in the whole fuckin universe. And more than that, kiddo, you asked me to tell you about the only time in my life I’ve been scared. “ Johnny shakes his head, I don’t like the unspoken malice in his voice, and despite the fact he has to be old enough to be my grandfather, something is holding me back from just grabbing the old bastard and beating what I want to know out of him.
“You want to know? Well, you have to understand, and if you want to understand… “ Johnny pops a long wooden match, running its orange flame around the glass bowl, after a few seconds the contents begin to crackle and hiss.
He takes a pull of this arm sized stroke waiting to happen, that’d have been impressive if it was filled with nothing more than tobacco. I try to remember any cpr, and realise if this old prick starts to O. D., I’ve got nothing other than good wishes until the ambulance shows up.
But he doesn’t, he simply keeps smoking, the thick yellow puffs, reeking of battery acid and cat piss begin to build up until they are floating like low hanging clouds.
I begin to get impatient, waiting for the old man to start talking, and staring to wonder how in the hell the cloud of bad decisions and broken dreams around me isn’t just blowing away in the drafty warehouse.
A contact high begins to set in as Johnny puts down the pipe and suddenly shoots out his right arm, holding it in front of the fire.
One by one he begins to take off the rings covering his fingers, dropping each one onto the ground with a high pitching ringing.
I find myself entranced, my heart beginning to race, why? Maybe high, maybe something a little harder to explain, who’s to say?
He pauses for a moment when he gets to his pinky finger, the rings begin to pop off, seemingly of their own accord. As the last one falls what I see sends me scrambling backward, reaching to my waistband for the Saturday night special I purchased in the event things got shittier than expected.
It's gone, Johnny holds it in one hand, cylinder open, bullets no where to be seen.
“Thought going around armed to the teeth was an American thing? “ he says, as he stands, the flames rise, and I can make out the tattoo across his chest through the scars and grime, it’s a Caterpillar heavy equipment logo, that I’m sure has quite the story behind it.
But all of this strangeness pales in comparison, to what those pinky rings were hiding.
It started folded, thin black segments, like a spiders leg bound by the metal rings. When it unfurled it was nearly two feet long, with a wicked looking flat point. The fire made its glossy surface shimmer and flare with light. Johnny reaches down with the appendage, it begins to poke and prod the smoldering narcotics, expertly rearranging substances to keep the bowl lit and the smoke billowing. And with one final ‘fuck you’ to any rules of reality I’ve ever known, the proboscis starts to glow red, heat haze shimmering off of it, as it, somehow heats the bowl.
Johnny drops the gun, walking over to me, I still haven’t managed to stand, transfixed as I am, I take the pipe when offered.
My brain screams with overload, my ears ring, and I hit the floor, coughing, gagging, then puking.
My world is out of synch, speech won’t come, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open, no matter how fast my heart is hammering.
“Little present from my time at the mountain. “ Johnny answers a question I don’t remember asking, “This is how far things can and will go, you know what I was before all of this? “
The thin black tendril runs it’s point down my cheek.
“ A fuckin anthropology undergraduate, I went into finding the mountain with a paid for staff, doctors, lawyers, even a couple hard men just to make sure we all stayed safe.
I was so close I could taste it, I had evidence, and plenty of it, as God damned out there as the concept was, it can’t hide itself completely.
But what I failed to realise, was this isn’t a journey you can take with other people. At the mountain there are plenty of other idiots who think they found Valhalla, but to get there, you’ve got to take that challenge on yourself. “ Johnny preaches, there is power in that voice, and his sermon holds me rapt, “ But, silver linings and all that shit. Losing my career, my home, my reputation, well, that put me in the perfect place to actually find the mountain.
Or rather, have the mountain find me. See, there is no actual place, no entrance, all of the bull shit junkies spew about secret tunnels, or abandoned factories, that’s metaphor wrapped in exaggeration, filled with idiocy.
It isn’t desperation that gets you there. Fuck, if that was the case it’d be full of cancer patients and hurricane victims.
What gets you there, is a full and deep understanding of what you are giving up and what you are willing to take in return. And piece by piece, bit by bit, if you are strong enough, dedicated enough, you find your way there, already changed and welcomed with open arms. “
Johnny snaps his fingers a half inch in front of my nose, and in an instant, I find myself brought back to reality, the air around me, somehow lo longer a toxic miasma, the man in front of me no longer some Demon Priest, but a high, blown out old rocker once again.
“But you already know that’s not really what the place is doing, don’t you? “ Johnny asks, bending down with a groan of pain, and beginning to collect his rings from the floor.
“Yeah, pretty sure they…. It…. Whatever killed a friend of mine. “ I reply
“Not unheard of, but a little strange. The mountain, it does everything it can to keep the folks housed there, living. It gets what it needs from willing subjugation, corpses aren’t too good at that.
Your friend, he must have came across something he shouldn’t, and not to make you shit yourself too hard, but the fact they let someone find the body, that’s likely a warning. “ Johnny sits, starting to put the rings back on.
“Fuck them, I’ll… “ I start, but get interrupted by a hoarse laugh from Johnny.
“You will do what exactly, little boy? You think you’re the first person to try and go in there all piss and vinegar?
Mary’s tits, kid you’re thick.
I got out because of pure luck, I got out almost as soon as I got in, and I still didn’t come out whole. That is what all this has been about. Showing you, this isn’t a fight you want, and even if you are so damn stupid you think it is, , that it’s not one you can win, because there is no fight to be had.
You could nuke the fucking world to glass my son, and somewhere in the centre of the fish bowl, the mountain would still be there. “ I want to argue, but based on every bit of information I’ve gathered Johnny is right.
But I didn’t come to this Voodoo meth shack to argue. I didn’t even come here expecting some kind of road map to my own damnation, I’d already did my work, that map was pretty much drawn already. But Johnny gave me that last, but most crucial piece any map needs, scale.
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There is a hundred reasons I won’t give you my real name, but for our purposes, you can call me Kevin.
“Again with that fucking song? “ I say, my bank card moving like the trowel of a master bricklayer, creating three equal lines of off white powder.
Levi looks to me with a half-there grin, the dog kibble in his spoon starting to melt and sputter, “ You wouldn’t get it. “ he almost whispers, giggling to himself.
I don’t press the issue, but I find myself thinking that might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard him say.
Levi and myself, we’ve been through everything from kindergarten to weekend jail together. Small towns make close friends, hard drugs make shit-brothers, between the two of them, Levi and I may as well be the same damn person.
But lately… he hasn’t been himself.
The sharper folks out there may have caught on to the fact that neither of us are what you’d call, positive role models. And while it’s true the two of us like to live like rockstars in the 6 hours a day we don’t work, this change, it’s not getting in a little over your head with coke or pills. It’s something else.
The steel straw seems to ring as I make short work of the lines, my heart begins to kick, and a grin begins to brew, one that only slightly falters when I see Levi fall back to the couch, rig still sticking out of his arm.
I can’t say I’ve never touched a needle, but that shit being your go to, shows you’ve taken the first step to giving up on life. For a better person, the sight of their best, almost only, friend in this state would be a wake up call. And maybe, it would have been for me as well, but I had to listen.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. “ Levi mumbles, finally taking the blood stained needle from his arm, and placing it on the table.
I know it’s nothing more than heroin ramblings, but I’m in the takeoff stage of a night of uppers, so paint drying would be golden globe worthy to me.
“Every culture has one, you know. A place better than heaven, the romans had the land of wine and cheese, we have the big rock candy mountain. “ For a second I hear a little of the old Levi. Before we both decided it was easier to weld 18 hours a day and fry our brains for another 4.
I’ve always been a bit of a dumbass, I’ll be the first to admit it. But for a while, it looked like Levi was going to get out of this shit hole little southern Ontario town. Debate club, international exchange, even a bit of a scholarship.
But at the end of the day, where I went, Levi went, and by the end of grade twelve, I wasn’t going anywhere good.
He stayed on that nod for hours, spewing crazy shit about tunnels under our old high school, free drugs, smokes and booze. Just real dope-head fantasy crap.
But high as I was, I wasn’t going to stop listening.
I’ve seen a lot of friends fall to drug use. Probably one of the most common side effects of using your brain as a chemistry set. But the month long rocket train from Gonzo Journeyman to meth goblin I saw Levi take, it shocked me, it fucking disgusted me.
Not even 30 days later, early December, I was staring at a shadow of the man I knew.
We’ve always had an unspoken rule, our problems, our business. And while Levi hadn’t borrowed or stolen a cent, I couldn’t let him keep screwing up his life to this extent.
Fired, homeless, he’s wearing a spring jacket, jeans stiff with grime, and a shirt I hope wasn’t white at one point in time. His hair is peach fuzz and psoriasis, and his gaze is vacant.
“Man, you need to get your shit together. “ I’m not angry, or even loud, I want to reach him.
“My shit hasn’t been this together in years Kev. “ regardless of his look, his voice is clear, with it, despite all evidence to the contrary, he seems sober. “ I know you think I’m just going down the same road all our old friends did, but I’m not man. You’re never going to understand it, but I’m Christopher Columbus, or Buzz Aldrin. I’ve found something new, something real, something God damned awesome.
But getting there, it isn’t just a matter of finding the place. It’s not a physical journey, but a spiritual one. “
I spent a lot of time thinking of what Levi might say when I called him out, and how I was going to respond. I thought I was ready for anything, but I find myself staring at him, dumbfounded.
“I know you think I spent my life just riding in your wake, but I realised something pretty early.
I’d never be happy being one of those poor assholes who get out of this place for a couple years only to come back, strap on a hardhat and work myself to death on a pipeline. I wanted something more, or at least, something different.
And I found it man, after all this time, I God damned found it. “ Levi has a look of cultist bliss on his face.
I find myself at the same time wanting to dump out every bag in my place, and dying for a hit of something. With a snort I make the wrong decision.
“So why haven’t I found this place Levi? “ I say, out of my depth.
“Different kinds of people Kev. I love you man, but drugs, they are not doing you any good. In fact, that’s why I came tonight. Not for your almost intervention here, but to tell you something.
After tonight, I’ll be gone. I don’t want you wasting your time trying to find me. If I could take you, I would man, but this is where we part ways.
For your own good, just move on, from all of this shit, me, the booze, the coke, and all the rest of it. I worry about you. “ Levi’s voice is that of a professor, his body a mess of minor wounds, filth and sores.
I handle the stark truth about as well as someone addicted to stimulants (for the most part) can, I scream and rage, defensively protecting my ego and making only petty, snide comments toward Levi’s situation.
He keeps that Buddhist level of calm, replying to me with acceptance bordering on pretention.
I didn’t see him pick up the box cutter, and I was too slow to stop him jamming it deep into his left arm and wildly dragging it through his flesh.
He doesn’t scream, or bleed, the flesh hangs open, tattered, glistening, but missing even a single drop of crimson.
He wiggles his fingers, it should be impossible, tendons and flesh hanging like ruined wiring. At the limit of my mental capacity, I fall to the couch, stunned. Levi says nothing else, simply pulls his jacket over his arm, giving me a look that says “You don’t understand, but that’s okay. “ as he walks out the of my apartment for the last time.
It wasn’t the last time I saw him though. That was when I was brought to the city morgue to identify his body.
He looked great, healthy, ripped, no signs of the hard turn into pure addiction he took about a year previous. I chalked it up to coming to his senses, maybe a good stint in rehab. Something else drew my attention more than the 40 pounds of muscle, or the clear skin, his nails.
Could have been polish, or gloss, or whatever the hell people use, but it looked too deep, too dark.
“You noticed it as well? “ the coroner says. Flying in the face of tradition he was a large, dark skinned jovial man, “ keratin vascularization, rare, but not unheard of at all. In affected individuals the body supplies keratin, nails, hair, etc. With an overabundance of nutrients via tiny, almost filament like veins. Nothing life destroying, but from what I hear, makes haircuts and nail clipping a bit of a chore. “
I understand about half of what he says, but that’s enough to make me break out into a cold sweat that, for once, has nothing to do with narcotics.
I leave, a coroner is a bit too close to being a cop for my liking, and while I know I had nothing to do with Levi’s death, pigs will find a way to screw you over given enough time. If I felt like being dramatic, I’d say this is where my journey started. But that’d be a lie, my journey started at about age 15 when I decided that every bit of good advice I was given didn’t compare with playing Pac man in the medicine cabinet.
Smart people, they don’t start that kind of journey.
I didn’t come to some eureka moment, no, my fixation was immediate, blunt, and unfocused. Hours after I left the cold, antiseptic morgue I was doing a shit job of research with a lot of gusto.
I cut down on the drugs since the night Levi decided to play operation. Though that still leaves me somewhere between casual user and waste of skin, my mind is as sharp as it’s been in a long time.
It's boring at first, but as I find myself swimming deeper into this ocean of myths, religion, conspiracy theories and urban legends, I book weeks, then months off work.
The first and most obvious point, is that, Levi was right, the concept of a sub-heaven, a place that isn’t connected to the divine or the infernal, but still a paradise was a trend going back to the first depictions of the afterlife.
But it was more than that. It wasn’t simply a running trope, or a bit of religious copy and paste. The more you looked, the more you could pinpoint this concept, changing and evolving.
Which, of course, lead me to the song I’m sure a lot of, if not all of you are aware of.
If you haven’t heard it, I’ll spare you the trouble, it’s a stupid sounding fucking song. Seriously, I’m not trying to be dismissive here, the song is dumb as hell, given context, or not.
But no one has ever lost money betting on the lowest common denominator. Stupid can spread in certain circles faster than herpes.
A catchy tune, promises of one legged cops, and cigarette trees, well, it spread quickly through folks down on their luck. Stupid, sure, but when you are half dying of starvation, half insane from self induced brain rot, and all the way given up on life, what’s the harm in trying to find the end of the rainbow?
Levi didn’t have some rare condition, something changed him, and as much as asking the scariest people I knew if they had heard of “The big rock candy mountain. “, made me feel like a complete God damned idiot ( and once got me punched in the face.) I knew it was the only way to find answers.
Answers name, as it turned out, was Johnny. And it cost me 1500 and a handful of gratis party favors to find him.
Junkies man, I probably talked to thirty old heads who thought they could bullshit me into a payday. But this guy, he didn’t seek me out, he didn’t even seem to want to talk once I found him, but with a little bribery, begging and being a bastard, I got him to agree to a sit down.
I meet him in an old run down warehouse, par for the course as far as my day to day life goes, but this place…
It wasn’t somewhere he knew, I could tell the moment I turned the rusted doorknob, and saw inside, this was where he lived.
He was 60, studded leather jacket barely restraining his shirtless gut. He was a relic, someone old when punk was new, and holding on to its long since purchased morality with every ounce of strength he had.
If it sounds like I’m shit talking him, I’m not. What I’m saying is, this guy, he had a vibe, no, more than that, a fucking aura.
He smiles, sunglasses reflecting the flames of a toxic smelling fire in a vented barrel. It’s damn near 3 in the morning, but he seems to have no trouble seeing me.
Numerous, horrible tattoos, faded by years and fights, shift as he points to me, cheap rings covering almost every finger.
For a second he appears more Roma shaman than Sex pistol.
“You don’t look nearly fucked enough to wanna talk about this. “ he’s drunk, even if I was deaf I’d have smelled the astringent waft of his 100 proof breath.
“When you have to spend 1500 on a conversation, doesn’t leave much for smack. Been doing conspiracy theory rehab you could say. “ I survey the ground for anything pointy before I sit beside the man.
He rummages through a leather sports bag, the contents within shuffling and clinking together, I notice his smell, something off, but could just be the dozens of half empty takeout containers scattered around the hovel.
“Oh were gonna fix that tonight, my son, don’t you worry. “ Johnny says, producing what I can say with no exaggeration, has to be the world’s largest freebase pipe. It’s a it’s a home brewed monstrosity, an ancient neon tube, still stained a faded pink, the bowl, I later found out was made out of a glass piece, usually used to connect power lines, a fist sized Hollow glass half sphere.
“Big enough set up, bud? “ I say, legitimately shocked.
Johnny laughs, a toxic, phlegm ridden, cough filled chortle.
“It’s never big enough, kid. You see, the hippies, and the shaman, all those self discovery assholes and Hunter S Thompson wannabes, they’re dumb as fuck. Not as touched as your average Joe Lunchpail, but at least Joe fuckin Lunchpail isn’t trying to figure anything out.
They got down how to find a car, but never learned now to drive, if ya follow. If you are looking to start a journey that doesn’t end anywhere the rules apply, there’s only one way, little guy.
And it sure as shit isn’t droppin acid and making mushroom tea. “ The old man gives me a rotten grin, packing the pipe full of a combination of the worst things you can pay for as he talks.
“All I want to do is know what happened to a friend of mine. “ I reply.
“Oh, you want me to tell you a bunch of stories you’re gonna stop believing in about a week? Naw, that’s not how this goes. You asked for what might be the most sensitive information in the whole fuckin universe. And more than that, kiddo, you asked me to tell you about the only time in my life I’ve been scared. “ Johnny shakes his head, I don’t like the unspoken malice in his voice, and despite the fact he has to be old enough to be my grandfather, something is holding me back from just grabbing the old bastard and beating what I want to know out of him.
“You want to know? Well, you have to understand, and if you want to understand… “ Johnny pops a long wooden match, running its orange flame around the glass bowl, after a few seconds the contents begin to crackle and hiss.
He takes a pull of this arm sized stroke waiting to happen, that’d have been impressive if it was filled with nothing more than tobacco. I try to remember any cpr, and realise if this old prick starts to O. D., I’ve got nothing other than good wishes until the ambulance shows up.
But he doesn’t, he simply keeps smoking, the thick yellow puffs, reeking of battery acid and cat piss begin to build up until they are floating like low hanging clouds.
I begin to get impatient, waiting for the old man to start talking, and staring to wonder how in the hell the cloud of bad decisions and broken dreams around me isn’t just blowing away in the drafty warehouse.
A contact high begins to set in as Johnny puts down the pipe and suddenly shoots out his right arm, holding it in front of the fire.
One by one he begins to take off the rings covering his fingers, dropping each one onto the ground with a high pitching ringing.
I find myself entranced, my heart beginning to race, why? Maybe high, maybe something a little harder to explain, who’s to say?
He pauses for a moment when he gets to his pinky finger, the rings begin to pop off, seemingly of their own accord. As the last one falls what I see sends me scrambling backward, reaching to my waistband for the Saturday night special I purchased in the event things got shittier than expected.
It's gone, Johnny holds it in one hand, cylinder open, bullets no where to be seen.
“Thought going around armed to the teeth was an American thing? “ he says, as he stands, the flames rise, and I can make out the tattoo across his chest through the scars and grime, it’s a Caterpillar heavy equipment logo, that I’m sure has quite the story behind it.
But all of this strangeness pales in comparison, to what those pinky rings were hiding.
It started folded, thin black segments, like a spiders leg bound by the metal rings. When it unfurled it was nearly two feet long, with a wicked looking flat point. The fire made its glossy surface shimmer and flare with light. Johnny reaches down with the appendage, it begins to poke and prod the smoldering narcotics, expertly rearranging substances to keep the bowl lit and the smoke billowing. And with one final ‘fuck you’ to any rules of reality I’ve ever known, the proboscis starts to glow red, heat haze shimmering off of it, as it, somehow heats the bowl.
Johnny drops the gun, walking over to me, I still haven’t managed to stand, transfixed as I am, I take the pipe when offered.
My brain screams with overload, my ears ring, and I hit the floor, coughing, gagging, then puking.
My world is out of synch, speech won’t come, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open, no matter how fast my heart is hammering.
“Little present from my time at the mountain. “ Johnny answers a question I don’t remember asking, “This is how far things can and will go, you know what I was before all of this? “
The thin black tendril runs it’s point down my cheek.
“ A fuckin anthropology undergraduate, I went into finding the mountain with a paid for staff, doctors, lawyers, even a couple hard men just to make sure we all stayed safe.
I was so close I could taste it, I had evidence, and plenty of it, as God damned out there as the concept was, it can’t hide itself completely.
But what I failed to realise, was this isn’t a journey you can take with other people. At the mountain there are plenty of other idiots who think they found Valhalla, but to get there, you’ve got to take that challenge on yourself. “ Johnny preaches, there is power in that voice, and his sermon holds me rapt, “ But, silver linings and all that shit. Losing my career, my home, my reputation, well, that put me in the perfect place to actually find the mountain.
Or rather, have the mountain find me. See, there is no actual place, no entrance, all of the bull shit junkies spew about secret tunnels, or abandoned factories, that’s metaphor wrapped in exaggeration, filled with idiocy.
It isn’t desperation that gets you there. Fuck, if that was the case it’d be full of cancer patients and hurricane victims.
What gets you there, is a full and deep understanding of what you are giving up and what you are willing to take in return. And piece by piece, bit by bit, if you are strong enough, dedicated enough, you find your way there, already changed and welcomed with open arms. “
Johnny snaps his fingers a half inch in front of my nose, and in an instant, I find myself brought back to reality, the air around me, somehow lo longer a toxic miasma, the man in front of me no longer some Demon Priest, but a high, blown out old rocker once again.
“But you already know that’s not really what the place is doing, don’t you? “ Johnny asks, bending down with a groan of pain, and beginning to collect his rings from the floor.
“Yeah, pretty sure they…. It…. Whatever killed a friend of mine. “ I reply
“Not unheard of, but a little strange. The mountain, it does everything it can to keep the folks housed there, living. It gets what it needs from willing subjugation, corpses aren’t too good at that.
Your friend, he must have came across something he shouldn’t, and not to make you shit yourself too hard, but the fact they let someone find the body, that’s likely a warning. “ Johnny sits, starting to put the rings back on.
“Fuck them, I’ll… “ I start, but get interrupted by a hoarse laugh from Johnny.
“You will do what exactly, little boy? You think you’re the first person to try and go in there all piss and vinegar?
Mary’s tits, kid you’re thick.
I got out because of pure luck, I got out almost as soon as I got in, and I still didn’t come out whole. That is what all this has been about. Showing you, this isn’t a fight you want, and even if you are so damn stupid you think it is, , that it’s not one you can win, because there is no fight to be had.
You could nuke the fucking world to glass my son, and somewhere in the centre of the fish bowl, the mountain would still be there. “ I want to argue, but based on every bit of information I’ve gathered Johnny is right.
But I didn’t come to this Voodoo meth shack to argue. I didn’t even come here expecting some kind of road map to my own damnation, I’d already did my work, that map was pretty much drawn already. But Johnny gave me that last, but most crucial piece any map needs, scale.
2023.01.24 23:32 MajoranaPelizza IL SIG. BINI NON E' ETTORE MAJORANA? DITELO ALLA TRASMISSIONE "CHI L'HA VISTO"
 | submitted by MajoranaPelizza to u/MajoranaPelizza [link] [comments] https://www.facebook.com/ettore.majorana81/posts/pfbid0wdiDK5JcWjBumpJxhAD5pTTodoWBx6P7poMgG3DQSv6Es5giepZryi748yB6HhRpl https://preview.redd.it/ndx8auqpi2ea1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=2bc8d68a80112ddcc8d6f9bab54552600c3b58d7 https://preview.redd.it/dix0ttqpi2ea1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1f3e08f19a6df8f67adb479518196a8f57a708ce Dopo la nostra campagna fatta di decine di raccomandate con ricevuta di ritorno, parrebbe che la trasmissione "Chi l'ha visto" si sia degnata di rispondere ad un nostro carissimo utente OTTAVIO GRAZIANI che ringraziamo per avercelo segnalato. Secondo la trasmissione il caso Majorana sarebbe stato risolto nel 2015 con una segnalazione di un loro telespettatore! Che ha dato il via al video, un vero è proprio servizio!! (vedi link https://www.rai.tv/dl/RaiTV/programmi/media/ContentItem-6a397ecd-33ce-4554-ba64-4628ab5572e0.html ) Lo so a cosa state pensando. Forse alcuni telespettatori sono più importanti di altri.. Le decine di raccomandate con avviso di ricevimento inviate in questi due mesi, e le migliaia di email e telefonate inviate alla trasmissione da parte dei nostri utenti non sono state abbastanza. Per loro il caso si è chiuso nel 2015. AMEN. Ma quindi torniamo all'incipit del titolo del nostro articolo ovvero IL SIG. BINI E' O NON E' MAJORANA? A questa domanda urge dare una risposta, e invitiamo a linkare questo articolo nella pagina facebook della trasmissione ( https://www.facebook.com/chilhavisto ) Anche se già in passato abbiamo affrontato l'argomento e ci hanno censurato. Lungi da noi il volervi propinare un sermone su questo argomento, ma è importante chiarire questi aspetti, che, per chi ci segue, sono ormai assodati, ma per la maggior parte delle persone che non conoscono la storia di Rolando #PELIZZA non lo sono affatto. Siete pronti? Partiamo! CHI ERA BINI? Se googlate "Ettore Majorana Bini" vi esce questa inquietante "non verità" che ora andremo a smontare: "Ettore Majorana Bini Bini, che aveva un accento romano e viveva con una donna in località San Raphael, tra Valencia e Maracai, era proprio Ettore Majorana. Fasani racconta che nel 1955, prestando a Bini, che ne aveva urgentemente bisogno, 150 bolivar, riuscì ad ottenere di essere fotografato insieme a lui." Questa in estrema sintesi la favoletta che venne raccontata da un certo Fasani (ora morto). Ma andiamo a vedere quali "prove" di codesta favola ha portato il sig. Fasani e poi quali sono state le risultanze investigative della procura di Roma sul caso "BINI - MAJORANA" a cui si è affidata "CIECAMENTE" la trasmissione "Chi l'ha visto". L'ALTEZZA DI BINI INCOMPATIBILE CON QUELLA DI MAJORANA Il Fasani afferma che questo sig. Bini avrebbe acconsentito a farsi una fotografia in cambio di una somma di denaro. Già qui ci viene da ridere pensando al carattere di Majorana che regalava formule con scoperte che valevano il nobel a fisici come BOHR ed altri, per non attribuirsi meriti scientifici. Ma prendiamo per buona per un attimo la favoletta del "DO UT DES". Col senno di poi dobbiamo essere anche grati a Fasani che ha scattato quella foto. Perchè? Perchè la foto stessa conferma che quello non poteva essere Majorana. Infatti stranamente la procura ha preso una svista clamorosa sulle carte di identità. Francesco Fasani, che di professione faceva il meccanico all'epoca dei fatti, era alto quasi un metro e ottanta, come si può riscontrare dalla testimonianza della nipote Lidia Fasani e dai dati forse riportati nella carta d’identità del Fasani. Ettore Majorana era alto un metro e sessantotto, quindi ci sono ben 12 cm di differenza tra lui e il Fasani, e forse anche qualcosa in più. Quindi a meno che una persona col passare degli anni acquisti centimetri piuttosto che perderne come invece accade per le persone anziane questo è stato un abbaglio della procura di Roma. Basterebbe solo questo a chiudere l'intera faccenda come uno dei più clamorosi errori giudiziari della storia moderna. Ma pensate che sia finita qui? No di certo. LA MACCHINA, LA CARTOLINA E GLI APPUNTI FANTASMA Il Fasani è convinto. Nel corso degli interrogatori infatti conferma le sue dichiarazioni, raccontando di aver fatto spesso da autista al signor Bini, e di aver un giorno recuperato nella sua auto, sempre piena di carte e appunti, due oggetti: un taccuino con formule matematiche e una cartolina. Questi oggetti sarebbero stati poi affidati al fratello di Fasani, residente negli Stati Uniti, che agli inquirenti riesce però a fornire solo la cartolina. Non è scritta da Ettore Majorana ma dallo zio, Quirino, anch’egli fisico. Il destinatario è il collega americano William G. Conklin e la data quella del 24 settembre 1920. All’epoca, Ettore era ancora un adolescente, ma in qualche modo negli anni successivi avrebbe recuperato quella cartolina che Fasani reperì nella sua auto nella metà degli anni Cinquanta. Del taccuino manoscritto, invece, nessuna traccia. Le indagini del procuratore finiscono presto in un vicolo cieco. Andiamo per ordine e telegraficamente: 1) Ettore non aveva la patente non avrebbe mai potuto guidare. 2) Secondo la versione ufficiale usava quella macchina per girare in incognito. Una macchina sportiva gialla, proprio la macchina perfetta per "non farsi" notare.(la rete ancora ne ride) 3) Interrogato il governo Venezuelano sull'esistenza nei registri automobilistici dell'epoca di questa vettura non hanno mai dato alcuna risposta. 4) I famosi appunti sul taccuino che avrebbero potuto essere una vera prova perchè fatto di molto testo scritto ( periziabile da esperti) presuntamente dalla mano di Majorana guarda caso non sono mai portati alla procura e quindi di fatto sono favolette, aria fritta. 5) la famosa cartolina periziata dalla Procura di Roma è una "prova" imbarazzante, in quanto potrebbe essere stata acquistata da chiunque sul web tra cimeli d'epoca. Inoltre non ci risulta reperibile alcuna scansione della stessa resa pubblica salvo essere mostrata in qualche servizio confezionato della RAI. Stessa cosa vale per la famosa perizia della procura della quale in rete noi non abbiamo trovato traccia. Se qualcuno la ritrova ce la segnali. 6) Pur prendendo per buona la cartolina, essa non prova neanche che fu scritta allo stesso Bini, (presunto Majorana). Infatti era diretta apparentemente ad un collega americano William G. Conklin. Quindi ancora una volta aria fritta. Nessun collegamento con Majorana. 7) Il passaporto di Majorana non era valido per espatriare in Argentina. E non ne fece richiesta per tale fine nei registri ufficiali. Quindi fisicamente Ettore Majorana avrebbe secondo la procura di Roma raggiunto l'Argentina a nuoto o con altri mezzi ma clandestinamente? Non c'è altra spiegazione logica nella illogica conclusione della procura. Queste sono prove, ma non prove a favore ma contrarie alla stessa tesi della Procura. TUTTO CHIARO? Chiarito quindi che Majorana non era alto come Bini come risulta dalle carte di identità e dall'unica foto di Fasani. Che non aveva la patente per guidare una macchina che non esisteva nei registri automobilistici dell'epoca. Chiarito che la cartolina "Periziata" dalla procura poteva essere comprata da chiunque sul web o peggio poteva essere falsificata, visto che nessuno ha mai potuto analizzarla da periti seri e indipendenti (e a noi uno molto bravo ci viene in mente...). Chiarito che neanche di questo taccuino con queste presunte formule se ne è mai vista l'ombra, inclusa la procura. Chiarito che Majorana non poteva espatriare senza passaporto valido. Ebbene chiarito tutto questo il meglio deve ancora venire! Perchè la procura ha avuto il coraggio di prendere un paio di foto del padre di Majorana, le ha unite insieme facendo una elaborata e arzigogolata manipolazione grafica, per ricavarne almeno una "dignitosa" e credibile da mostrare alla stampa nella perizia famosa della chiusura delle indagini. LA FOTO FANTASMA Ora, sedetevi perchè quello che stiamo per riportare non è un articolo di LERCIO, quotidiano satirico online. QUESTO E' IL TITOLO DEL CORRIERE.IT SULLA FOTO INCRIMINATA «È il volto di Majorana, 10 punti uguali» Lo scienziato italiano è scomparso nel 1938 in modo misterioso durante un viaggio: adesso i magistrati romani riaprono il fascicolo (VEDERE PER CREDERE IL LINK https://www.corriere.it/cultura/11_giugno_07/sarzanini-majorana-dieci-punti-uguali_aef0de96-90f0-11e0-9c7b-81ce3178052c.shtml#:~:text=Lo%20scienziato%20italiano%20%C3%A8%20scomparso,magistrati%20romani%20riaprono%20il%20fascicolo&text=ROMA%20%2D%20Dieci%20punti%20%C2%ABcoincidenti%C2%BB,sulla%20scomparsa%20di%20Ettore%20Majorana ) Ora premesso che nell'articolo si mostra una foto di un'altra pseudo perizia che invece dava Majorana per identico a un tipo con gli occhiali scuri ripreso al fianco di un criminale nazista. Quindi del tutto fuori contesto. Ma la cosa comica è che scrivono : " è il volto di Majorana, 10 punti uguali". Voi vi chiederete: Ma hanno paragonato una foto di Majorana dell'epoca con quella di BINI? No mi dispiace deludervi. Hanno preso quelle due foto del padre di Majorana, dopo averle messe insieme, ne hanno fatto una definitiva da usare, e poi hanno detto che quella foto assomiglia a Bini in 10 punti. Cioè detto in soldoni: LA FOTO FOTOSHOPPATA DEL PADRE DI MAJORANA SOMIGLIA IN 10 PUNTI AD UN PERFETTO SCONOSCIUTO CHE UN TESTIMONE AFFERMA ESSERE MAJORANA. PERCHè NON HANNO PRESO UNA FOTO DELLA PERSONA SCOMPARSA (cioè MAJORANA) MA QUELLE DEL PADRE DI MAJORANA? Beh, non chiedetelo a noi, chiedetelo a Filippo Laviani che ha svolto le indagini. Foto di Majorana ante scomparsa sono reperibilissime online anche in primo piano. Ma la procura, che la sa lunga in campo di indagini forensi si è procurata una foto del padre visto che per quelle di Majorana non c'era alcuna somiglianza. Ma fermatevi un attimo e domandatevi: Perchè INSISTERE in questa illogica procedura? Lo capisce anche un bambino che qui c'è qualcosa che non và. Ancora risuonano nella testa le parole " somiglia in 10 punti ". Dopo aver ripreso coscienza dal coma indotto dalla favoletta della procura ci torna in mente quel perito bravo, molto bravo che abbiamo accennato prima. L'ing. Michele Vitiello. Il miglior consulente italiano dal punto di vista informatico forense. Lui a differenza della procura di Roma ha analizzato ben 5 foto , 2 ante scomparsa del vero Majorana NON DEL PADRE, e tre presentate dal Rolando PELIZZA del "presunto" Majorana. La perizia ha trovato non 10 punti in comune ma ben 672 punti di analisi. E infatti Vitiello scrive : "Sono stati effettuati n. 672 punti di analisi, riportando in questa relazione tecnica fotografica tutti i parametri di osservazione e i dati ottenuti in modo tale da rendere le codifiche ed i valori estratti verificabili e gli accertamenti ripetibili" In queste poche righe c'è quanto basta per azzerare le conclusioni della perizia della procura di ROMA su Bini. Perchè? Perchè vengono usate foto originali di Majorana e non di suoi parenti come il padre, e perchè " tutti i parametri di osservazione e i dati ottenuti in modo tale da rendere le codifiche ed i valori estratti verificabili e gli accertamenti ripetibili". Spieghiamo in parole povere, i risultati di Vitiello non sono sue opinioni personali, della serie gli somiglia o non gli somiglia. No! Al contrario. Sono accertamenti grafico antropometrici misurabili anche da altri esperti, quindi verificabili e quindi ripetibili.Cioè possono fare quello che vogliono ma per mettere in discussione la perizia di Vitiello dovrebbero mettere in discussione la matematica. Perchè le distanze tra naso, bocca e occhi per esempio poste a precise distanze misurabili hanno un certo valore numerico che è quello è basta. A sarà uguale a A E B UGUALE A B. Il numero 100 non sarà mai uguale al numero 10 per capirci. Per questo nessuno si azzarda a rifare una perizia che contesti quella di Vitiello perchè altrimenti ne scaturerebbe un processo in tribunale che poi oggettivamente darebbe ragione a Vitiello, anzi alla pura e semplice matematica da misurazione. Un pò come il discorso dell'altezza di Majorana. 168 Centimetri non saranno mai 180. E chiunque dica il contrario lo deve dimostrare... NON VEDIAMO L'ORA... Eccoci giunti alla fine di questo articolo. CONCLUSIONI? BINI NON E' E NON SARA' MAI MAJORANA. QUINDI MAJORANA NON è ANDATO IN ARGENTINA NE IN VENEZUELA. La realtà è molto più semplice. Majorana è restato in ITALIA dopo il 1938 si è nascosto in un convento, ed è restato li almeno fino al 2006. Assieme al suo allievo hanno realizzato una macchina che potrebbe salvare il pianeta da qualsiasi disastro, umano o naturale, a costo zero. Potrebbe darci tutto quello di cui abbiamo bisogno, energia, materie prime, terre rare, cibo, acqua , aria pulita e pace in eterno. Le applicazioni sono infinite cosi come infinita è la stupidità umana o come scrisse Majorana nella lettera al compianto Erasmo Recami del 2000 "Con la pubblicazione di questi studi, l'umanità verrà a conoscenza che, per la volontà di poche persone (comportamento che a tutt'oggi non riesco ancora a comprendere) sta perdendo l'opportunità di un futuro migliore." Almeno una cosa l'abbiamo capita alla fine di tutto,(ironicamente parlando) anche Majorana non comprendeva qualcosa. Ma per il resto aveva le idee ben chiare. Grazie Ettore grazie Rolando. Attendiamo la replica della trasmissione che già sappiamo non arriverà mai. Nel frattempo abbiamo visto che oscura i nostri commenti nella pagina Facebook ufficiale quando gli facciamo notare le decine di raccomandate inevase con tanto di codici identificativi delle stesse. Ci oscura i commenti quando facciamo notare che abbiamo pubblicato le foto con i timbri della RAI. Quindi qualsiasi cosa facciano o dicano ora RESTA TRACCIA UFFICIALE. Non posso più dire "NOI NON SAPEVANO ". E ci sono decine e decine di testimoni in Italia che possono provarlo per tabulas mostrando i timbri di ricezione della R.A.I. RADIO TELEVISIONE ITALIANA. Molti dei quali li abbiamo anche pubblicati nei nostri spazi social. Non temete su questa battaglia non avete visto che solo la punta dell'iceberg. Il meglio deve ancora venire.... Continuate a seguirci! 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2022.12.17 21:57 pl4t1n00b The entire On the Question of Free Trade text to weed out the ultras
Gentlemen,
The Repeal of the Corn Laws in England is the greatest triumph of free trade in the 19th century. In every country where manufacturers talk of free trade, they have in mind chiefly free trade in corn and raw materials in general. To impose protective duties on foreign corn is infamous, it is to speculate on the famine of peoples.
Cheap food, high wages, this is the sole aim for which English free-traders have spent millions, and their enthusiasm has already spread to their brethren on the Continent. Generally speaking, those who wish for free trade desire it in order to alleviate the condition of the working class.
But, strange to say, the people for whom cheap food is to be procured at all costs are very ungrateful. Cheap food is as ill-esteemed in England as cheap government is in France. The people see in these self-sacrificing gentlemen, in Bowring, Bright and Co., their worst enemies and the most shameless hypocrites.
Everyone knows that in England the struggle between Liberals and Democrats takes the name of the struggle between Free-Traders and Chartists.
Let us now see how the English free-traders have proved to the people the good intentions that animate them.
This is what they said to the factory workers:
"The duty levied on corn is a tax upon wages; this tax you pay to the landlords, those medieval aristocrats; if your position is wretched one, it is on account of the dearness of the immediate necessities of life."
The workers in turn asked the manufacturers:
"How is it that in the course of the last 30 years, while our industry has undergone the greatest development, our wages have fallen far more rapidly, in proportion, than the price of corn has gone up?
"The tax which you say we pay the landlords is about 3 pence a week per worker. And yet the wages of the hand-loom weaver fell, between 1815 and 1843, from 28s. per week to 5s., and the wages of the power-loom weavers, between 1823 and 1843, from 20s. per week to 8s.
"And during the whole of this period that portion of the tax which we paid to the landlord has never exceeded 3 pence. And, then in the year 1834, when bread was very cheap and business going on very well, what did you tell us? You said, 'If you are unfortunate, it is because you have too many children, and your marriages are more productive than your labor!'
"These are the very words you spoke to us, and you set about making new Poor Laws, and building work-houses, the Bastilles of the proletariat."
To this the manufacturer replied:
"You are right, worthy laborers; it is not the price of corn alone, but competition of the hands among themselves as well, which determined wages.
"But ponder well one thing, namely, that our soil consists only of rocks and sandbanks. You surely do not imagine that corn can be grown in flower-pots. So if, instead of lavishing our capital and our labor upon a thoroughly sterile soil, we were to give up agriculture, and devote ourselves exclusively to industry, all Europe would abandon its factories, and England would form one huge factory town, with the whole of the rest of Europe for its countryside."
While thus haranguing his own workingmen, the manufacturer is interrogated by the small trader, who says to him:
"If we repeal the Corn Laws, we shall indeed ruin agriculture; but for all that, we shall not compel other nations to give up their own factories and buy from ours.
"What will the consequence be? I shall lose the customers that I have at present in the country, and the home trade will lose its market."
The manufacturer, turning his back upon the workers, replies to the shopkeeper:
"As to that, you leave it to us! Once rid of the duty on corn, we shall import cheaper corn from abroad. Then we shall reduce wages at the very time when they rise in the countries where we get out corn.
"Thus in addition to the advantages which we already enjoy we shall also have that of lower wages and, with all these advantage, we shall easily force the Continent to buy from us."
But now the farmers and agricultural laborers join in the discussion.
"And what, pray, is to become of us?
"Are we going to pass a sentence of death upon agriculture, from which we get our living? Are we to allow the soil to be torn from beneath our feet?"
As its whole answer, the Anti-Corn Law League has contented itself with offering prizes for the three best essays upon the wholesome influence of the repeal of the Corn Laws on English agriculture.
These prizes were carried off by Messrs. Hope, Morse, and Greg, whose essays were distributed in thousands of copies throughout the countryside.
The first of the prize-winners devotes himself to proving that neither the tenant farmer nor the agricultural laborer will lose by the free importation of foreign corn, but only the landlord.
"The English tenant farmer," he exclaims, "need not fear the repeal of the Corn Laws, because no other country can produce such good corn so cheaply as England.
"Thus, even if the price of corn fell, it would not hurt you, because this fall would only affect rent, which would go down, and not at all industrial profit and wages, which would remain stationary."
The second prize-winner, Mr. Morse, maintains, on the contrary, that the price of corn will rise in consequence of repeal. He takes infinite pains to prove that protective duties nave never been able to secure a remunerative price for corn.
In support for his assertion, he cites the fact that, whenever foreign corn has been imported, the price of corn in England has gone up considerably, and then when little corn has been imported, the price has fallen extremely. This prize-winner forgets that the importation was not the cause of the high price, but that the high price was the cause of the importation.
And in direct contradiction to his co-prize-winner, he asserts that every rise in the price of corn is profitable to both the tenant farmer and the laborer, but not to the landlord.
The third prize-winner, Mr. Greg, who is a big manufacturer and whose work is addressed to the large tenant farmers, could not hold with such stupidities. His language is more scientific.
He admits that the Corn Laws can raise rent only by raising the price of corn, and that they can raise the price of corn only by compelling capital to apply itself to land of inferior quality, and this is explained quite simply.
In proportion as population increases, if foreign corn cannot be imported, less fertile soil has to be used, the cultivation of which involves more expense and the product of this soil is consequently dearer.
There being a forced sale for corn, the price will of necessity be determined by the price of the product of the most costly soil. The difference between this price and the cost of production upon soil of better quality constitutes the rent.
If, therefore, as a result of the repeal of the Corn Laws, the price of corn, and consequently the rent, falls, it is because inferior soil will no longer be cultivated. Thus, the reduction of rent must inevitably ruin a part of the tenant farmers.
These remarks were necessary in order to make Mr. Greg's language comprehensible.
"The small farmers," he says, "who cannot support themselves by agriculture will find a resource in industry. As to the large tenant farmers, they cannot fail to profit. Either the landlords will be obliged to sell them land very cheap, or leases will be made out for very long periods. This will enable tenant farmers to apply large sums of capital to the land, to use agricultural machinery on a larger scale, and to save manual labor, which will, moreover, be cheaper, on account of the general fall in wages, the immediate consequences of the repeal of the Corn Laws."
Dr. Browning conferred upon all these arguments the consecration of religion, by exclaiming at a public meeting,
"Jesus Christ is Free Trade, and Free Trade is Jesus Christ."
One can understand that all this hypocrisy was not calculated to make cheap bread attractive to the workers.
Besides, how could the workingman understand the sudden philanthropy of the manufacturers, the very men still busy fighting against the Ten Hours' Bill, which was to reduce the working day of the mill hands from 12 hours to 10?
To give you an idea of the philanthropy of these manufacturers I would remind you, gentlemen, of the factory regulations in force in all the mills.
Every manufacturer has for his own private use a regular penal code in which fines are laid down for every voluntary or involuntary offence. For instance, the worker pays so much if he has the misfortune to sit down on a chair; if he whispers, or speaks, or laughs; if he arrives a few moments too late; if any part of the machine breaks, or he does not turn out work of the quality desired, etc., etc. The fines are always greater than the damage really done by the worker. And to give the worker every opportunity for incurring fines, the factory clock is set forward, and he is given bad raw material to make into good pieces of stuff. An overseer not sufficiently skillful in multiplying cases of infractions or rules is discharged.
You see, gentlemen, this private legislation is enacted for the especial purpose of creating such infractions, and infractions are manufactured for the purpose of making money. Thus the manufacturer uses every means of reducing the nominal wage, and of profiting even by accidents over which the worker has no control.
These manufacturers are the same philanthropists who have tried to make the workers believe that they were capable of going to immense expense for the sole purpose of ameliorating their lot. Thus, on the one hand, they nibble at the wages of the worker in the pettiest way, by means of factory regulations, and, on the other, they are undertaking the greatest sacrifices to raise those wages again by means of the Anti-Corn Law League.
They build great palaces at immense expense, in which the League takes up, in some respects, its official residence; they send an army of missionaries to all corners of England to preach the gospel of free trade; they have printed and distributed gratis thousands of pamphlets to enlighten the worker upon his own interests, they spend enormous sums to make the press favorable to their cause; they organize a vast administrative system for the conduct of the free trade movement, and they display all their wealth of eloquence at public meetings. It was at one of these meetings that a worker cried out:
"If the landlords were to sell our bones, you manufacturers would be the first to buy them in order to put them through a steam-mill and make flour of them."
The English workers have very well understood the significance of the struggle between the landlords and the industrial capitalists. They know very well that the price of bread was to be reduced in order to reduce wages, and that industrial profit would rise by as much as rent fell.
Ricardo, the apostle of the English free-traders, the most eminent economist of our century, entirely agrees with the workers upon this point. In his celebrated work on political economy, he says:
"If instead of growing our own corn... we discover a new market from which we can supply ourselves... at a cheaper price, wages will fall and profits rise. The fall in the price of agricultural produce reduces the wages, not only of the laborer employed in cultivating the soil, but also of all those employed in commerce or manufacture."
[David Ricardo, Des principes de l'economie politique et de l'impot. Traduit de l'anglais par F. S. Constancio, avec des notes explicatives et critiques par J.-B.- Say. T. I., Paris 1835, p.178-79]
And do not believe, gentlemen, that is is a matter of indifference to the worker whether he receives only four francs on account of corn being cheaper, when he had been receiving five francs before.
Have not his wages always fallen in comparison with profit, and is it not clear that his social position has grown worse as compared with that of the capitalist? Besides which he loses more as a matter of fact.
So long as the price of corn was higher and wages were also higher, a small saving in the consumption of bread sufficed to procure him other enjoyments. But as soon as bread is very cheap, and wages are therefore very cheap, he can save almost nothing on bread for the purchase of other articles.
The English workers have made the English free-traders realize that they are not the dupes of their illusions or of their lies; and if, in spite of this, the workers made common cause with them against the landlords, it was for the purpose of destroying the last remnants of feudalism and in order to have only one enemy left to deal with. The workers have not miscalculated, for the landlords, in order to revenge themselves upon the manufacturers, made common cause with the workers to carry the Ten Hours' Bill, which the latter had been vainly demanding for 30 years, and which was passed immediately after the repeal of the Corn Laws.
When Dr. Bowring, at the Congress of Economists [September 16-18, 1848; the following, among others, were present: Dr. Bowring, M.P., Colonel Thompson, Mr. Ewart, Mr. Brown, and James Wilson, editor of the Economist], drew from his pocket a long list to show how many head of cattle, how much ham, bacon, poultry, etc., was imported into England, to be consumed, as he asserted, by the workers, he unfortunately forgot to tell you that all the time the workers of Manchester and other factory towns were finding themselves thrown into the streets by the crisis which was beginning.
As a matter of principle in political economy, the figures of a single year must never be taken as the basis for formulating general laws. One must always take the average period of from six to seven years -- a period of time during which modern industry passes through the various phases of prosperity, overproduction, stagnation, crisis, and completes its inevitable cycle.
Doubtless, if the price of all commodities falls -- and this is the necessary consequence of free trade -- I can buy far more for a franc than before. And the worker's france is as good as any other man's. Therefore, free trade will be very advantageous to the worker. There is only little difficulty in this, namely, that the worker, before he exchanges his franc for other commodities, has first exchanged his labor with the capitalist. If in this exchange he always received the said franc for the same labor and the price of all other commodities fell, he would always be the gainer by such a bargain. The difficult point does not lie in proving that, if the price of all commodities falls, I will get more commodities for the same money.
Economists always take the price of labor at the moment of its exchange with other commodities. But they altogether ignore the moment at which labor accomplishes its own exchange with capital.
When less expense is required to set in motion the machine which produces commodities, the things necessary for the maintenance of this machine, called a worker, will also cost less. If all commodities are cheaper, labor, which is a commodity too, will also fall in price, and, as we shall see later, this commodity, labor, will fall far lower in proportion than the other commodities. If the worker still pins his faith to the arguments of the economists, he will find that the franc has melted away in his pocket, and that he has only 5 sous left.
Thereupon the economists will tell you:
"Well, we admit that competition among the workers, which will certainly not have diminished under free trade, will very soon bring wages into harm,only with the low price of commodities. But, on the other hand, the low price of commodities will increase consumption, the larger consumption will require increased production, which will be followed by a larger demand for hands, and this larger demand for hands will be followed by a rise in wages."
The whole line of argument amounts to this: Free trade increases productive forces. If industry keeps growing, if wealth, if the productive power, if, in a word, productive capital increases, the demand for labor,the price of labor, and consequently the rate of wages, rise also.
The most favorable condition for the worker is the growth of capital. This must be admitted. If capital remains stationary, industry will not merely remain stationary but will decline, and in this case the worker will be the first victim. He goes to the wall before the capitalist. And in the case where capital keeps growing, in the circumstance which we have said are the best for the worker, what will be his lot? He will go to the wall just the same. The growth of productive capital implies the accumulation and the concentration of capital. The centralization of capital involves a greater division of labor and a greater use of machinery. The greater division of labor destroys the especial skill of the laborer; and by putting in the place of this skilled work labor which anybody can perform, it increase competition among the workers.
This competition becomes fiercer as the division of labor enables a single worker to do the work of three. Machinery accomplishes the same result on a much larger scale. The growth of productive capital, which forces the industrial capitalists to work with constantly increasing means, ruins the small industrialist and throws them into the proletariat. Then, the rate of interest falling in proportion as capital accumulates, the small rentiers, who can no longer live on their dividends, are forced to go into industry and thus swell the number of proletarians.
Finally, the more productive capital increases, the more it is compelled to produce for a market whose requirements it does not know, the more production precedes consumption, the more supply tries to force demand, and consumption crises increase in frequency and in intensity. But every crisis in turn hastens the centralization of capital and adds to the proletariat.
Thus, as productive capital grows, competition among the workers grows in a far greater proportion. The reward of labor diminishes for all, and the burden of labor increases for some.
In 1829, there were in Manchester 1,088 cotton spinners employed in 36 factories. In 1841, there were no more than 448, and they tended 53,353 more spindles than the 1,088 spinners did in 1829. In manual labor had increased in the same proportion as the productive power, the number of spinners ought to have reaches the figure of 1,848; improved machinery had, therefore, deprived 1,100 workers of employment.
We know beforehand the reply of the economists. The men thus deprived of work, they say, will find other kinds of employment. Dr. Bowring did not fail to reproduce this argument at the Congress of Economists, but neither did he fail to supply his own refutation.
In 1835, Dr. Bowring made a speech in the House of Commons upon the 50,000 hand-loom weavers of London who for a very long time had been starving without being able to find that new kind of employment which the free-traders hold out to them in the distance.
We will give the most striking passages of this speech of Dr. Bowring:
"This distress of the weavers... is an incredible condition of a species of labor easily learned -- and constantly intruded on and superseded by cheaper means of production. A very short cessation of demand, where the competition for work is so great... produces a crisis. The hand-loom weavers are on the verge of that state beyond which human existence can hardly be sustained, and a very trifling check hurls them into the regions of starvation.... The improvements of machinery, ...by superseding manual labor more and more, infallibly bring with them in the transition much of temporary suffering.... The national good cannot be purchased but at the expense of some individual evil. No advance was ever made in manufactures but at some cost to those who are in the rear; and of all discoveries, the power-loom is that which most directly bears on the condition of the hand-loom weaver. He is already beaten out of the field in many articles; he will infallibly be compelled to surrender many more."
Further on he says:
"I hold in my hand the correspondence which has taken place between the Governor-General of India and the East-India Company, on the subject of the Dacca hand-loom weavers.... Some years ago the East-India Company annually received of the produce of the looms of India to the amount of from 6,000,000 to 8,000,000 of pieces of cotton goods. The demand gradually fell to somewhat more than 1,000,000, and has now nearly ceased altogether. In 1800, the United States took from India nearly 800,000 pieces of cotton; in 1830, not 4,000. In 1800, 1,000,000 pieces were shipped to Portugal; in 1830, only 20,000. Terrible were the accounts of the wretchedness of the poor Indian weavers, reduced to absolute starvation. And what was the sole cause? The presence of the cheaper English manufacture.... Numbers of them dies of hunger, the remainder were, for the most part, transferred to other occupations, principally agricultural. Not to have changed their trade was inevitable starvation. And at this moment that Dacca district is supplied with yarn and cotton cloth from the power-looms of England.... The Dacca muslins, celebrated over the whole world for their beauty and fineness, are also annihilated from the same cause. And the present suffering, to numerous classes in India, is scarcely to be paralleled in the history of commerce."
[ Speech in the House of Commons, July 28, 1835. (Hansard, Vol.XXIX, London 1835, pp.1168-70) ]
Dr. Bowring's speech is the more remarkable because the facts quoted by him are exact, and the phrases with which he seeks to palliate them are wholly characterized by the hypocrisy common to all free trade sermons. He represents the workers as means of production which must be superseded by less expensive means of production. He pretends to see in the labor of which he speaks a wholly exceptional kind of labor, and in the machine which has crushed out the weavers an equally exceptional machine. He forgets that there is no kind of manual labor which may not any day be subjected to the fate of the hand-loom weavers.
"It is, in fact, the constant aim and tendency of every improvement in machine to supersede human labor altogether, or to diminish its cost by substituting the industry of women and children for that of men; or that of ordinary laborers for trained artisans. In most of the water-twist, or throstle cotton-mills, the spinning is entirely managed by females of 16 years and upwards. The effect of substituting the self-acting mule for the common mule, is to discharge the greater part of the men spinners, and to retain adolescents and children."
[Dr. Andrew Ure, The Philosophy of Manufactures London 1835. Book I, Chap.I, p.23]
These words of the most enthusiastic free-trader, Dr. Ure, serve to complement the confessions of Dr. Bowring. Dr. Bowring speaks of certain individual evils, and, at the same time, says that these individual evils destroy whole classes; he speaks of the temporary sufferings during the transition period, and at the very time of speaking of them, he does not deny that these temporary evils have implied for the majority the transition from life to death, and for the rest a transition from a better to a worse condition. If he asserts, farther on, that the sufferings of these workers are inseparable from the progress of industry, and are necessary to the prosperity of the nation, he simply says that the prosperity of the bourgeois class presupposed as necessary the suffering of the laboring class.
All the consolation which Dr. Bowring offers the workers who perish, and, indeed, the whole doctrine of compensation which the free-traders propound, amounts to this:
You thousands of workers who are perishing, do not despair! You can die with an easy conscience. Your class will not perish. It will always be numerous enough for the capitalist class to decimate it without fear of annihilating it. Besides, how could capital be usefully applied if it did not take care always to keep up its exploitable material, i.e., the workers, to exploit them over and over again?
But, besides, why propound as a problem still to be solved the question: What influence will the adoption of free trade have upon the condition of the working class? All the laws formulated by the political economists from Quesnay to Ricardo have been based upon the hypothesis that the trammels which still interfere with commercial freedom have disappeared. These laws are confirmed in proportion as free trade is adopted. The first of these laws is that competition reduces the price of every commodity to the minimum cost of production. Thus the minimum of wages is the natural price of labor. And what is the minimum of wages? Just so much as is required for production of the articles indispensable for the maintenance of the worker, for putting him in a position to sustain himself, however badly, and to propagate his race, however slightly.
But do not imagine that the worker receives only this minimum wage, and still less that he always receives it.
No, according to this law, the working class will sometimes be more fortunate. It will sometimes receive something above the minimum, but this surplus will merely make up for the deficit which it will have received below the minimum in times of industrial stagnation. That is to say that, within a given time which recurs periodically, in the cycle which industry passes through while undergoing the vicissitudes of prosperity, overproduction, stagnation and crisis, when reckoning all that the working class will have had above and below necessaries, we shall see that, in all, it will have received neither more nor less than the minimum; i.e., the working class will have maintained itself as a class after enduring any amount of misery and misfortune, and after leaving many corpses upon the industrial battlefield. But what of that? The class will still exist; nay, more, it will have increased.
But this is not all. The progress of industry creates less expensive means of subsistence. Thus spirits have taken the place of beer, cotton that of wool and linen, and potatoes that of bread.
Thus, as means are constantly being found for the maintenance of labor on cheaper and more wretched food, the minimum of wages is constantly sinking. If these wages began by making the man work to live, they end by making him live the life of a machine. His existence has not other value than that of a simple productive force, and the capitalist treats him accordingly.
This law of commodity labor, of the minimum of wages, will be confirmed in proportion as the supposition of the economists, free-trade, becomes an actual fact. Thus, of two things one: either we must reject all political economy based on the assumption of free trade, or we must admit that under this free trade the whole severity of the economic laws will fall upon the workers.
To sum up, what is free trade, what is free trade under the present condition of society? It is freedom of capital. When you have overthrown the few national barriers which still restrict the progress of capital, you will merely have given it complete freedom of action. So long as you let the relation of wage labor to capital exist, it does not matter how favorable the conditions under which the exchange of commodities takes place, there will always be a class which will exploit and a class which will be exploited. It is really difficult to understand the claim of the free-traders who imagine that the more advantageous application of capital will abolish the antagonism between industrial capitalists and wage workers. On the contrary, the only result will be that the antagonism of these two classes will stand out still more clearly.
Let us assume for a moment that there are no more Corn Laws or national or local custom duties; in fact that all the accidental circumstances which today the worker may take to be the cause of his miserable condition have entirely vanished, and you will have removed so many curtains that hide from his eyes his true enemy.
He will see that capital become free will make him no less a slave than capital trammeled by customs duties.
Gentlemen! Do not allow yourselves to be deluded by the abstract word freedom. Whose freedom? It is not the freedom of one individual in relation to another, but the freedom of capital to crush the worker.
Why should you desire to go on sanctioning free competition with this idea of freedom, when this freedom is only the product of a state of things based upon free competition?
We have shown what sort of brotherhood free trade begets between the different classes of one and the same nation. The brotherhood which free trade would establish between the nations of the Earth would hardly be more fraternal. To call cosmopolitan exploitation universal brotherhood is an idea that could only be engendered in the brain of the bourgeoisie. All the destructive phenomena which unlimited competition gives rise to within one country are reproduced in more gigantic proportions on the world market. We need not dwell any longer upon free trade sophisms on this subject, which are worth just as much as the arguments of our prize-winners Messrs. Hope, Morse, and Greg.
For instance, we are told that free trade would create an international division of labor, and thereby give to each country the production which is most in harmony with its natural advantage.
You believe, perhaps, gentlemen, that the production of coffee and sugar is the natural destiny of the West Indies.
Two centuries ago, nature, which does not trouble herself about commerce, had planted neither sugar-cane nor coffee trees there.
And it may be that in less than half a century you will find there neither coffee nor sugar, for the East Indies, by means of cheaper production, have already successfully combatted his alleged natural destiny of the West Indies. And the West Indies, with their natural wealth, are already as heavy a burden for England as the weavers of Dacca, who also were destined from the beginning of time to weave by hand.
One other thing must never be forgotten, namely, that, just as everything has become a monopoly, there are also nowadays some branches of industry which dominate all others, and secure to the nations which most largely cultivate them the command of the world market. Thus in international commerce cotton alone has much greater commercial than all the other raw materials used in the manufacture of clothing put together. It is truly ridiculous to see the free-traders stress the few specialities in each branch of industry,throwing them into the balance against the products used in everyday consumption and produced most cheaply in those countries in which manufacture is most highly developed.
If the free-traders cannot understand how one nation can grow rich at the expense of another, we need not wonder, since these same gentlemen also refuse to understand how within one country one class can enrich itself at the expense of another.
Do not imagine, gentlemen, that in criticizing freedom of trade we have the least intention of defending the system of protection.
One may declare oneself an enemy of the constitutional regime without declaring oneself a friend of the ancient regime.
Moreover, the protectionist system is nothing but a means of establishing large-scale industry in any given country, that is to say, of making it dependent upon the world market, and from the moment that dependence upon the world market is established, there is already more or less dependence upon free trade. Besides this, the protective system helps to develop free trade competition within a country. Hence we see that in countries where the bourgeoisie is beginning to make itself felt as a class, in Germany for example, it makes great efforts to obtain protective duties. They serve the bourgeoisie as weapons against feudalism and absolute government, as a means for the concentration of its own powers and for the realization of free trade within the same country.
But, in general, the protective system of our day is conservative, while the free trade system is destructive. It breaks up old nationalities and pushes the antagonism of the proletariat and the bourgeoisie to the extreme point. In a word, the free trade system hastens the social revolution. It is in this revolutionary sense alone, gentlemen, that I vote in favor of free trade.
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The Repeal of the Corn Laws in England is the greatest triumph of free trade in the 19th century. In every country where manufacturers talk of free trade, they have in mind chiefly free trade in corn and raw materials in general. To impose protective duties on foreign corn is infamous, it is to speculate on the famine of peoples.
Cheap food, high wages, this is the sole aim for which English free-traders have spent millions, and their enthusiasm has already spread to their brethren on the Continent. Generally speaking, those who wish for free trade desire it in order to alleviate the condition of the working class.
But, strange to say, the people for whom cheap food is to be procured at all costs are very ungrateful. Cheap food is as ill-esteemed in England as cheap government is in France. The people see in these self-sacrificing gentlemen, in Bowring, Bright and Co., their worst enemies and the most shameless hypocrites.
Everyone knows that in England the struggle between Liberals and Democrats takes the name of the struggle between Free-Traders and Chartists.
Let us now see how the English free-traders have proved to the people the good intentions that animate them.
This is what they said to the factory workers:
"The duty levied on corn is a tax upon wages; this tax you pay to the landlords, those medieval aristocrats; if your position is wretched one, it is on account of the dearness of the immediate necessities of life."
The workers in turn asked the manufacturers:
"How is it that in the course of the last 30 years, while our industry has undergone the greatest development, our wages have fallen far more rapidly, in proportion, than the price of corn has gone up?
"The tax which you say we pay the landlords is about 3 pence a week per worker. And yet the wages of the hand-loom weaver fell, between 1815 and 1843, from 28s. per week to 5s., and the wages of the power-loom weavers, between 1823 and 1843, from 20s. per week to 8s.
"And during the whole of this period that portion of the tax which we paid to the landlord has never exceeded 3 pence. And, then in the year 1834, when bread was very cheap and business going on very well, what did you tell us? You said, 'If you are unfortunate, it is because you have too many children, and your marriages are more productive than your labor!'
"These are the very words you spoke to us, and you set about making new Poor Laws, and building work-houses, the Bastilles of the proletariat."
To this the manufacturer replied:
"You are right, worthy laborers; it is not the price of corn alone, but competition of the hands among themselves as well, which determined wages.
"But ponder well one thing, namely, that our soil consists only of rocks and sandbanks. You surely do not imagine that corn can be grown in flower-pots. So if, instead of lavishing our capital and our labor upon a thoroughly sterile soil, we were to give up agriculture, and devote ourselves exclusively to industry, all Europe would abandon its factories, and England would form one huge factory town, with the whole of the rest of Europe for its countryside."
While thus haranguing his own workingmen, the manufacturer is interrogated by the small trader, who says to him:
"If we repeal the Corn Laws, we shall indeed ruin agriculture; but for all that, we shall not compel other nations to give up their own factories and buy from ours.
"What will the consequence be? I shall lose the customers that I have at present in the country, and the home trade will lose its market."
The manufacturer, turning his back upon the workers, replies to the shopkeeper:
"As to that, you leave it to us! Once rid of the duty on corn, we shall import cheaper corn from abroad. Then we shall reduce wages at the very time when they rise in the countries where we get out corn.
"Thus in addition to the advantages which we already enjoy we shall also have that of lower wages and, with all these advantage, we shall easily force the Continent to buy from us."
But now the farmers and agricultural laborers join in the discussion.
"And what, pray, is to become of us?
"Are we going to pass a sentence of death upon agriculture, from which we get our living? Are we to allow the soil to be torn from beneath our feet?"
As its whole answer, the Anti-Corn Law League has contented itself with offering prizes for the three best essays upon the wholesome influence of the repeal of the Corn Laws on English agriculture.
These prizes were carried off by Messrs. Hope, Morse, and Greg, whose essays were distributed in thousands of copies throughout the countryside.
The first of the prize-winners devotes himself to proving that neither the tenant farmer nor the agricultural laborer will lose by the free importation of foreign corn, but only the landlord.
"The English tenant farmer," he exclaims, "need not fear the repeal of the Corn Laws, because no other country can produce such good corn so cheaply as England.
"Thus, even if the price of corn fell, it would not hurt you, because this fall would only affect rent, which would go down, and not at all industrial profit and wages, which would remain stationary."
The second prize-winner, Mr. Morse, maintains, on the contrary, that the price of corn will rise in consequence of repeal. He takes infinite pains to prove that protective duties nave never been able to secure a remunerative price for corn.
In support for his assertion, he cites the fact that, whenever foreign corn has been imported, the price of corn in England has gone up considerably, and then when little corn has been imported, the price has fallen extremely. This prize-winner forgets that the importation was not the cause of the high price, but that the high price was the cause of the importation.
And in direct contradiction to his co-prize-winner, he asserts that every rise in the price of corn is profitable to both the tenant farmer and the laborer, but not to the landlord.
The third prize-winner, Mr. Greg, who is a big manufacturer and whose work is addressed to the large tenant farmers, could not hold with such stupidities. His language is more scientific.
He admits that the Corn Laws can raise rent only by raising the price of corn, and that they can raise the price of corn only by compelling capital to apply itself to land of inferior quality, and this is explained quite simply.
In proportion as population increases, if foreign corn cannot be imported, less fertile soil has to be used, the cultivation of which involves more expense and the product of this soil is consequently dearer.
There being a forced sale for corn, the price will of necessity be determined by the price of the product of the most costly soil. The difference between this price and the cost of production upon soil of better quality constitutes the rent.
If, therefore, as a result of the repeal of the Corn Laws, the price of corn, and consequently the rent, falls, it is because inferior soil will no longer be cultivated. Thus, the reduction of rent must inevitably ruin a part of the tenant farmers.
These remarks were necessary in order to make Mr. Greg's language comprehensible.
"The small farmers," he says, "who cannot support themselves by agriculture will find a resource in industry. As to the large tenant farmers, they cannot fail to profit. Either the landlords will be obliged to sell them land very cheap, or leases will be made out for very long periods. This will enable tenant farmers to apply large sums of capital to the land, to use agricultural machinery on a larger scale, and to save manual labor, which will, moreover, be cheaper, on account of the general fall in wages, the immediate consequences of the repeal of the Corn Laws."
Dr. Browning conferred upon all these arguments the consecration of religion, by exclaiming at a public meeting,
"Jesus Christ is Free Trade, and Free Trade is Jesus Christ."
One can understand that all this hypocrisy was not calculated to make cheap bread attractive to the workers.
Besides, how could the workingman understand the sudden philanthropy of the manufacturers, the very men still busy fighting against the Ten Hours' Bill, which was to reduce the working day of the mill hands from 12 hours to 10?
To give you an idea of the philanthropy of these manufacturers I would remind you, gentlemen, of the factory regulations in force in all the mills.
Every manufacturer has for his own private use a regular penal code in which fines are laid down for every voluntary or involuntary offence. For instance, the worker pays so much if he has the misfortune to sit down on a chair; if he whispers, or speaks, or laughs; if he arrives a few moments too late; if any part of the machine breaks, or he does not turn out work of the quality desired, etc., etc. The fines are always greater than the damage really done by the worker. And to give the worker every opportunity for incurring fines, the factory clock is set forward, and he is given bad raw material to make into good pieces of stuff. An overseer not sufficiently skillful in multiplying cases of infractions or rules is discharged.
You see, gentlemen, this private legislation is enacted for the especial purpose of creating such infractions, and infractions are manufactured for the purpose of making money. Thus the manufacturer uses every means of reducing the nominal wage, and of profiting even by accidents over which the worker has no control.
These manufacturers are the same philanthropists who have tried to make the workers believe that they were capable of going to immense expense for the sole purpose of ameliorating their lot. Thus, on the one hand, they nibble at the wages of the worker in the pettiest way, by means of factory regulations, and, on the other, they are undertaking the greatest sacrifices to raise those wages again by means of the Anti-Corn Law League.
They build great palaces at immense expense, in which the League takes up, in some respects, its official residence; they send an army of missionaries to all corners of England to preach the gospel of free trade; they have printed and distributed gratis thousands of pamphlets to enlighten the worker upon his own interests, they spend enormous sums to make the press favorable to their cause; they organize a vast administrative system for the conduct of the free trade movement, and they display all their wealth of eloquence at public meetings. It was at one of these meetings that a worker cried out:
"If the landlords were to sell our bones, you manufacturers would be the first to buy them in order to put them through a steam-mill and make flour of them."
The English workers have very well understood the significance of the struggle between the landlords and the industrial capitalists. They know very well that the price of bread was to be reduced in order to reduce wages, and that industrial profit would rise by as much as rent fell.
Ricardo, the apostle of the English free-traders, the most eminent economist of our century, entirely agrees with the workers upon this point. In his celebrated work on political economy, he says:
"If instead of growing our own corn... we discover a new market from which we can supply ourselves... at a cheaper price, wages will fall and profits rise. The fall in the price of agricultural produce reduces the wages, not only of the laborer employed in cultivating the soil, but also of all those employed in commerce or manufacture."
[David Ricardo, Des principes de l'economie politique et de l'impot. Traduit de l'anglais par F. S. Constancio, avec des notes explicatives et critiques par J.-B.- Say. T. I., Paris 1835, p.178-79]
And do not believe, gentlemen, that is is a matter of indifference to the worker whether he receives only four francs on account of corn being cheaper, when he had been receiving five francs before.
Have not his wages always fallen in comparison with profit, and is it not clear that his social position has grown worse as compared with that of the capitalist? Besides which he loses more as a matter of fact.
So long as the price of corn was higher and wages were also higher, a small saving in the consumption of bread sufficed to procure him other enjoyments. But as soon as bread is very cheap, and wages are therefore very cheap, he can save almost nothing on bread for the purchase of other articles.
The English workers have made the English free-traders realize that they are not the dupes of their illusions or of their lies; and if, in spite of this, the workers made common cause with them against the landlords, it was for the purpose of destroying the last remnants of feudalism and in order to have only one enemy left to deal with. The workers have not miscalculated, for the landlords, in order to revenge themselves upon the manufacturers, made common cause with the workers to carry the Ten Hours' Bill, which the latter had been vainly demanding for 30 years, and which was passed immediately after the repeal of the Corn Laws.
When Dr. Bowring, at the Congress of Economists [September 16-18, 1848; the following, among others, were present: Dr. Bowring, M.P., Colonel Thompson, Mr. Ewart, Mr. Brown, and James Wilson, editor of the Economist], drew from his pocket a long list to show how many head of cattle, how much ham, bacon, poultry, etc., was imported into England, to be consumed, as he asserted, by the workers, he unfortunately forgot to tell you that all the time the workers of Manchester and other factory towns were finding themselves thrown into the streets by the crisis which was beginning.
As a matter of principle in political economy, the figures of a single year must never be taken as the basis for formulating general laws. One must always take the average period of from six to seven years -- a period of time during which modern industry passes through the various phases of prosperity, overproduction, stagnation, crisis, and completes its inevitable cycle.
Doubtless, if the price of all commodities falls -- and this is the necessary consequence of free trade -- I can buy far more for a franc than before. And the worker's france is as good as any other man's. Therefore, free trade will be very advantageous to the worker. There is only little difficulty in this, namely, that the worker, before he exchanges his franc for other commodities, has first exchanged his labor with the capitalist. If in this exchange he always received the said franc for the same labor and the price of all other commodities fell, he would always be the gainer by such a bargain. The difficult point does not lie in proving that, if the price of all commodities falls, I will get more commodities for the same money.
Economists always take the price of labor at the moment of its exchange with other commodities. But they altogether ignore the moment at which labor accomplishes its own exchange with capital.
When less expense is required to set in motion the machine which produces commodities, the things necessary for the maintenance of this machine, called a worker, will also cost less. If all commodities are cheaper, labor, which is a commodity too, will also fall in price, and, as we shall see later, this commodity, labor, will fall far lower in proportion than the other commodities. If the worker still pins his faith to the arguments of the economists, he will find that the franc has melted away in his pocket, and that he has only 5 sous left.
Thereupon the economists will tell you:
"Well, we admit that competition among the workers, which will certainly not have diminished under free trade, will very soon bring wages into harm,only with the low price of commodities. But, on the other hand, the low price of commodities will increase consumption, the larger consumption will require increased production, which will be followed by a larger demand for hands, and this larger demand for hands will be followed by a rise in wages."
The whole line of argument amounts to this: Free trade increases productive forces. If industry keeps growing, if wealth, if the productive power, if, in a word, productive capital increases, the demand for labor,the price of labor, and consequently the rate of wages, rise also.
The most favorable condition for the worker is the growth of capital. This must be admitted. If capital remains stationary, industry will not merely remain stationary but will decline, and in this case the worker will be the first victim. He goes to the wall before the capitalist. And in the case where capital keeps growing, in the circumstance which we have said are the best for the worker, what will be his lot? He will go to the wall just the same. The growth of productive capital implies the accumulation and the concentration of capital. The centralization of capital involves a greater division of labor and a greater use of machinery. The greater division of labor destroys the especial skill of the laborer; and by putting in the place of this skilled work labor which anybody can perform, it increase competition among the workers.
This competition becomes fiercer as the division of labor enables a single worker to do the work of three. Machinery accomplishes the same result on a much larger scale. The growth of productive capital, which forces the industrial capitalists to work with constantly increasing means, ruins the small industrialist and throws them into the proletariat. Then, the rate of interest falling in proportion as capital accumulates, the small rentiers, who can no longer live on their dividends, are forced to go into industry and thus swell the number of proletarians.
Finally, the more productive capital increases, the more it is compelled to produce for a market whose requirements it does not know, the more production precedes consumption, the more supply tries to force demand, and consumption crises increase in frequency and in intensity. But every crisis in turn hastens the centralization of capital and adds to the proletariat.
Thus, as productive capital grows, competition among the workers grows in a far greater proportion. The reward of labor diminishes for all, and the burden of labor increases for some.
In 1829, there were in Manchester 1,088 cotton spinners employed in 36 factories. In 1841, there were no more than 448, and they tended 53,353 more spindles than the 1,088 spinners did in 1829. In manual labor had increased in the same proportion as the productive power, the number of spinners ought to have reaches the figure of 1,848; improved machinery had, therefore, deprived 1,100 workers of employment.
We know beforehand the reply of the economists. The men thus deprived of work, they say, will find other kinds of employment. Dr. Bowring did not fail to reproduce this argument at the Congress of Economists, but neither did he fail to supply his own refutation.
In 1835, Dr. Bowring made a speech in the House of Commons upon the 50,000 hand-loom weavers of London who for a very long time had been starving without being able to find that new kind of employment which the free-traders hold out to them in the distance.
We will give the most striking passages of this speech of Dr. Bowring:
"This distress of the weavers... is an incredible condition of a species of labor easily learned -- and constantly intruded on and superseded by cheaper means of production. A very short cessation of demand, where the competition for work is so great... produces a crisis. The hand-loom weavers are on the verge of that state beyond which human existence can hardly be sustained, and a very trifling check hurls them into the regions of starvation.... The improvements of machinery, ...by superseding manual labor more and more, infallibly bring with them in the transition much of temporary suffering.... The national good cannot be purchased but at the expense of some individual evil. No advance was ever made in manufactures but at some cost to those who are in the rear; and of all discoveries, the power-loom is that which most directly bears on the condition of the hand-loom weaver. He is already beaten out of the field in many articles; he will infallibly be compelled to surrender many more."
Further on he says:
"I hold in my hand the correspondence which has taken place between the Governor-General of India and the East-India Company, on the subject of the Dacca hand-loom weavers.... Some years ago the East-India Company annually received of the produce of the looms of India to the amount of from 6,000,000 to 8,000,000 of pieces of cotton goods. The demand gradually fell to somewhat more than 1,000,000, and has now nearly ceased altogether. In 1800, the United States took from India nearly 800,000 pieces of cotton; in 1830, not 4,000. In 1800, 1,000,000 pieces were shipped to Portugal; in 1830, only 20,000. Terrible were the accounts of the wretchedness of the poor Indian weavers, reduced to absolute starvation. And what was the sole cause? The presence of the cheaper English manufacture.... Numbers of them dies of hunger, the remainder were, for the most part, transferred to other occupations, principally agricultural. Not to have changed their trade was inevitable starvation. And at this moment that Dacca district is supplied with yarn and cotton cloth from the power-looms of England.... The Dacca muslins, celebrated over the whole world for their beauty and fineness, are also annihilated from the same cause. And the present suffering, to numerous classes in India, is scarcely to be paralleled in the history of commerce."
[ Speech in the House of Commons, July 28, 1835. (Hansard, Vol.XXIX, London 1835, pp.1168-70) ]
Dr. Bowring's speech is the more remarkable because the facts quoted by him are exact, and the phrases with which he seeks to palliate them are wholly characterized by the hypocrisy common to all free trade sermons. He represents the workers as means of production which must be superseded by less expensive means of production. He pretends to see in the labor of which he speaks a wholly exceptional kind of labor, and in the machine which has crushed out the weavers an equally exceptional machine. He forgets that there is no kind of manual labor which may not any day be subjected to the fate of the hand-loom weavers.
"It is, in fact, the constant aim and tendency of every improvement in machine to supersede human labor altogether, or to diminish its cost by substituting the industry of women and children for that of men; or that of ordinary laborers for trained artisans. In most of the water-twist, or throstle cotton-mills, the spinning is entirely managed by females of 16 years and upwards. The effect of substituting the self-acting mule for the common mule, is to discharge the greater part of the men spinners, and to retain adolescents and children."
[Dr. Andrew Ure, The Philosophy of Manufactures London 1835. Book I, Chap.I, p.23]
These words of the most enthusiastic free-trader, Dr. Ure, serve to complement the confessions of Dr. Bowring. Dr. Bowring speaks of certain individual evils, and, at the same time, says that these individual evils destroy whole classes; he speaks of the temporary sufferings during the transition period, and at the very time of speaking of them, he does not deny that these temporary evils have implied for the majority the transition from life to death, and for the rest a transition from a better to a worse condition. If he asserts, farther on, that the sufferings of these workers are inseparable from the progress of industry, and are necessary to the prosperity of the nation, he simply says that the prosperity of the bourgeois class presupposed as necessary the suffering of the laboring class.
All the consolation which Dr. Bowring offers the workers who perish, and, indeed, the whole doctrine of compensation which the free-traders propound, amounts to this:
You thousands of workers who are perishing, do not despair! You can die with an easy conscience. Your class will not perish. It will always be numerous enough for the capitalist class to decimate it without fear of annihilating it. Besides, how could capital be usefully applied if it did not take care always to keep up its exploitable material, i.e., the workers, to exploit them over and over again?
But, besides, why propound as a problem still to be solved the question: What influence will the adoption of free trade have upon the condition of the working class? All the laws formulated by the political economists from Quesnay to Ricardo have been based upon the hypothesis that the trammels which still interfere with commercial freedom have disappeared. These laws are confirmed in proportion as free trade is adopted. The first of these laws is that competition reduces the price of every commodity to the minimum cost of production. Thus the minimum of wages is the natural price of labor. And what is the minimum of wages? Just so much as is required for production of the articles indispensable for the maintenance of the worker, for putting him in a position to sustain himself, however badly, and to propagate his race, however slightly.
But do not imagine that the worker receives only this minimum wage, and still less that he always receives it.
No, according to this law, the working class will sometimes be more fortunate. It will sometimes receive something above the minimum, but this surplus will merely make up for the deficit which it will have received below the minimum in times of industrial stagnation. That is to say that, within a given time which recurs periodically, in the cycle which industry passes through while undergoing the vicissitudes of prosperity, overproduction, stagnation and crisis, when reckoning all that the working class will have had above and below necessaries, we shall see that, in all, it will have received neither more nor less than the minimum; i.e., the working class will have maintained itself as a class after enduring any amount of misery and misfortune, and after leaving many corpses upon the industrial battlefield. But what of that? The class will still exist; nay, more, it will have increased.
But this is not all. The progress of industry creates less expensive means of subsistence. Thus spirits have taken the place of beer, cotton that of wool and linen, and potatoes that of bread.
Thus, as means are constantly being found for the maintenance of labor on cheaper and more wretched food, the minimum of wages is constantly sinking. If these wages began by making the man work to live, they end by making him live the life of a machine. His existence has not other value than that of a simple productive force, and the capitalist treats him accordingly.
This law of commodity labor, of the minimum of wages, will be confirmed in proportion as the supposition of the economists, free-trade, becomes an actual fact. Thus, of two things one: either we must reject all political economy based on the assumption of free trade, or we must admit that under this free trade the whole severity of the economic laws will fall upon the workers.
To sum up, what is free trade, what is free trade under the present condition of society? It is freedom of capital. When you have overthrown the few national barriers which still restrict the progress of capital, you will merely have given it complete freedom of action. So long as you let the relation of wage labor to capital exist, it does not matter how favorable the conditions under which the exchange of commodities takes place, there will always be a class which will exploit and a class which will be exploited. It is really difficult to understand the claim of the free-traders who imagine that the more advantageous application of capital will abolish the antagonism between industrial capitalists and wage workers. On the contrary, the only result will be that the antagonism of these two classes will stand out still more clearly.
Let us assume for a moment that there are no more Corn Laws or national or local custom duties; in fact that all the accidental circumstances which today the worker may take to be the cause of his miserable condition have entirely vanished, and you will have removed so many curtains that hide from his eyes his true enemy.
He will see that capital become free will make him no less a slave than capital trammeled by customs duties.
Gentlemen! Do not allow yourselves to be deluded by the abstract word freedom. Whose freedom? It is not the freedom of one individual in relation to another, but the freedom of capital to crush the worker.
Why should you desire to go on sanctioning free competition with this idea of freedom, when this freedom is only the product of a state of things based upon free competition?
We have shown what sort of brotherhood free trade begets between the different classes of one and the same nation. The brotherhood which free trade would establish between the nations of the Earth would hardly be more fraternal. To call cosmopolitan exploitation universal brotherhood is an idea that could only be engendered in the brain of the bourgeoisie. All the destructive phenomena which unlimited competition gives rise to within one country are reproduced in more gigantic proportions on the world market. We need not dwell any longer upon free trade sophisms on this subject, which are worth just as much as the arguments of our prize-winners Messrs. Hope, Morse, and Greg.
For instance, we are told that free trade would create an international division of labor, and thereby give to each country the production which is most in harmony with its natural advantage.
You believe, perhaps, gentlemen, that the production of coffee and sugar is the natural destiny of the West Indies.
Two centuries ago, nature, which does not trouble herself about commerce, had planted neither sugar-cane nor coffee trees there.
And it may be that in less than half a century you will find there neither coffee nor sugar, for the East Indies, by means of cheaper production, have already successfully combatted his alleged natural destiny of the West Indies. And the West Indies, with their natural wealth, are already as heavy a burden for England as the weavers of Dacca, who also were destined from the beginning of time to weave by hand.
One other thing must never be forgotten, namely, that, just as everything has become a monopoly, there are also nowadays some branches of industry which dominate all others, and secure to the nations which most largely cultivate them the command of the world market. Thus in international commerce cotton alone has much greater commercial than all the other raw materials used in the manufacture of clothing put together. It is truly ridiculous to see the free-traders stress the few specialities in each branch of industry,throwing them into the balance against the products used in everyday consumption and produced most cheaply in those countries in which manufacture is most highly developed.
If the free-traders cannot understand how one nation can grow rich at the expense of another, we need not wonder, since these same gentlemen also refuse to understand how within one country one class can enrich itself at the expense of another.
Do not imagine, gentlemen, that in criticizing freedom of trade we have the least intention of defending the system of protection.
One may declare oneself an enemy of the constitutional regime without declaring oneself a friend of the ancient regime.
Moreover, the protectionist system is nothing but a means of establishing large-scale industry in any given country, that is to say, of making it dependent upon the world market, and from the moment that dependence upon the world market is established, there is already more or less dependence upon free trade. Besides this, the protective system helps to develop free trade competition within a country. Hence we see that in countries where the bourgeoisie is beginning to make itself felt as a class, in Germany for example, it makes great efforts to obtain protective duties. They serve the bourgeoisie as weapons against feudalism and absolute government, as a means for the concentration of its own powers and for the realization of free trade within the same country.
But, in general, the protective system of our day is conservative, while the free trade system is destructive. It breaks up old nationalities and pushes the antagonism of the proletariat and the bourgeoisie to the extreme point. In a word, the free trade system hastens the social revolution. It is in this revolutionary sense alone, gentlemen, that I vote in favor of free trade.
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2022.11.01 15:00 ftfarshad 'Obeyd-e Zakani, The Treatise of One Hundred Maxims, translated by Hasan Javadi
 | https://preview.redd.it/3h5lfx9nicx91.jpg?width=4000&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=c8c1651e0676ff5ede1b8ebf0f77e5656804c5d1 submitted by ftfarshad to FarshadTorkashvand [link] [comments] The Treatise of One Hundred MaximsI would like to present to the thoughtful and sagacious reader the fact that the present writer,'Obeyd-e Zakani, may God fulfill his desires, though he has no high standing in the world of learning, has nonetheless devoted himself since his youth to pursuing knowledge and reading books and attending the lectures of the learned and the philosophers. It so happened that in the year A.H.750 (A.D.I350) a work of Plato, the prince of philosophers, written for the sake of his pupil Aristotle and translated from the Greek into Persian by the unrivalled man of our times, Nasir al-Din Tusi,' fell into my hands. This work on ethics was accompanied by some other treatises such as The Book of the Counsels of the just king Anushiravan,2 which was dictated to Taj Rabi'.3 After reading these with much eagerness and enthusiasm, the author decided to compose a book of counsels in a similar fashion, which would be a work of sincerity, devoid of the shadow of hypocrisy and signs of affectation—a kind of book that will be beneficial to everyone and will also enable the writer to be ranked among the men of taste. It is hoped that everyone will profit greatly from these pieces of advice.If you need a medicinal draught, Then by my counsel's cure be taught, In wisdom's sieve it is sifted through And mixed with wit's sweet honey, too.
liars, miserly and ill-mannered.
you may become dear to the great and enjoy your life.
have anal intercourse with your bride lest her evil origin show itself and your children become hypocrites, beggars or headaches for their parents.
the greeting of the son-in-law, the duties toward the wife, and the commotion of the child.
homosexuals, youths whose beards have grown and prevent them from doing their business, and young women whose husbands have gone on a trip, since giving alms brings great blessings.
preacher or a man of fame and dignity.
smokes bhang.
neighbor's trust and so you will have been a considerate and good Moslem. Thus on her wedding night she will not be ashamed before the bridegroom and she will be proud among the people.
hypocritically, a pious chamberlain, or a statesman who has preserved his anal integrity.
the lover who has a chance with his beloved for the first time but fails to perform, toward a cupbearer who goes to a party where a rake does not like him and turns him out, toward a group of half drunk men who have spilt their wine, toward the young man in the hands of a shrewish wife, and toward the girl who has lost her virginity and fears the approaching wedding night.
eagerly lets the other one mount him.
presses you hard, vow that if you are not speaking the truth may your wife be divorced irrevocably,9 because swearing is not a sin in gambling.
endlessly.
the night before you were badly drunk, broke the bottle and gave away your money and clothes, so that they won't bother the others as well.
can be achieved through fear and hope, and displeasure changes to pleasantness.
or any others stricken with misfortune.
you once had an affair and who are now daring and powerful heroes. Beware also of the tongues of poets, the deception of women, the evil eyes of jealous people and the hatred of your relatives.
friend.
better than soberness, and wisdom better than madness.
8 1. Do not go on the pilgrimage of the Hajj lest greed overcomes you and you become faithless and unjust.
auspiciousness everywhere.
will not turn to you for everything.
family members, and from those who ask for loans.
Whatever piece of wisdom a smoker of opium imparts, Write it on the phallus of an ass and offer it to him.
These are the sayings that have reached us from our masters and from great men. We have also mentioned in this brief account our gleanings from books and our observations from the biographies of great men, so that those ready and well disposed might benefit from them: Fortunate ones take heed of advice Great men accept the counsel of dervishes." May God Almighty open the door of happiness, peace and strength to all. |
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2020.12.01 10:53 itsallalittleblurry Road Show
Mother and I went to a tent revival. These were a much-anticipated affair akin to a carnival or traveling circus, and could have an atmosphere much the same: a canvas big top filled with folding chairs set up inside on the trampled grass, and a raised wooden stage and pulpit against one canvas wall. They had their own roadies; quite often the same guys who were on crutches or in wheelchairs getting healed at the end of the show. A few good miracles thrown in gratis would significantly increase the take, you see, when the collection plates were passed around. If the initial tally was unsatisfactory, those same plates might make the rounds again, or maybe even a third time, after an encore to remind folks how much God hated a tightwad.
This particular one turned out to be memorable.
As Mr. Diamond stated, it was indeed a hot August night, made more so by the press of sweating humanity packed inside the breezeless confines of the big patched canvas affair. It was a good crowd. A tidy profit was in the making if they were played just right.
I was used to the thundering fire and brimstone Baptist harangues promising hell and damnation if you, say, went fishing on a Sunday, which all knew was the work of the Devil, especially if you skipped church to do it:
“An’ wher was you Sundy last, OP?”
“But they was bitin’, Brother Johnson!”
“‘At don’t make no never-mind. You know it was wrong, son.......where’d ye go, anyhow?”
“‘At deep part o’ the river under the bridge.”
“Do any good?”
“Got me three big shovelheads.”
“Well, I be da.......I mean, my goodness! What bait ye use?”
“Peanut butter an’ shredded wheat rolled up inta balls with some stanky cheese.”
“They hit on ‘at purty good, did they?”
“They shore did.”
“Well, I’ll be! Le’ me know when ya’ go agin. I’ll come with ye - not on The Lord’s day, though. Don’ ye’ go doin’ ‘at agin, y’hear?”
“Nossir, I won’t.”
This here was something different. I don’t really recall much of a sermon. They had a pretty good choir, though, belting out some of the old favorites, all dressed in matching white robes that could have used some laundering. The ladies were all right pretty, but some of the men looked a little suspiciously kind of scruffy to me, and I thought one or two might be a little bleary-eyed. The ringmaster, I thought, might want to have a word with them about having a decent shave and laying off the booze when they were fixing to do The Lord’s work. I figured I’d be seeing one or two of them on crutches later on.
But the main event that night was a reenactment of a religious occurrence from the New Testament. After the choir cleared out and the stagehands trundled out the props, the pageant began. Revival service, my ass! It was a damn road show! Give a pathetic attempt at a ten-minute sermon that would make any hell-slinging, long-winded Baptist Minister weep for shame, sing a few songs, entertain the faithful with a play where people kept stumbling over their lines, and pass the collection plate! It was shameful, and I wasn’t even a good Christian, strictly speaking, or so it had been hinted at once a week or so for as long as I could remember. I looked toward the back of the place, thinking maybe I could edge my way further toward the back of the tent and so get a little further away from the stage before the lightning bolt that I expected hit it.
There wasn’t a lightning bolt, but something just about as good, entertainment-wise, and certainly funnier than a bunch of barbecued Disciples, as funny as that would have been:
Fire extinguishers were affixed to the tent poles throughout the cavernous canvas cathedral, in case of, well, fire. It wouldn’t do any good to preach about hellfire if the people you were preaching to were getting roasted right in front of you. Crispy Christians couldn’t reach in their pockets. There wasn’t any money in it.
These were those old, heavy, silvery metal canisters, too, the ones that hung upside down with a hose attached to the business end, filled with that nasty brown fire suppressive concoction that had to have been dreamed up by a hateful, hungover chemist going through a bad divorce and wanting to make other people just as miserable as he was. You didn’t want to get that nasty shit on you, nossir!
One of them fuckers let loose right in the middle of Judas misquoting Scripture. The thin hose attached to it started whipping around like a snake with his tail in a ferret’s teeth, spewing that fowl brown piss from a diabetic horse everywhere, and under more pressure than a hooker in a confessional booth.
Chairs were falling over and getting kicked aside and into people’s shins. Folks were screaming and yelling and falling over chairs and each other trying to get out of the way. One old lady screeched that the Devil was loose in the tent, and it was his doing. Personally, I thought that maybe Someone Else had gotten just a tad annoyed at the heretofore proceedings, and was expressing His displeasure at the pathetic farce the whole thing was.
The play, of course, not the most competent theatrical production to start with, was interrupted, and did not resume. Which was just as well, I thought. Half of them couldn’t remember their lines.
submitted by itsallalittleblurry to FuckeryUniveristy [link] [comments]
This particular one turned out to be memorable.
As Mr. Diamond stated, it was indeed a hot August night, made more so by the press of sweating humanity packed inside the breezeless confines of the big patched canvas affair. It was a good crowd. A tidy profit was in the making if they were played just right.
I was used to the thundering fire and brimstone Baptist harangues promising hell and damnation if you, say, went fishing on a Sunday, which all knew was the work of the Devil, especially if you skipped church to do it:
“An’ wher was you Sundy last, OP?”
“But they was bitin’, Brother Johnson!”
“‘At don’t make no never-mind. You know it was wrong, son.......where’d ye go, anyhow?”
“‘At deep part o’ the river under the bridge.”
“Do any good?”
“Got me three big shovelheads.”
“Well, I be da.......I mean, my goodness! What bait ye use?”
“Peanut butter an’ shredded wheat rolled up inta balls with some stanky cheese.”
“They hit on ‘at purty good, did they?”
“They shore did.”
“Well, I’ll be! Le’ me know when ya’ go agin. I’ll come with ye - not on The Lord’s day, though. Don’ ye’ go doin’ ‘at agin, y’hear?”
“Nossir, I won’t.”
This here was something different. I don’t really recall much of a sermon. They had a pretty good choir, though, belting out some of the old favorites, all dressed in matching white robes that could have used some laundering. The ladies were all right pretty, but some of the men looked a little suspiciously kind of scruffy to me, and I thought one or two might be a little bleary-eyed. The ringmaster, I thought, might want to have a word with them about having a decent shave and laying off the booze when they were fixing to do The Lord’s work. I figured I’d be seeing one or two of them on crutches later on.
But the main event that night was a reenactment of a religious occurrence from the New Testament. After the choir cleared out and the stagehands trundled out the props, the pageant began. Revival service, my ass! It was a damn road show! Give a pathetic attempt at a ten-minute sermon that would make any hell-slinging, long-winded Baptist Minister weep for shame, sing a few songs, entertain the faithful with a play where people kept stumbling over their lines, and pass the collection plate! It was shameful, and I wasn’t even a good Christian, strictly speaking, or so it had been hinted at once a week or so for as long as I could remember. I looked toward the back of the place, thinking maybe I could edge my way further toward the back of the tent and so get a little further away from the stage before the lightning bolt that I expected hit it.
There wasn’t a lightning bolt, but something just about as good, entertainment-wise, and certainly funnier than a bunch of barbecued Disciples, as funny as that would have been:
Fire extinguishers were affixed to the tent poles throughout the cavernous canvas cathedral, in case of, well, fire. It wouldn’t do any good to preach about hellfire if the people you were preaching to were getting roasted right in front of you. Crispy Christians couldn’t reach in their pockets. There wasn’t any money in it.
These were those old, heavy, silvery metal canisters, too, the ones that hung upside down with a hose attached to the business end, filled with that nasty brown fire suppressive concoction that had to have been dreamed up by a hateful, hungover chemist going through a bad divorce and wanting to make other people just as miserable as he was. You didn’t want to get that nasty shit on you, nossir!
One of them fuckers let loose right in the middle of Judas misquoting Scripture. The thin hose attached to it started whipping around like a snake with his tail in a ferret’s teeth, spewing that fowl brown piss from a diabetic horse everywhere, and under more pressure than a hooker in a confessional booth.
Chairs were falling over and getting kicked aside and into people’s shins. Folks were screaming and yelling and falling over chairs and each other trying to get out of the way. One old lady screeched that the Devil was loose in the tent, and it was his doing. Personally, I thought that maybe Someone Else had gotten just a tad annoyed at the heretofore proceedings, and was expressing His displeasure at the pathetic farce the whole thing was.
The play, of course, not the most competent theatrical production to start with, was interrupted, and did not resume. Which was just as well, I thought. Half of them couldn’t remember their lines.
2020.04.06 23:38 BestBookUs All of Grace
 | "It is not the object of this book to ask anything of you, but to tell you that salvation is ALL OF GRACE, which means, free, gratis, for nothing." Charles Spurgeon is a cornerstone of the Christian religion. A preacher and teacher, his sermons have spread all over the world and his many printed works have been treasured classic for decades. All of Grace is a simple and eloquent presentation of basic salvation through grace alone. Spurgeon wants readers only to consume his work and ponder it, he asks nothing in return because he believes in the power of God to bring unbelievers to Him. As one reviewer puts it well: "[Spurgeon] brings the gospel to his readers with pointed illustrations, well-placed anecdotes, irrefutable arguments, heart-felt pleas, and (above all else) the plainly-spoken and rightly-applied word of God." This short and easy read is both a perfect introduction to salvation and an assurance of it for unbelievers and the saved alike. In the last line, Spurgeon beseeches readers to accept salvation now and "Meet me in heaven." submitted by BestBookUs to u/BestBookUs [link] [comments] Read More : https://www.bestbookus.com/2020/04/all-of-grace.html All of Graceu/bestbookus #books #audiobooks #religion |
2019.12.19 05:40 RemixBeat Traxsource Top 100 Weekend Weapons [18-December-2019]
22 Weeks – One More Try [Original Mix] 5A 124 Admin – ADJust Your Love 4A 118 Adrian Izquierdo – Breaker 1A 125 Aleksi Per‰l‰ – Ukmh51900042 10B 133 Alex Poet, HanLei – Ain’t No Stoppin’ [Thommy Davis, Greg Lewis & DJ Spen Remix] 9A 122 Alex Rai – The Sax We Love 3A 124 Ammo Avenue – All Night [Original Mix] 1A 125 Anane – Our Love [Louie Vega EOL Remix] 8A 124 Andy Wave – La Piscola [David Boogie Remix] 10A 124 Antonello Coghe – Momentum [Original Mix] 9A 120 Bah Samba – Portuguese Love [Seamus Haji Extended Re-Work] 8A 122 Butch & C. Vogt – Vogue 9A 123 C. Da Afro – State Of Boogie 7A 122 CaravAca – Amar Es Gratis 11A 126 Cari Lekebusch – Spinnhead 4A 131 CASSIMM – Shined On Me [Kevin McKay Extended Remix] 1A 126 Change Request – Shatter Proof [FT. Lailah Reich] [Anthony Nicholson Expanded Club Mix] 5A 118 Cristian Vinci – Maputo [Original Mix] 1A 126 Curtis Scott – Truth [Original Mix] 6A 118 Da Funk Junkies – Pumpin’ Like Crazy [Original Mix] 6A 124 Da Lukas – Talking Players 8A 120 DANK.K – Movement [Original Mix] 7A 123 Darksidevinyl – Oyumba 7A 122 Demuir – Werq. Feel. Gruv. Vogue. 1A 125 Dennis Quin – Jealous [Original Mix] 6A 125 Disco Ballz – That Feelin 6B 124 Discuji – Suprasensory 7A 122 DJ Burlak – Party With Me [Club Mix] 4A 123 DJ Fopp – Gimme Some Body Action [Original Mix] 6A 120 DJ Getdown, CloClo – It’s Cool For Me [Club Mix] 6A 124 DJ T. – Ready To Shine 9A 98 Doc Link – Just Can’t Stay Away 9A 125 Earth & Days – Let’s Get Down 12A 123 Echo Deep, Viiiictor May – Bayabaleka [Original Mix] 9A 123 Enrico BSJ Ferrari, John Abbruzzese – Used To Be The Most Of A Person [Original Mix] 8A 124 Eric B Turner – The Sermon Pt.1 [Pray For More’s Preachin’ Mix] 9A 120 Faith Mussa – Ndi Konkuno [Rudimental Remix] 5A 112 Ferry Ultra FT. Gwen McCrae – Happy [Dr Packer Remix] 12A 124 Flamingo Pier – Indigo 8A 117 Frank & Peter – Can You Feel It [Original Mix] 4A 125 Gianni Roucco, Le Roi Carmona – Santo Inmortal [Original Mix] 8A 124 Groove Assassin – When Iím Around U [Club Dub] 3A 122 Harpoon – Midnight [Full Intention Extended Remix] 4B 122 Hatiras & Lee Wilson – I Just Can’t [Espinal & Nova Remix] 9A 125 Hatiras, DJ Dan, J Paul Getto – Number One 6A 123 Hawksburn – The Mack [Original Mix] 9A 120 Hifi Sean, Crystal Waters – Heavy [Alex Virgo Mix] 5A 126 Hifi Sean, Crystal Waters – Heavy [Extended] 5A 123 Hoten – Maps Of The Future [Original Mix] 2B 124 Hoten – Mind Games [Original Mix] 5A 124 HP Vince, Kennedy – I Like That [Original Mix] 11B 124 Hurlee – Breakfast With Elisa 8A 122 Hurlee – Gimme Some Groove 6A 124 HyperSOUL-X, Leekay March – Best In Me [Main HT] 6A 121 J&M Brothers – Shinnig Star 1A 117 James Deron – Man To The Rights [SoulVibes Mix] 3A 125 Jamie Christer – Deeper Placements [Original Mix] 6A 126 Javi Lopez – Funktional [Original Mix] 2A 125 Jazzyvibe – I Miss Daddy’s Records 6A 130 Jean Carne – Was That All It Was [Opolopo Remix] 6A 121 Jo Paciello – One Night FT. Luciano FM [Original Mix] 9A 121 Joeski – Carrion [FT. Mikaell Garcia] 8A 126 Joeski – Into The Future 9A 125 Joey Chicago – Dance Into The Lights [Original Mix] 10A 124 Joey Chicago – Joy into Your Life 11B 118 Johan S, Andme, Bastian – Good Inside [Original Mix] 12A 125 Julius Jordan, Eric Roberson, James Poyser, Terry Hunter – Real Good Time [Post Disco Club Mix] 4A 124 Kapote – Give It To Me Edit [Original Mix] 9A 120 Kapote – Pump It Edit [Original Mix] 6A 125 Kathy Brown – Last Time [Micky More & Andy Tee Vocal Mix] 9A 122 Kevin Yost – Sounds So Good [Saison Remix] 3A 123 Knight Warriors – The Rise Of Elements 9A 122 Knox – Over The Moon [Extended Dance Remix] 6B 123 Kolja Gerstenberg – Sf01 9A 120 Laolu – Many Faces 9A 120 Lekind – Kool Is The Mood [Original Mix] 8A 124 Lionayve – Memories Of an Old Friend 4A 118 London Haarlem – I Won’t Wait [Extended Mix] 5A 124 Louie Vega, The Martinez Brothers, Marc E. Bassy – Let It Go [TMBLV Dub] 8A 129 Lubelski – Impulse Response 9A 126 Luca Garaboni – Discoland [Original Mix] 7A 126 Mambo Brothers – LIFE [Extended Mix] 12B 124 Man Without A Clue – Just A Groove [Original Mix] 5A 125 Man Without A Clue – Just Listen [Original Mix] 6A 125 Mark Broom – Outta Sight 2A 133 Mark MacKenzie – Terrafirma 4A 126 Matonii – Need To Know [Original Mix] 12A 122 Maxdal, Roy Picone, B.Grace – Strong Enough [George Lesley Remix] 9A 123 Mike Deep – Bossa Africa [DJ Spen Behind The Bush Remix] 11A 124 Monsieur Van Pratt – Nothing But Funk [Original Mix] 7A 118 Moon Rocket – M.I.O. 5A 119 Mousse T. FT. Cleah – Melodie [Disco Town Remix] 10A 123 Mr. G – G’s Riddem [Original Mix] 2A 126 MrGabryDJ – My Baby [Original Mix] 12A 125 MthiqueCruz, Thukie – Izulu [Original Mix] 9A 123 Munky Fike – Indosia 11A 122 Newman [UK], Dave Anthony, Susu – Magnify [Neil Pierce Remix] 6A 124 Oscar P – Shooked Ones 11A 121 Osunlade – Same, Same [#Instantboner Remix] 2A 120 Pastor Snow, Venessa Jackson – Pastor’s World 9A 125 Peppe Citarella, Manybeat – El Loco 5A 123 PEZNT – Need You Now [FT. Shyam P] 6A 123 PEZNT & D.U.S. – Be Somebody [FT. Shyam P] 6A 116 Pulse – Iíll Be Alright [DJ Spinna Galactic Soul Mix] 11A 123 Qrion – Sine Wave Party 3A 120 Quell – Do It Alone 1A 125 Raw Instinct – De la Bass [Fred Everything Dub] 6A 121 Re-Tide – What A Feeling FT. Karin [Funaktron Italo Remix] 12A 122 Rhodes – Come On [Original Mix] 6A 126 Rhythm Staircase – Piano Funked [Sweetpower AfroCuban DrumSession] 2A 123 Rick Wade – Smokey 2A 115 Roberto Rodriguez – Rain Dance 1A 124 Roberto Surace – Joys [OFFAIAH Club Mix] 1A 123 Route 94 – Close [Extended Mix] 4A 130 Route 94 – Feels [Extended Mix] 5A 130 Rubb Sound System – Chicago Boogie 8A 122 Saint Evo – Mntwana FT. Lizwi [Original] 12A 124 Saytek – Modality [Live] 5A 127 Sebas Ramis, Sabrina Chyld – Fallen [Richard Earnshaw Remix] 6A 120 Sebb Junior, Jess Bays – Make You Feel [Original Mix] 1A 124 Sheila Anozier, Sabine Blaizin, Rodney ‘Okai Musik’ Fleuirmont – Lwa Nan Dlo [Original Mix] 2A 123 Silver Ivanov, Elaine – Next Time [Studioheist Remix] 4A 125 Sllash & Doppe – Pop That Booty 3A 125 Soulphiction – U’ll Like It [Original Mix] 11B 119 Soulsearcher – Feelin’ Love [Dr Packer Extended Remix] 11A 124 Soulsearcher – Feelin’ Love [Mattei & Omich Extended Remix] 11A 126 Stan Zeff – Blessings [Main Mix] 5A 123 Stephen Nicholls – The Finest [Alex Preston Extended Remix] 2A 124 TekniQ – Battleground 1A 122 The Jagg – Disco Plane 6A 125 Tina Says – Elevate [Daniel Cuda Extended Remix] 8A 126 Tube & Berger – Talking All Crazy [Original Mix] 11A 124 Vibe Called – It Will Always Be U 3A 120 Viola Sykes – He Is Lord [Stacy Kidd House 4 Life Remix] 1A 121 Wekingz – Know The Night [Original Mix] 5A 122 Will Easton – Pyro [Extended Mix] 4A 128 Will Sonic – Talk To Me [Original] 8A 127 Will The Funkboss – Dat MPC 60 Track [Original Mix] 3A 116 Yousef – Reminders FT. Shyam P [Original Mix] 4A 125 Zetbee – The Town 6A 123
DOWNLOAD: remixdj1.blogspot.com
submitted by RemixBeat to u/RemixBeat [link] [comments]
DOWNLOAD: remixdj1.blogspot.com
2019.08.21 01:40 GalacticLinx El hailcorporate TINER y la sumision normie a las estrategias de los community manager y sus equipos de marketing
ATENCIÓN, ESTE POST ES UN BOSQUEJO DE UNA IDEA QUE ESTOY TENIENDO PARA UN GUION QUE QUIZÁ SEA UN VIDEO DE YOUTUBE MAS ADELANTE. ESTE POST NO ESTA FINALIZADO. SE AGRADECEN APORTES, CRITICAS, LECTURAS DISTINTAS, FORMATO, ETC.
POR AHORA EL GUION ESTA ESCRITO COMO SI LE HABLO A LA COMUNIDAD DE REDDIT, PERO VA A SER CAMBIADO PARA HABLAR AL PUBLICO EN GENERAL
EL POST PUEDE, O NO, SER EDITADO CUANDO SE ME DE LA GANA.
Estaba perdiendo el tiempo en /argentina y de repente me encuentro con esta excelente foto.
https://www.reddit.com/argentina/comments/ct3lvn/les_dejo_un_%F0%9D%9A%8A_%F0%9D%9A%8E_%F0%9D%9A%9C_%F0%9D%9A%9D_%F0%9D%9A%91_%F0%9D%9A%8E_%F0%9D%9A%9D_%F0%9D%9A%92_%F0%9D%9A%8C_%F0%9D%98%BF_%F0%9D%99%84_%F0%9D%98%BC_oc/
Mas allá de lo bien tomada que esta la foto, me quede pensando en lo sumisos que son a las marcas y lo facil que caen en las estrategias de marketing de los community managers.
Ese falso sentido de "identidad" a travez de un logo corporativo me parece una practica detestable de las corporaciones que se quieren beneficiar de un grave problema social. La necesidad de identidad producto de la alienacion tipica de hoy en dia.
Pero es algo que siempre existio, cuando yo era adolecente las zapatillas FILA eran de negro villero que "seguramente robo para comprarlas". Hoy en dia son un simbolo del hippster de palermo.
Algo inverso paso con Lacoste, que era del ultra chetaje digno de la guillotina, y ahora se convirtio en algo popular y de "negro que no tiene para revocar la pared pero si para la camisita con la que sale a engrogarse".
POST EJEMPLO 1
POST EJEMPLO 2
Muchos diran, "pero es meme"... "pero nos estamos divirtiendo"... "seguro que vos sos muy divertido en las fiestas"
y todo el tipo de idioteces que tiran habitualmente los normies que no quieren aceptar que están siendo controlados y que ESTAN TRABAJANDO GRATIS PARA UNA MARCA GIGANTE.
Como ya todos sabemos:
NADIE QUIERE ADMITIR QUE FUE MANIPULADO. Nadie quiere admitirse como tonto, nadie hace una critica introspectiva.
Sepanlo, todos somos manipulados en algun nivel. Yo soy manipulado, vos lo sos, todos lo somos.
El marketing es literalmente eso, ver como manipular a alguien para que compre algo que no necesita.
TODOS CAIMOS EN ESO ALGUNA VEZ EN LA VIDA.
Pero el marketing no se da solo, sino que en un contexto de capitalismo global.
¿que quiere decir esto?
QUE ADEMAS DE MANIPULARTE PARA QUE COMPRES, TAMBIEN ESTAN INTERESADOS EN REDUCIR LOS GASTOS DE MANIPULACION.
La publicidad existe desde hace muchisimo tiempo.
PRIMER REGISTRO DE UNA PUBLICIDAD EN LA ANTIGUA BABILONIA
PUBLICIDAD DE COCA COLA EN LA EPOCA VICTORIANA (1890)
EJEMPLO DE PUBLICIDAD VISUALMENTE CONTAMINANTE DE HOY EN DIA
Tradicionalmente manipularte tenia un costo que no todos podían afrontar.
De hecho todos los ejemplos anteriores tenían un costo que las empresas deberían afrontar y arriesgar para obtener algún tipo de beneficio económico o ventaja frente a la competencia.
Obviamente que las publicidades en las redes sociales tienen un costo, pero tienen un mejor alcance y ademas gozan de una base de datos CON TUS DATOS. (para mas info referirse a la utilización política de estos datos con el caso "CAMBRIDGE ANALYTICA", buscar en google o ver documental de netflix, hay mucha info)
Pero también es un espacio para la publicidad gratuita.
Acá es donde entran las empresas pequeñas y medianas que no tienen dinero para pagarle publicidad a las redes sociales.
En esta imagen pueden ver como en una misma captura hay una publicidad propiamente dicha y tambien hay un post HAILCORPORATE
Pero ojo, las empresas grandes tienen tacticas mayores y de alcance mundial.
¿Alguien recuerda el outrage de la publicidad de gillette? El #Boycottgillette ?
Bueno, eso fue todo fríamente calculado.
Hicieron una publicidad, o como a ellos les gusta llamar "short film" (CARADURAS) en medio de una grieta social, sobre conceptos tan básicos como "¿Que es la masculinidad?"
Lo hicieron a propósito, sabia que los SQW (Status Quo Warriors, o sea los fachos) se iban a enojar.
Pero como dice el dicho "toda publicidad es buena, incluso la mala publicidad".
Y ahí empezaron a hacer idioteces para boycottear a gillette.
GILLETTE ESTUVO DE TRENDING TOPIC EN TODAS LAS REDES SOCIALES POR DÍAS ENTEROS. GRATIS!!!!
Algo similar paso con Nike cuando hizo una publicidad solo con gente negra y con un atleta que fue previamente cuestionado por los SQW (fachos).
Pero bueno, volviendo a Argentina:
Tenemos otros casos donde comunidades enteras se rindieron a los pies de marcas y corporaciones.
EJEMPLO 2
y bueno, tambien Taringa tuvo un caso importante de propaganda politica en complicidad con el Macrismo... Algo que tambien sospecho que paso con Reddit pero es un poco mas dificil de probar (ademas del mod que es un abusador de mujeres y que trabajo para el gobierno de Macri en CABA)
Ejemplo 1
Ejemplo 2
Ejemplo 1
Ejemplo 2
En las 2 primeras vemos que la gente cae con ingenuidad y por "diversión". Esa diversión es genuina, la pasan bien mientras son "corporate bitch" gratuitas y como no tienen ni conciencia de clase, o la tienen y directamente les chupa un huevo ser manipulados con tal de encajar y divertirse con los demas, entonces caen, o se dejan caer en la trampa.
La 3era, tengo opiniones diversas. Si bien es claro que el mensaje es positivo y es sano que entre en el debate social por mas que los SQW (Fachos) sean quienes la impulsan con su indignacion.
LA REALIDAD ES QUE LA SOCIEDAD DE CONSUMO LES DA LA ESPALDA A LOS FACHOS.
Ya que tanto Gilllete como Nike aumentaron sus ventas exponencialmente a pesar de la indignacion masiva de los fachos y las propuestas de Boycott.
Y tengo opinion diversa sobre este tema, porque si bien existe es lado positivo, no es que la mega corporacion tiene ganas de "hacer las cosas bien", sino que hoy en el contexto actual LES DA GANANCIAS.
No lo hacen por altruismo, sino por beneficios económicos.
Y eso lo tenemos muy en claro, sobre todo con empresas como Nike, que si bien te dicen "respeten a los negros" por un lado, tiene talleres con niños que cobran 1 dolar por dia mientras son ultra explotados.
asique mi conclusion definitiva es esta.
NO SEAN BOLUDOS, PIENSEN LO QUE HACEN, PIENSEN A QUIEN BENEFICIA LO QUE HACEN
¿QUE GANAS VOS?
¿QUE GANA EL OTRO?
SOLO ME INTERESA QUE PIENSES UN POCO.
submitted by GalacticLinx to Republica_Argentina [link] [comments]
POR AHORA EL GUION ESTA ESCRITO COMO SI LE HABLO A LA COMUNIDAD DE REDDIT, PERO VA A SER CAMBIADO PARA HABLAR AL PUBLICO EN GENERAL
EL POST PUEDE, O NO, SER EDITADO CUANDO SE ME DE LA GANA.
Estaba perdiendo el tiempo en /argentina y de repente me encuentro con esta excelente foto.
https://www.reddit.com/argentina/comments/ct3lvn/les_dejo_un_%F0%9D%9A%8A_%F0%9D%9A%8E_%F0%9D%9A%9C_%F0%9D%9A%9D_%F0%9D%9A%91_%F0%9D%9A%8E_%F0%9D%9A%9D_%F0%9D%9A%92_%F0%9D%9A%8C_%F0%9D%98%BF_%F0%9D%99%84_%F0%9D%98%BC_oc/
Mas allá de lo bien tomada que esta la foto, me quede pensando en lo sumisos que son a las marcas y lo facil que caen en las estrategias de marketing de los community managers.
Ese falso sentido de "identidad" a travez de un logo corporativo me parece una practica detestable de las corporaciones que se quieren beneficiar de un grave problema social. La necesidad de identidad producto de la alienacion tipica de hoy en dia.
Pero es algo que siempre existio, cuando yo era adolecente las zapatillas FILA eran de negro villero que "seguramente robo para comprarlas". Hoy en dia son un simbolo del hippster de palermo.
Algo inverso paso con Lacoste, que era del ultra chetaje digno de la guillotina, y ahora se convirtio en algo popular y de "negro que no tiene para revocar la pared pero si para la camisita con la que sale a engrogarse".
Caso Reddit - Papas Dia% (made in canada)
Bueno, creo que no es necesario explicar la sumision y fanatismo desmedido del sub /argentina con el supermercado Dia% y con sus papas fritas economicas.POST EJEMPLO 1
POST EJEMPLO 2
Muchos diran, "pero es meme"... "pero nos estamos divirtiendo"... "seguro que vos sos muy divertido en las fiestas"
y todo el tipo de idioteces que tiran habitualmente los normies que no quieren aceptar que están siendo controlados y que ESTAN TRABAJANDO GRATIS PARA UNA MARCA GIGANTE.
Como ya todos sabemos:
NADIE QUIERE ADMITIR QUE FUE MANIPULADO. Nadie quiere admitirse como tonto, nadie hace una critica introspectiva.
Sepanlo, todos somos manipulados en algun nivel. Yo soy manipulado, vos lo sos, todos lo somos.
El marketing es literalmente eso, ver como manipular a alguien para que compre algo que no necesita.
TODOS CAIMOS EN ESO ALGUNA VEZ EN LA VIDA.
Pero el marketing no se da solo, sino que en un contexto de capitalismo global.
¿que quiere decir esto?
QUE ADEMAS DE MANIPULARTE PARA QUE COMPRES, TAMBIEN ESTAN INTERESADOS EN REDUCIR LOS GASTOS DE MANIPULACION.
La publicidad existe desde hace muchisimo tiempo.
PRIMER REGISTRO DE UNA PUBLICIDAD EN LA ANTIGUA BABILONIA
PUBLICIDAD DE COCA COLA EN LA EPOCA VICTORIANA (1890)
EJEMPLO DE PUBLICIDAD VISUALMENTE CONTAMINANTE DE HOY EN DIA
Tradicionalmente manipularte tenia un costo que no todos podían afrontar.
De hecho todos los ejemplos anteriores tenían un costo que las empresas deberían afrontar y arriesgar para obtener algún tipo de beneficio económico o ventaja frente a la competencia.
Pero luego llegaron las redes sociales.
Todos conocemos el tipo de publicidad que nos llega por las redes sociales, reddit mismo las tiene.Obviamente que las publicidades en las redes sociales tienen un costo, pero tienen un mejor alcance y ademas gozan de una base de datos CON TUS DATOS. (para mas info referirse a la utilización política de estos datos con el caso "CAMBRIDGE ANALYTICA", buscar en google o ver documental de netflix, hay mucha info)
Pero también es un espacio para la publicidad gratuita.
Acá es donde entran las empresas pequeñas y medianas que no tienen dinero para pagarle publicidad a las redes sociales.
En esta imagen pueden ver como en una misma captura hay una publicidad propiamente dicha y tambien hay un post HAILCORPORATE
Pero ojo, las empresas grandes tienen tacticas mayores y de alcance mundial.
¿Alguien recuerda el outrage de la publicidad de gillette? El #Boycottgillette ?
Bueno, eso fue todo fríamente calculado.
Hicieron una publicidad, o como a ellos les gusta llamar "short film" (CARADURAS) en medio de una grieta social, sobre conceptos tan básicos como "¿Que es la masculinidad?"
Lo hicieron a propósito, sabia que los SQW (Status Quo Warriors, o sea los fachos) se iban a enojar.
Pero como dice el dicho "toda publicidad es buena, incluso la mala publicidad".
Y ahí empezaron a hacer idioteces para boycottear a gillette.
GILLETTE ESTUVO DE TRENDING TOPIC EN TODAS LAS REDES SOCIALES POR DÍAS ENTEROS. GRATIS!!!!
PUBLICIDAD GRATIS!!!!
Algo similar paso con Nike cuando hizo una publicidad solo con gente negra y con un atleta que fue previamente cuestionado por los SQW (fachos).
Pero bueno, volviendo a Argentina:
Tenemos otros casos donde comunidades enteras se rindieron a los pies de marcas y corporaciones.
Caso Taringa - Pitusas y Manaos
EJEMPLO 1EJEMPLO 2
y bueno, tambien Taringa tuvo un caso importante de propaganda politica en complicidad con el Macrismo... Algo que tambien sospecho que paso con Reddit pero es un poco mas dificil de probar (ademas del mod que es un abusador de mujeres y que trabajo para el gobierno de Macri en CABA)
Caso Marolio y su jingle - (twitter) multi redes sociales
Ejemplo 1
Ejemplo 2
Caso Inmobiliaria Cabildo 500 - Instagram
Ejemplo 1
Ejemplo 2
Conclusion:
Vemos distintos tipos de publicidades gratuitas.- La suertuda (como Cabildo 500 o Marolio)
- La influenciada desde redes nicho especificas (papas dia, pitusas, manaos)
- La de "marcas concientes" (como Nike o Gillette)
En las 2 primeras vemos que la gente cae con ingenuidad y por "diversión". Esa diversión es genuina, la pasan bien mientras son "corporate bitch" gratuitas y como no tienen ni conciencia de clase, o la tienen y directamente les chupa un huevo ser manipulados con tal de encajar y divertirse con los demas, entonces caen, o se dejan caer en la trampa.
La 3era, tengo opiniones diversas. Si bien es claro que el mensaje es positivo y es sano que entre en el debate social por mas que los SQW (Fachos) sean quienes la impulsan con su indignacion.
LA REALIDAD ES QUE LA SOCIEDAD DE CONSUMO LES DA LA ESPALDA A LOS FACHOS.
Ya que tanto Gilllete como Nike aumentaron sus ventas exponencialmente a pesar de la indignacion masiva de los fachos y las propuestas de Boycott.
Y tengo opinion diversa sobre este tema, porque si bien existe es lado positivo, no es que la mega corporacion tiene ganas de "hacer las cosas bien", sino que hoy en el contexto actual LES DA GANANCIAS.
No lo hacen por altruismo, sino por beneficios económicos.
Y eso lo tenemos muy en claro, sobre todo con empresas como Nike, que si bien te dicen "respeten a los negros" por un lado, tiene talleres con niños que cobran 1 dolar por dia mientras son ultra explotados.
asique mi conclusion definitiva es esta.
NO SEAN BOLUDOS, PIENSEN LO QUE HACEN, PIENSEN A QUIEN BENEFICIA LO QUE HACEN
¿QUE GANAS VOS?
¿QUE GANA EL OTRO?
¿TANTO TE IMPORTA SER ACEPTADO EN UNA COMUNIDAD DE EXTRAÑOS COMO PARA VENDERTE GRATIS A UNA MARCA?
Y SI UNA VEZ PENSADO ESTO QUERES HACERLO IGUAL. BUENO, HACELO.SOLO ME INTERESA QUE PIENSES UN POCO.
2018.04.25 19:04 Redius Das Herz der Finsternis oder wie ich lernte mir keine Sorgen mehr zu machen und die Lootbox zu lieben.
Es ist nicht leicht ein böses Imperium zu beherrschen. Ständig liegen dir irgendwelche Pisser mit ihren Sorgen in den Ohren. "Meine Familie hungert, Herr." "Könntet ihr die eiserne Jungfrau vielleicht heute einen Spalt auflassen, Herr?" "Ich kann mir den Season Pass nicht leisten, Herr." Und Du, als Imperator ex Deo, musst so tun als hätte dies für dich Bedeutung.
Dabei könnte es so einfach sein. Warum nicht einfach mal hinnehmen, dass ein DLC mehr als 30€ kostet? Warum gleich auf Facebook und Twitter protestieren, nur weil man für den Season Pass eine zweite Hypotheke aufnehmen muss? Einfach mal Brieftasche öffnen, nach vorne beugen und anschließend danke sagen. Kann doch nicht so schwer sein?! Da sitzt man, nichts böses ahnend, auf seinen Thron aus Gold, nur um sich vor Bauern zu rechtfertigen. Natürlich ist die DLC Kampagne schon auf der Blu-ray, seh ich aus wie Krösus? Wächst mir ein verdammtes Kornfeld in der Hand? Server kosten Geld! Da pack ich den Zusatz Inhalt doch lieber schon mal auf den Datenträger, um dir, dämlicher Saftsack von Kunde, Zeit zu sparen. Der Dank ist dann ein Boykott. Glücklicherweise haben unsere Kunden die Impulskontrolle eines Frettchens. Manchmal blicke ich herab von meinem schwarzen Turm der Macht und reflektiere über vergangene Bilanzen. Nachdem ich dann abgespritzt habe, wende ich mich erneut dem Geschäften zu. Ich durchstöbere Krankenakten auf der Suche nach möglichst fatalen Fällen und setze diese Mitarbeiter mit auslaufenden Verfallsdatum in das Team unseres aktuellsten Megahits. Publicity schafft sich schließlich nicht von allein. Danach gehe ich die Briefe der "Make a Wish"-Foundation durch und wähle das hässlichste Kind aus, um einen Trashmob nach seinem Ebenbild zu designen. Menschlichkeit wird in meiner Branche klein und falsch geschrieben. Ich möchte mich nicht selber loben, aber seit wir das Höllenportal im Keller nicht mehr mit unschuldigen Nonnen füttern müssen, sondern eine Standleitung installiert haben, hat sich die Produktivität der Marketing Meetings verdoppelt.
Natürlich ist nicht immer alles eitel Sonnenschein im Land der ewigen Finsternis. Gelegentlich unterlaufen auch dem fiesesten Herrscher Fehler, dann gibt es plötzlich gratis DLC oder kostenlose Kostüme. In solchen Fällen ist es wichtig das Gesicht zu wahren. Nur keine Schwäche zeigen. Auf Fragen der Presse, ob dies eine Abkehr von den Microtransactionen ist, bleibt man gelassen und verweist auf seine F2P Companion App. Wahlweise kann man es auch als "Games as a Service" betiteln, aber nur, wenn alle echten Programmierer im Urlaub sind und man nur noch Zombie Azubis zur Verfügung hat. Games as a Service ist ohnehin nur eine andere Schreibweise für :"Kein Bock gerade, läuft doch?" Absolute Krönung dieses Konzepts ist natürlich die "Elite" Mitgliedschaft. Diese suggeriert einen gehobenen Status und Zugriff auf exklusive Features. Ist natürlich Unsinn, aber mein Kontostand sieht das anders. Wer allerdings rastet der rostet, so gehe ich stets sicher die neusten Trends frühzeitig zu erkennen. Zu den goldenen Rockband Zeiten habe ich, zum Beispiel, die Preise der Zusatzhardware subtil nach oben treiben können, indem ich statt Plastik, Elfenbein von Jung Elefanten verwenden ließ. Verdienter Erfolg kommt schließlich von verdienen mit Erfolg.
Natürlich kennt mein Großmut auch Grenzen, soviel ich mich verausgabe um dem nie zufriedenen Kundenvieh einigermaßen spielbare Software zu kredenzen, so wenig Aufwand betreibe ich wenn ich unseren neusten Top Titel auf den PC portiere. Manchmal verpacke ich einfach Pac Man neu und verkaufe es als das aktuelle Survival Hammer Game. Kritik beantworte ich mit dem stets griffbereiten Sermon:"Patch ist unterwegs" während ich zeitgleich neuen Content via DLC anbiete. Ein düsteres Imperium muss aber natürlich auch auf unvorhersehbare Eventualitäten vorbereitet sein. Wenn zum Beispiel wirklich mal ein Programmierer stirbt. Durch einige, durchaus menschenverachtende, Experimente, haben wir unter anderem feststellen können, dass menschliches Fett und Knochenmehl eine hervorragende Grundlage für die Produktion von Funko Pops darstellt. Ironischerweise erklärt dies die toten Augen der beliebten Mannskinder Figuren. Vermutlich würden die Verwandten des Ex Programmierers/Tony Stark Funko Pops es spüren, wenn man mit einer Nadel in die Figur sticht. Interessanter Gedankengang, vielleicht sollten wir in diese Richtung investieren. "Hell for the Players" wie es schon unser Firmengründer zu sagen pflegte, später haben wir aus Marketinggründen das "Hell" weggelassen. Klang etwas subtiler.
Am Ende eines langen Tages, lasse ich dann Ruhe einkehren und werde wehmütig. Manchmal lasse ich mich dann dazu hinreißen einen wertvollen Gegenstand in einer Lootbox zu platzieren oder das Durchspielen mit einem neuen, kostenlosen Modus zu belohnen. Ich denke dann an früher, und wie es damals in der Branche lief. Gewöhnlich verfliegen diese Gedanken aber nach dem Spülen und abwischen. Gegen Abend verstümmel ich dann einen Zwanzigjährigen und verkleide ihn als Darth Vader. Den im Herzen bin auch ich ein Nerd und wenn ich schlafe, dann wie ein Baby, weil Euer Geld mich so herrlich sanft bettet. Für Videospiele habe ich leider keine Zeit mehr, ausserdem sind mir moralische Entscheidungen zu unlogisch. Angeblich haben viele Spiele heutzutage "Gute" Enden, vermutlich bedeutet das, dass man am Ende Arm ist und Freunde hat. Ich sag ja: Unlogisch
submitted by Redius to nintendoswitchde [link] [comments]
Dabei könnte es so einfach sein. Warum nicht einfach mal hinnehmen, dass ein DLC mehr als 30€ kostet? Warum gleich auf Facebook und Twitter protestieren, nur weil man für den Season Pass eine zweite Hypotheke aufnehmen muss? Einfach mal Brieftasche öffnen, nach vorne beugen und anschließend danke sagen. Kann doch nicht so schwer sein?! Da sitzt man, nichts böses ahnend, auf seinen Thron aus Gold, nur um sich vor Bauern zu rechtfertigen. Natürlich ist die DLC Kampagne schon auf der Blu-ray, seh ich aus wie Krösus? Wächst mir ein verdammtes Kornfeld in der Hand? Server kosten Geld! Da pack ich den Zusatz Inhalt doch lieber schon mal auf den Datenträger, um dir, dämlicher Saftsack von Kunde, Zeit zu sparen. Der Dank ist dann ein Boykott. Glücklicherweise haben unsere Kunden die Impulskontrolle eines Frettchens. Manchmal blicke ich herab von meinem schwarzen Turm der Macht und reflektiere über vergangene Bilanzen. Nachdem ich dann abgespritzt habe, wende ich mich erneut dem Geschäften zu. Ich durchstöbere Krankenakten auf der Suche nach möglichst fatalen Fällen und setze diese Mitarbeiter mit auslaufenden Verfallsdatum in das Team unseres aktuellsten Megahits. Publicity schafft sich schließlich nicht von allein. Danach gehe ich die Briefe der "Make a Wish"-Foundation durch und wähle das hässlichste Kind aus, um einen Trashmob nach seinem Ebenbild zu designen. Menschlichkeit wird in meiner Branche klein und falsch geschrieben. Ich möchte mich nicht selber loben, aber seit wir das Höllenportal im Keller nicht mehr mit unschuldigen Nonnen füttern müssen, sondern eine Standleitung installiert haben, hat sich die Produktivität der Marketing Meetings verdoppelt.
Natürlich ist nicht immer alles eitel Sonnenschein im Land der ewigen Finsternis. Gelegentlich unterlaufen auch dem fiesesten Herrscher Fehler, dann gibt es plötzlich gratis DLC oder kostenlose Kostüme. In solchen Fällen ist es wichtig das Gesicht zu wahren. Nur keine Schwäche zeigen. Auf Fragen der Presse, ob dies eine Abkehr von den Microtransactionen ist, bleibt man gelassen und verweist auf seine F2P Companion App. Wahlweise kann man es auch als "Games as a Service" betiteln, aber nur, wenn alle echten Programmierer im Urlaub sind und man nur noch Zombie Azubis zur Verfügung hat. Games as a Service ist ohnehin nur eine andere Schreibweise für :"Kein Bock gerade, läuft doch?" Absolute Krönung dieses Konzepts ist natürlich die "Elite" Mitgliedschaft. Diese suggeriert einen gehobenen Status und Zugriff auf exklusive Features. Ist natürlich Unsinn, aber mein Kontostand sieht das anders. Wer allerdings rastet der rostet, so gehe ich stets sicher die neusten Trends frühzeitig zu erkennen. Zu den goldenen Rockband Zeiten habe ich, zum Beispiel, die Preise der Zusatzhardware subtil nach oben treiben können, indem ich statt Plastik, Elfenbein von Jung Elefanten verwenden ließ. Verdienter Erfolg kommt schließlich von verdienen mit Erfolg.
Natürlich kennt mein Großmut auch Grenzen, soviel ich mich verausgabe um dem nie zufriedenen Kundenvieh einigermaßen spielbare Software zu kredenzen, so wenig Aufwand betreibe ich wenn ich unseren neusten Top Titel auf den PC portiere. Manchmal verpacke ich einfach Pac Man neu und verkaufe es als das aktuelle Survival Hammer Game. Kritik beantworte ich mit dem stets griffbereiten Sermon:"Patch ist unterwegs" während ich zeitgleich neuen Content via DLC anbiete. Ein düsteres Imperium muss aber natürlich auch auf unvorhersehbare Eventualitäten vorbereitet sein. Wenn zum Beispiel wirklich mal ein Programmierer stirbt. Durch einige, durchaus menschenverachtende, Experimente, haben wir unter anderem feststellen können, dass menschliches Fett und Knochenmehl eine hervorragende Grundlage für die Produktion von Funko Pops darstellt. Ironischerweise erklärt dies die toten Augen der beliebten Mannskinder Figuren. Vermutlich würden die Verwandten des Ex Programmierers/Tony Stark Funko Pops es spüren, wenn man mit einer Nadel in die Figur sticht. Interessanter Gedankengang, vielleicht sollten wir in diese Richtung investieren. "Hell for the Players" wie es schon unser Firmengründer zu sagen pflegte, später haben wir aus Marketinggründen das "Hell" weggelassen. Klang etwas subtiler.
Am Ende eines langen Tages, lasse ich dann Ruhe einkehren und werde wehmütig. Manchmal lasse ich mich dann dazu hinreißen einen wertvollen Gegenstand in einer Lootbox zu platzieren oder das Durchspielen mit einem neuen, kostenlosen Modus zu belohnen. Ich denke dann an früher, und wie es damals in der Branche lief. Gewöhnlich verfliegen diese Gedanken aber nach dem Spülen und abwischen. Gegen Abend verstümmel ich dann einen Zwanzigjährigen und verkleide ihn als Darth Vader. Den im Herzen bin auch ich ein Nerd und wenn ich schlafe, dann wie ein Baby, weil Euer Geld mich so herrlich sanft bettet. Für Videospiele habe ich leider keine Zeit mehr, ausserdem sind mir moralische Entscheidungen zu unlogisch. Angeblich haben viele Spiele heutzutage "Gute" Enden, vermutlich bedeutet das, dass man am Ende Arm ist und Freunde hat. Ich sag ja: Unlogisch
2018.01.13 18:45 Veritas__Aequitas The conspiracy against males and the myth of gender equality
Fast Facts About Male Exploitation In The United States
- Only men are required to be drafted and sent to die for the United States. The Selective Service System of the United States Government states, “Almost all male U.S. citizens, and male immigrants living in the U.S., who are 18 through 25, are required to register with Selective Service.”4
- Taking paid work and household duties into consideration, Fathers worked 47 hours a week, while Mothers worked 39 in 2011.5
- Men are the slaves of women. a. They do the hardest and most dangerous jobs to keep women’s lives comfortable. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, Census of Fatal Occupational Injuries Charts, 1992-2012 page 8 shows that 92% of occupational fatalities were men.6 Page 19 shows that the most dangerous jobs are:7
- Logging workers
- Fishers and related fishing workers
- Aircraft pilot and flight engineers
- Roofers
- Structural iron and steel workers
- Refuse and recyclable material collectors
- Electrical power-line installers and repairers
- Drivers/sales workers and truck drivers
- Farmers, ranchers, and other agricultural managers
- Construction laborers
b. Outnumbered over two to one, 258,000 Southern men died to defend Southern women from the invasion of a Northern Army.10 The same story runs today as well. 2011 Demographics Profile Of The Military Community, Updated November 2012, page 17 shows that 85.5% of active duty military personnel are male. Yet this does not imply that the 14.5% female population is involved in combat. 11
In fact, The Washington Post states in its article, “Three women pass Marine ‘grunt’ test, but Corps holds off on letting them in infantry” by Craig Whitlock, November 20, 2013, “For the first time, three enlisted women have passed the Marine Corps’ grueling infantry course, carrying the same rifles and lugging the same 85-pound packs on the same 12-mile hikes through the piney woods of North Carolina as the men. The female Marines are scheduled to graduate Thursday at Camp Geiger, N.C. — a historic development as the U.S. military prepares to open ground combat forces to women. ” 12
It appears then that the G.I. Jane persona that we have been led to believe has regularly existed for so long, is actually a myth. Clearly then, women get paid less, not because they are women but because the men are taking the most risk and subjecting themselves to the most danger. Also “Men Earn More Money and Promotions Because They Work More Hours Than Women”.13
c. Women complain about the glass ceiling that keeps them from ascending into the highest positions of power in America, yet more men are trapped in the “glass cellar” that keeps men in jobs with the most danger.
d. Men are expected to be the unpaid bodyguards of women. They are to receive violence but never return it. They are expected to give up their seats for women and at one time they were expected to stand up as a woman entered the room and were also expected to bow to them. They also help women put on their jackets. Men are often seen walking along side of the highway in desperation. Who ever saw a woman in this condition? Men are also more likely to be homeless. 14
e. Men are less likely to be able to go to college. “On a national scale, public universities had the most even division between male and female students, with a male-female ratio of 43.6–56.4. While that difference is substantial, it still is smaller than private not-for-profit institutions (42.5-57.5) or all private schools (40.7-59.3). The nearly 40-60 ratio of private schools was most surprising, though perhaps this is partly due to the fact that most all-female schools are private. Nevertheless, the female domination of higher education prevails across all types of schools.”15
f. Violence against women is abhorred but violence against men is entertainment. We are the gladiators for women’s amusement in Football, MMA, Boxing, Wrestling, Ice Hockey, Rodeos, Auto Racing etc.
Fast Facts About Female Supremacy In The United States.
- The Government plays the bodyguard role for women in America.
a. “Across a wide range of jurisdictions the estimates are that mothers receive primary custody 68-88% of the time, fathers receive primary custody 8-14%, and equal residential custody is awarded in only 2-6% of the cases.”16 This leaves the burden of two households on the Father. Is it then any wonder that “Divorced men are more likely to have heart disease, high blood pressure and strokes than married ones - are also 39% more likely to commit suicide”?17 Men are so ridiculed by other men for depression as if it was a sign of weakness, that when faced with suicidal thoughts, instead of seeking help men just commit suicide. When I was in college I ministered at a detention center in Greenwood, Sc. Most of the men that attended my Bible study were men in prison for failure to pay child support. And get this; if a woman tells you she is using birth control and isn’t, if you get her pregnant she can still sue you for child support!
b. The fact that the men don’t pay shows that women are not qualified to chose their lovers. - Breast cancer receives much more research funding and publicity than prostate cancer despite similar number of victims. 18
- Men commit suicide over 3 times the rate women do.19
- “Across the industrialized world, women still live 5 to 10 years longer than men. Among people over 100 years old, 85% are women”.20
- “Males were nearly 4 times more likely than females to be murdered in 2008”. 21
- Women spend the most money in America: “Female shopping trips are most important to the mass merchandiser and dollar store channels, while male shopping trips are of greater relative importance within convenience/gas, grocery and warehouse club outlets. Women spend more money per trip than men in all of the channels examined, but in many channels, the differences between the sexes are not as great as one might expect. Nevertheless, spending differences do indicate that women drive the larger stock-up or planned trips as they outspend males by $14.31 per trip in supercenters and by $10.32 per trip in grocery stores.”22
- It has been my life experience that women are far more competitive with each other than men are with men and when given power have shown themselves just as bloodthirsty if not more bloodthirsty and warlike than men. My fathers come from England. One of the reasons my Fathers left England was religious persecution. One of the most famous persecutors was Bloody Mary. She killed hundreds of Protestants by burning them alive for their religious beliefs. Queen Isabella engaged in War with Portugal and enabled the conquest of North America via Christopher Columbus. In recent years Margaret Thatcher, the “Iron Lady” engaged in the Falklands War.
Feminism Hurts Women
- Too many short broken relationships leaves modern women mentally and emotionally scarred. This serves to create huge masses of both men and women who seek revenge on the opposite sex at every opportunity.
- The only way to enjoy this type of life is to harden yourself to the point where you become ruthless.
- Your young years are the best to start having children and your best time to find a life partner. When you are out of college and in the work force you are not going to have the time or the opportunity to be around men you have known for years and can trust with your life.
- Feminism makes men apathetic toward family roles and life in general. Man has lost his sense of leadership, masculinity and also his chivalry and it’s all the fault of Feminist women. Not only do Feminists not believe that the woman was made for the man (1 Cor. 11:9), they view men as the great burden on humanity, full of sexual perversions and grotesque dependencies- a real life slobbering werewolf. He is to wear a dunce hat for all his life, and bear the guilt of all the sins in the world, especially if he is white. Moreover, the vast majority of Feminists have sex before marriage with multiple partners. Feminists want to have sex with as many men as they want and then when they want to get married to a good guy, he is just supposed to overlook all the men that have had their way with his wife to be and the mother of his children. Moreover, Feminism takes away his authority and makes the word “Father” empty of meaning. Also, women are given preferential treatment in the divorce courts.
“RESULTS For the entire sample, higher risks of suicide were found in divorced than in married persons. Divorced and separated persons were over twice as likely to commit suicide as married persons (RR=2.08, 95% confidence intervals (95% CI) 1.58, 2.72). Being single or widowed had no significant effect on suicide risk. When data were stratified by sex, it was observed that the risk of suicide among divorced men was over twice that of married men (RR=2.38, CI 1.77, 3.20). Among women, however, there were no statistically significant differentials in the risk of suicide by marital status categories. CONCLUSIONS Marital status, especially divorce, has strong net effect on mortality from suicide, but only among men.”23
As a matter of fact a woman can divorce a man and take half of the family assets for no fault or wrongdoing on his part at all.24 The modern sports, drug and porn culture is a result of men seeing no incentive in committing to responsible family life. This leaves these “liberated” women mostly single as they ascend into their later years, bitter, and alone. - The Feminist attitude is unnaturally crass and pugnacious as a way to impersonate male toughness as an attempt to make men see them as equals. This makes men hate women and paints a proverbial target on the forehead of such women. It also creates chaos in the workplace.
- The Feminist sexual revolution, pace Margret Sanger, has turned women into empty shells whose lives are primarily focused on appealing to the sexual desires of men.
- The children of Feminists have no one to raise them but the media and the government public schools. This is creating a savage generation of children that cause their parents great grief.25
- The Feminist sexual revolution has literally killed millions of girls in abortion clinics.
- The Feminist sexual revolution has seen to the creation of an international human trafficking market where women are kidnapped and forced into sex slavery.
- The Feminist sexual revolution has created a plague of sexually transmitted diseases.
- Feminism sparked the Civil War, pace Harriet Beecher Stowe. This civil war created a more centralized federal government that created the modern monetary and tax system which steals so much money from Americans that women must work in order for a common family to survive.
- Feminism has deceived young girls into thinking that they can govern their own lives. The problem is, young women are too controlled by their emotions to make well thought through decisions.
Example #1. Young girls follow their emotions and typically look for the bad boy. From what I have heard, young women, in their narcissism, think they can bring worship to themselves if they can change said bad boy. This experiment has resulted in a plague of tens of millions of aborted children and a population of mostly abandoned unwed mothers in America. According to the CDC’s National Vital Statistics Reports (October 3, 2012), see tables 1 and 7, 40% of births in the US are to unwed mothers! Here we see that Feminism enfranchises the bad boy. And women wonder why there are no good men.
Example #2. When I was in college I was good friends with a young Latino girl. She was in love with my best friend. The year before our first year in college, he had offered himself to her at the time that she was in love with him. I asked her why she turned him down. She said, “I was too scared. I was overcome with emotion.” A couple years later she had despaired of finding a good guy and married a savage police officer she knew little about. He turned out to be a violent man with a porn addiction. After having a child with him, she divorced him for multiple grievances. After this divorce she gave up on romance completely. Feminism is a disease.
White Men In Protestant Countries Have Made All Of The Most Significant Accomplishments Even After The Liberation And Higher Education Of Women
In the Fourth Session of the Roman Catholic Council of Trent we Read,“DECREE CONCERNING THE EDITION, AND THE USE, OF THE SACRED BOOKS Moreover, the same sacred and holy Synod,--considering that no small utility may accrue to the Church of God, if it be made known which out of all the Latin editions, now in circulation, of the sacred books, is to be held as authentic,--ordains and declares, that the said old and vulgate edition, which, by the lengthened usage of so many years, has been approved of in the Church, be, in public lectures, disputations, sermons and expositions, held as authentic; and that no one is to dare, or presume to reject it under any pretext whatever. Furthermore, in order to restrain petulant spirits, It decrees, that no one, relying on his own skill, shall,-- in matters of faith, and of morals pertaining to the edification of Christian doctrine, --wresting the sacred Scripture to his own senses, presume to interpret the said sacred Scripture contrary to that sense which holy mother Church,--whose it is to judge of the true sense and interpretation of the holy Scriptures,- -hath held and doth hold; [Page 20] or even contrary to the unanimous consent of the Fathers; even though such interpretations were never (intended) to be at any time published. Contraveners shall be made known by their Ordinaries, and be punished with the penalties by law established. And wishing, as is just, to impose a restraint, in this matter, also on printers, who now without restraint,-- thinking, that is, that whatsoever they please is allowed them,--print, without the license of ecclesiastical superiors, the said books of sacred Scripture, and the notes and comments upon them of all persons indifferently, with the press ofttimes unnamed, often even fictitious, and what is more grievous still, without the author's name; and also keep for indiscriminate sale books of this kind printed elsewhere; (this Synod) ordains and decrees, that, henceforth, the sacred Scripture, and especially the said old and vulgate edition, be printed in the most correct manner possible; and that it shall not be lawful for any one to print, or cause to be printed, any books whatever, on sacred matters, without the name of the author; nor to sell them in future, or even to keep them, unless they shall have been first examined, and approved of, by the Ordinary; under pain of the anathema and fine imposed in a canon of the last Council of Lateran: and, if they be Regulars, besides this examination and approval, they shall be bound to obtain a license also from their own superiors, who shall have examined the books according to the form of their own statutes. As to those who lend, or circulate them in manuscript, without their having been first examined, and approved of, they shall be subjected to the same penalties as printers: and they who shall have them in their possession or shall read them, shall, unless they discover the authors, be themselves regarded as the authors. And the said approbation of books of this kind shall be given in writing; and for this end it shall appear authentically at the beginning of the book, whether the book be written, or printed; and all this, that is, both the approbation and the examination, shall be done gratis, that so what ought to be approved, may be approved, and what ought to be condemned, may be condemned.”26
Here we see that it was the Protestant demand for Bibles that opened the Freedom of the Press in Protestant Nations. Subsequently, the Treaty of Westphalia which ended the failed Catholic War of Protestant Annihilation, The Thirty Years War, is, in defiance of the local University’s denial of facts, the true end of Catholic dominance in Europe and thus the true end of the Middle Ages, introducing the modern period.
At this point the Protestant Nations explode with Scholarship, Culture, Literature, Art, and Science, created the highest Civilizations that have ever existed and have dominated the world since. The reason why this was possible is because the Protestant Reformation opened the press, which gave the Bible to the people and thus raised the people’s morals and the Protestant Governments allowed freedom of thought and invention.
England had already entered their Protestant Golden Age with blessed Elizabeth, which produced Sir William Shakespeare but picking right up from Westphalia is the production of one of the greatest minds to ever exist, Sir Isaac Newton. Protestant Germany produced the great Lutheran Johann Sebastian Bach. The Protestant Dutch enter their Golden Age with Rembrandt (His Father was Dutch Reformed). The Protestant Presbyterian Scottish produced Adam Smith who invented modern Economics and James Watt who invented the Steam Engine.
In grievous pain the modern Feminist will look upon this horrifying period of History and complain that there are no women participating in all of this glory because they were being systemically suppressed by the evil white man. In reply, I would simply ask the reader to consider the technological accomplishments that have taken place since women began to receive Professional Education in the mid 19th Century.
The following is taken from Technology A World History by Daniel Headrick published by Oxford University Press, 2009 where we see a list of the most significant inventions since the mid 19th century. The text says on page 138, “Almost all technologies introduced since World War II originated in the United States, Germany, Great Britain or the Soviet Union.”
- Beginning in the 1860s, William Kelly of Kentucky as well as Henry Bessemer (Englishman) and Sidney Gilchrist Thomas (Englishman) invented the methods used to produce enough Steel to enable industrial Mass production.27
- Italian Alessandro Volta invented the battery.28
- German Ernst Werner Siemens and the Belgian Zenobe Gramme invented dynamos to generate electricity.29
- Englishman Joseph Swan and American Thomas Edison in 1878-1879 invented the light bulb.30
- Edison built a generating plant and an entire system of wires, switches, fuses and meters to light an entire building in Manhattan.31
- Scottish Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone in 1876.32
- In the 1890s Nicola Tesla (Serbian but Accomplished in America) and American George Westinghouse introduced AC or Alternating Current.33
- Swedish Alfred Nobel produced Dynamite in 1866.34
- German Heinrich Hertz discovered electromagnetic waves other than light.35
- In 1895 the German Wilhelm Roentgen discovered X-Rays.36
- In 1895 Italian Guglielmo Marconi discovered “that electromagnetic waves could be used to transmit information...By 1899 he succeeded in sending a signal across the English Channel and two years later across the Atlantic Ocean.”37
- In 1859 the first internal combustion Engine was invented by Frenchman Etienne Lenoir.38
- In 1883 German Karl Benz invented an internal combustion Engine that would operate in a vehicle.39
- In 1896 American Henry Ford began to perfect the manufacture of the new Automobile, the Model T in 1908.40
- In 1892 German Rudolph Diesel invented the Diesel Engine.41
- In the early 20th century German Ferdinand von Zeppelin began to manufacture airships that were frequently used in Germany until the Hindenburg crashed in 1937.42
- In 1903 the American Wright Brothers invented the first airplane.43
- In 1945 Jewish American J. Robert Oppenheimer and his team built the first atom bomb.
- In 1939 German Hans von Ohain built the first jet engine.44
- German Konrad Zuse built the first digital computer. English Max Newman, and American Howard Aiken made considerable additions.45
- Americans John Mauchly and J. Presper Eckert invented the first calculator.46
- The first rocket was invented by German Werner von Braun.47
- In 1928 Englishman Alexander Fleming invented antibiotics.
- The Russians invented the first Nuclear Power plant in 1954 “followed by Calder Hall, Britain, in 1956”.48
- In 1957 the Russians49 led by Sergei Korolev invented Sputnik.
- In 1961 Russian Yuri Gagarin was the first cosmonaut.50
- “In 1947-1948, Walter Brattain, William Shockley, and John Barden...created the first transistor”.51
- The Television was invented by the Scottish man John Baird. (The invention not the name was mentioned in the referenced Book)
- In 1975 Stephen Wozniak and Steve Jobs “assembled their first computer circuit boards”.52
- In 1981 IBM purchased an operating system from a small software firm called Microsoft founded by Bill Gates and Paul Allen.53
- In 1989 Englishman Tim Berners created the World Wide Web.54
- In 1953 James Watson and Francis Crick “came up with the double-helix model of deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA.”55
- In the 1950s the first Genetically Modified plant was invented by American Norman Borlaug.56
Pause
Thus, if women do not pull equal weight, if they do not have equal contributions to civilization, and if they do not have equal responsibilities in a society, as they don’t and never will, they should not enjoy equal rights, privileges and franchise.Luke 12:48 From everyone who has been given much, much will be required; and to whom they entrusted much, of him they will ask all the more.
Moreover, these women have shown themselves incapable of choosing a qualified mate and raising a family as they have murdered over 50 million of their own children since Roe v. Wade.
2016.06.12 21:31 stickygervais [RF] The Black Horse on the Prairie
The Black Horse on the Prairie
The ripened Pink Ladies could not mask the putrid odor of Herman Hilltop’s decomposing body. A fresh patch of sugar magnolias could not even soften the tear-rousing stench. Had a man passed his foul-smelling corpse, a double-handed nose-pinch would disable him from cutting down the cordage noose—as would the apprehension of fondling a dead black man's flesh. There, drooping from the highest branch, he would stay flaccidly swaying in the wind. It would be just eight days until the maggots had finished boring through his brain and crawling out his eye sockets, but his tattered skeleton would not be found until hell froze over.
⏅
“Momma. Just a few mo’ months and Imma get us outta her’, alright,” Herman, with a hand gripping her sagging shoulder, explained. It had been 11 years since Herman and his mother were sold to the Corucca Plantation in Calvert County, Maryland. Surrounded by acres of tobacco, he fantasized about life out of shackles, earning modest wages, and raising his own family. His fantasy was not too far out of reach. The laxer conditions of the north allowed him to work odd jobs, after his day in the field of course, for a couple bucks. After 11 years of spit-shining shoes on the most dehydrating-days of the summer and constructing oak-wood furniture until his fingers could not bare anymore splinters, Herman had accrued $650, nearly enough to purchase his and his mother’s freedom. Just a few more months, as Herman had so neatly drawn out, and they would be freemen.
⏅
Nobody saw it coming. The winter of 1865, as temperate as it seemed compared to last, carried a devastating wind-chill that took lives mercilessly. Wrapped in wool blanket by open fire, Herman’s mother took her last breath, and her son neiled by, head-in-hand, sniveling over his loved-one’s death and the impetuous fever that foiled their plans for liberation. He found he had haplessly misused the past 11 years. As fate would have it though, in the following month, January, the 13th Amendment was passed through congress, freeing all slaves in the entire U.S. territory. 11 years of arduous toil just to be left with a dead mother and gratis-freedom left him in a deep, dark, and seemingly incurable depression. As all the other slaves on the plantation soulfully celebrated their imminent release, he chose to rest alone; convinced solitude would alleviate his anguish.
⏅
“Don’t trus’ nobody. The white folk. The black folk. Nobody.” Herman remembered the lesson his mother had ingrained in him since childhood and he had earnest intention on following it. 11 months and 17 days after his late mother's death, Herman departed from the Calvert County post office on horse, clutching his Homestead Act authorized-deed to 80 acres of land in Kansas, en route to the Great American Desert: his new, reclusive life. Herman understood the land out west was nearly infertile, but he had no intention on farming it commercially. The crops he grew on this land would be harvested for subsistence only. $650 allowed him to purchase one horse, two oxen, a wagon, a steel plow, seeds, saplings, and enough raw materials to build a comfortable dwelling: a wood-framed interior encased by a mud-brick exterior, a one-room residence that could keep cool in the steaming days of the summer and toasty in the windswept days of the winter. His dreams, once of raising a good ol’ Christian family, had faded and were cloaked by his narrow-pathed vision of withdrawal and grief.
⏅
Good grief. He’d been reaping what he sowed. Eating enough to live but barely living enough not to die. Apart from tending to his crops, he hadn’t been outside his 80 acres in weeks. When he first arrived at his land, a quick horse-ridden survey would keep him inside his boundaries. No residents but ex-Confederate soldiers and Irish-bloods for 30 miles in every direction. His mother taught him how to read them when he looked, and, promptly, he had been left alone. With the majority of his 80 acres being untouched, passerbyers could assume the land was vacant--no knocks on his door, no hospitable salutations, nothing. Sadly, the empty land was not the reason for his lack of companionship. The knowledge of his black skin passed through the grapevine, keeping neighbors away. A barrack of buffalo soldiers, stationed just a 45 minute gallop away, never payed a visit to the sole black man. With their rise in status, from slavery to calvary, and their new pompous attitude, they had no interest in accompanying the ostensibly declasse black, from slavery to solitary poverty.
⏅
Two years and he’d been alone in his grief for too long. Never had he been invited to cut up the rug at the biannual Grange dance. Never had he been invited to tie one on after the Priest’s sermon on Sunday night. Never had he even been invited into the threshold of the local church. Two years was too long to not hear another soul’s voice. Two years was all it took.
⏅
The Pink Lady tree reminded him of the one that grew on the Corucca plantation. Even more than its aesthetic, climbing to its tippy top brought him back to his childhood. His childhood, although full of slaving and drudgery, had one key component: company. Although he was nearly worked to death, he had never felt as weak as he felt right now; in his terminal moment he had nobody. His mother, never even breathing a breath of air as a free woman, comfortably died in her loving son’s arms. Now, he would see his own death, cradled by the arms of the Pink Lady tree. As the black silhouette tangled by the cordage noose, Herman Hilltop’s horse nayed. Now that his master had gone under, he was a free horse and could travel about as he liked. Where shall I go, thought the horse. What shall I see? Who shall I meet? The horse, in all of its glory, galloped into the prairie, the Great American Desert. In two years or less, the vivacious nag would have all of its questions answered: Nowhere, nothing, and noone.
submitted by stickygervais to shortstories [link] [comments]
The ripened Pink Ladies could not mask the putrid odor of Herman Hilltop’s decomposing body. A fresh patch of sugar magnolias could not even soften the tear-rousing stench. Had a man passed his foul-smelling corpse, a double-handed nose-pinch would disable him from cutting down the cordage noose—as would the apprehension of fondling a dead black man's flesh. There, drooping from the highest branch, he would stay flaccidly swaying in the wind. It would be just eight days until the maggots had finished boring through his brain and crawling out his eye sockets, but his tattered skeleton would not be found until hell froze over.
⏅
“Momma. Just a few mo’ months and Imma get us outta her’, alright,” Herman, with a hand gripping her sagging shoulder, explained. It had been 11 years since Herman and his mother were sold to the Corucca Plantation in Calvert County, Maryland. Surrounded by acres of tobacco, he fantasized about life out of shackles, earning modest wages, and raising his own family. His fantasy was not too far out of reach. The laxer conditions of the north allowed him to work odd jobs, after his day in the field of course, for a couple bucks. After 11 years of spit-shining shoes on the most dehydrating-days of the summer and constructing oak-wood furniture until his fingers could not bare anymore splinters, Herman had accrued $650, nearly enough to purchase his and his mother’s freedom. Just a few more months, as Herman had so neatly drawn out, and they would be freemen.
⏅
Nobody saw it coming. The winter of 1865, as temperate as it seemed compared to last, carried a devastating wind-chill that took lives mercilessly. Wrapped in wool blanket by open fire, Herman’s mother took her last breath, and her son neiled by, head-in-hand, sniveling over his loved-one’s death and the impetuous fever that foiled their plans for liberation. He found he had haplessly misused the past 11 years. As fate would have it though, in the following month, January, the 13th Amendment was passed through congress, freeing all slaves in the entire U.S. territory. 11 years of arduous toil just to be left with a dead mother and gratis-freedom left him in a deep, dark, and seemingly incurable depression. As all the other slaves on the plantation soulfully celebrated their imminent release, he chose to rest alone; convinced solitude would alleviate his anguish.
⏅
“Don’t trus’ nobody. The white folk. The black folk. Nobody.” Herman remembered the lesson his mother had ingrained in him since childhood and he had earnest intention on following it. 11 months and 17 days after his late mother's death, Herman departed from the Calvert County post office on horse, clutching his Homestead Act authorized-deed to 80 acres of land in Kansas, en route to the Great American Desert: his new, reclusive life. Herman understood the land out west was nearly infertile, but he had no intention on farming it commercially. The crops he grew on this land would be harvested for subsistence only. $650 allowed him to purchase one horse, two oxen, a wagon, a steel plow, seeds, saplings, and enough raw materials to build a comfortable dwelling: a wood-framed interior encased by a mud-brick exterior, a one-room residence that could keep cool in the steaming days of the summer and toasty in the windswept days of the winter. His dreams, once of raising a good ol’ Christian family, had faded and were cloaked by his narrow-pathed vision of withdrawal and grief.
⏅
Good grief. He’d been reaping what he sowed. Eating enough to live but barely living enough not to die. Apart from tending to his crops, he hadn’t been outside his 80 acres in weeks. When he first arrived at his land, a quick horse-ridden survey would keep him inside his boundaries. No residents but ex-Confederate soldiers and Irish-bloods for 30 miles in every direction. His mother taught him how to read them when he looked, and, promptly, he had been left alone. With the majority of his 80 acres being untouched, passerbyers could assume the land was vacant--no knocks on his door, no hospitable salutations, nothing. Sadly, the empty land was not the reason for his lack of companionship. The knowledge of his black skin passed through the grapevine, keeping neighbors away. A barrack of buffalo soldiers, stationed just a 45 minute gallop away, never payed a visit to the sole black man. With their rise in status, from slavery to calvary, and their new pompous attitude, they had no interest in accompanying the ostensibly declasse black, from slavery to solitary poverty.
⏅
Two years and he’d been alone in his grief for too long. Never had he been invited to cut up the rug at the biannual Grange dance. Never had he been invited to tie one on after the Priest’s sermon on Sunday night. Never had he even been invited into the threshold of the local church. Two years was too long to not hear another soul’s voice. Two years was all it took.
⏅
The Pink Lady tree reminded him of the one that grew on the Corucca plantation. Even more than its aesthetic, climbing to its tippy top brought him back to his childhood. His childhood, although full of slaving and drudgery, had one key component: company. Although he was nearly worked to death, he had never felt as weak as he felt right now; in his terminal moment he had nobody. His mother, never even breathing a breath of air as a free woman, comfortably died in her loving son’s arms. Now, he would see his own death, cradled by the arms of the Pink Lady tree. As the black silhouette tangled by the cordage noose, Herman Hilltop’s horse nayed. Now that his master had gone under, he was a free horse and could travel about as he liked. Where shall I go, thought the horse. What shall I see? Who shall I meet? The horse, in all of its glory, galloped into the prairie, the Great American Desert. In two years or less, the vivacious nag would have all of its questions answered: Nowhere, nothing, and noone.
2016.06.12 08:45 stickygervais The Black Horse on the Prairie
The Black Horse on the Prairie
The ripened Pink Ladies could not mask the putrid odor of Herman Hilltop’s decomposing body. A fresh patch of sugar magnolias could not even soften the tear-rousing stench. Had a man passed his foul-smelling corpse, a double-handed nose-pinch would disable him from cutting down the cordage noose—as would the apprehension of fondling a dead black man's flesh. There, drooping from the highest branch, he would stay flaccidly swaying in the wind. It would be just eight days until the maggots had finished boring through his brain and crawling out his eye sockets, but his tattered skeleton would not be found until hell froze over.
⏅
“Momma. Just a few mo’ months and Imma get us outta her’, alright,” Herman, with a hand gripping her sagging shoulder, explained. It had been 11 years since Herman and his mother were sold to the Corucca Plantation in Calvert County, Maryland. Surrounded by acres of tobacco, he fantasized about life out of shackles, earning modest wages, and raising his own family. His fantasy was not too far out of reach. The laxer conditions of the north allowed him to work odd jobs, after his day in the field of course, for a couple bucks. After 11 years of spit-shining shoes on the most dehydrating-days of the summer and constructing oak-wood furniture until his fingers could not bare anymore splinters, Herman had accrued $650, nearly enough to purchase his and his mother’s freedom. Just a few more months, as Herman had so neatly drawn out, and they would be freemen.
⏅
Nobody saw it coming. The winter of 1865, as temperate as it seemed compared to last, carried a devastating wind-chill that took lives mercilessly. Wrapped in wool blanket by open fire, Herman’s mother took her last breath, and her son neiled by, head-in-hand, sniveling over his loved-one’s death and the impetuous fever that foiled their plans for liberation. He found he had haplessly misused the past 11 years. As fate would have it though, in the following month, January, the 13th Amendment was passed through congress, freeing all slaves in the entire U.S. territory. 11 years of arduous toil just to be left with a dead mother and gratis-freedom left him in a deep, dark, and seemingly incurable depression. As all the other slaves on the plantation soulfully celebrated their imminent release, he chose to rest alone; convinced solitude would alleviate his anguish.
⏅
“Don’t trus’ nobody. The white folk. The black folk. Nobody.” Herman remembered the lesson his mother had ingrained in him since childhood and he had earnest intention on following it. 11 months and 17 days after his late mother's death, Herman departed from the Calvert County post office on horse, clutching his Homestead Act authorized-deed to 80 acres of land in Kansas, en route to the Great American Desert: his new, reclusive life. Herman understood the land out west was nearly infertile, but he had no intention on farming it commercially. The crops he grew on this land would be harvested for subsistence only. $650 allowed him to purchase one horse, two oxen, a wagon, a steel plow, seeds, saplings, and enough raw materials to build a comfortable dwelling: a wood-framed interior encased by a mud-brick exterior, a one-room residence that could keep cool in the steaming days of the summer and toasty in the windswept days of the winter. His dreams, once of raising a good ol’ Christian family, had faded and were cloaked by his narrow-pathed vision of withdrawal and grief.
⏅
Good grief. He’d been reaping what he sowed. Eating enough to live but barely living enough not to die. Apart from tending to his crops, he hadn’t been outside his 80 acres in weeks. When he first arrived at his land, a quick horse-ridden survey would keep him inside his boundaries. No residents but ex-Confederate soldiers and Irish-bloods for 30 miles in every direction. His mother taught him how to read them when he looked, and, promptly, he had been left alone. With the majority of his 80 acres being untouched, passerbyers could assume the land was vacant--no knocks on his door, no hospitable salutations, nothing. Sadly, the empty land was not the reason for his lack of companionship. The knowledge of his black skin passed through the grapevine, keeping neighbors away. A barrack of buffalo soldiers, stationed just a 45 minute gallop away, never payed a visit to the sole black man. With their rise in status, from slavery to calvary, and their new pompous attitude, they had no interest in accompanying the ostensibly declasse black, from slavery to solitary poverty.
⏅
Two years and he’d been alone in his grief for too long. Never had he been invited to cut up the rug at the biannual Grange dance. Never had he been invited to tie one on after the Priest’s sermon on Sunday night. Never had he even been invited into the threshold of the local church. Two years was too long to not hear another soul’s voice. Two years was all it took.
⏅
The Pink Lady tree reminded him of the one that grew on the Corucca plantation. Even more than its aesthetic, climbing to its tippy top brought him back to his childhood. His childhood, although full of slaving and drudgery, had one key component: company. Although he was nearly worked to death, he had never felt as weak as he felt right now; in his terminal moment he had nobody. His mother, never even breathing a breath of air as a free woman, comfortably died in her loving son’s arms. Now, he would see his own death, cradled by the arms of the Pink Lady tree. As the black silhouette tangled by the cordage noose, Herman Hilltop’s horse nayed. Now that his master had gone under, he was a free horse and could travel about as he liked. Where shall I go, thought the horse. What shall I see? Who shall I meet? The horse, in all of its glory, galloped into the prairie, the Great American Desert. In two years or less, the vivacious nag would have all of its questions answered: Nowhere, nothing, and noone.
submitted by stickygervais to nosleep [link] [comments]
The ripened Pink Ladies could not mask the putrid odor of Herman Hilltop’s decomposing body. A fresh patch of sugar magnolias could not even soften the tear-rousing stench. Had a man passed his foul-smelling corpse, a double-handed nose-pinch would disable him from cutting down the cordage noose—as would the apprehension of fondling a dead black man's flesh. There, drooping from the highest branch, he would stay flaccidly swaying in the wind. It would be just eight days until the maggots had finished boring through his brain and crawling out his eye sockets, but his tattered skeleton would not be found until hell froze over.
⏅
“Momma. Just a few mo’ months and Imma get us outta her’, alright,” Herman, with a hand gripping her sagging shoulder, explained. It had been 11 years since Herman and his mother were sold to the Corucca Plantation in Calvert County, Maryland. Surrounded by acres of tobacco, he fantasized about life out of shackles, earning modest wages, and raising his own family. His fantasy was not too far out of reach. The laxer conditions of the north allowed him to work odd jobs, after his day in the field of course, for a couple bucks. After 11 years of spit-shining shoes on the most dehydrating-days of the summer and constructing oak-wood furniture until his fingers could not bare anymore splinters, Herman had accrued $650, nearly enough to purchase his and his mother’s freedom. Just a few more months, as Herman had so neatly drawn out, and they would be freemen.
⏅
Nobody saw it coming. The winter of 1865, as temperate as it seemed compared to last, carried a devastating wind-chill that took lives mercilessly. Wrapped in wool blanket by open fire, Herman’s mother took her last breath, and her son neiled by, head-in-hand, sniveling over his loved-one’s death and the impetuous fever that foiled their plans for liberation. He found he had haplessly misused the past 11 years. As fate would have it though, in the following month, January, the 13th Amendment was passed through congress, freeing all slaves in the entire U.S. territory. 11 years of arduous toil just to be left with a dead mother and gratis-freedom left him in a deep, dark, and seemingly incurable depression. As all the other slaves on the plantation soulfully celebrated their imminent release, he chose to rest alone; convinced solitude would alleviate his anguish.
⏅
“Don’t trus’ nobody. The white folk. The black folk. Nobody.” Herman remembered the lesson his mother had ingrained in him since childhood and he had earnest intention on following it. 11 months and 17 days after his late mother's death, Herman departed from the Calvert County post office on horse, clutching his Homestead Act authorized-deed to 80 acres of land in Kansas, en route to the Great American Desert: his new, reclusive life. Herman understood the land out west was nearly infertile, but he had no intention on farming it commercially. The crops he grew on this land would be harvested for subsistence only. $650 allowed him to purchase one horse, two oxen, a wagon, a steel plow, seeds, saplings, and enough raw materials to build a comfortable dwelling: a wood-framed interior encased by a mud-brick exterior, a one-room residence that could keep cool in the steaming days of the summer and toasty in the windswept days of the winter. His dreams, once of raising a good ol’ Christian family, had faded and were cloaked by his narrow-pathed vision of withdrawal and grief.
⏅
Good grief. He’d been reaping what he sowed. Eating enough to live but barely living enough not to die. Apart from tending to his crops, he hadn’t been outside his 80 acres in weeks. When he first arrived at his land, a quick horse-ridden survey would keep him inside his boundaries. No residents but ex-Confederate soldiers and Irish-bloods for 30 miles in every direction. His mother taught him how to read them when he looked, and, promptly, he had been left alone. With the majority of his 80 acres being untouched, passerbyers could assume the land was vacant--no knocks on his door, no hospitable salutations, nothing. Sadly, the empty land was not the reason for his lack of companionship. The knowledge of his black skin passed through the grapevine, keeping neighbors away. A barrack of buffalo soldiers, stationed just a 45 minute gallop away, never payed a visit to the sole black man. With their rise in status, from slavery to calvary, and their new pompous attitude, they had no interest in accompanying the ostensibly declasse black, from slavery to solitary poverty.
⏅
Two years and he’d been alone in his grief for too long. Never had he been invited to cut up the rug at the biannual Grange dance. Never had he been invited to tie one on after the Priest’s sermon on Sunday night. Never had he even been invited into the threshold of the local church. Two years was too long to not hear another soul’s voice. Two years was all it took.
⏅
The Pink Lady tree reminded him of the one that grew on the Corucca plantation. Even more than its aesthetic, climbing to its tippy top brought him back to his childhood. His childhood, although full of slaving and drudgery, had one key component: company. Although he was nearly worked to death, he had never felt as weak as he felt right now; in his terminal moment he had nobody. His mother, never even breathing a breath of air as a free woman, comfortably died in her loving son’s arms. Now, he would see his own death, cradled by the arms of the Pink Lady tree. As the black silhouette tangled by the cordage noose, Herman Hilltop’s horse nayed. Now that his master had gone under, he was a free horse and could travel about as he liked. Where shall I go, thought the horse. What shall I see? Who shall I meet? The horse, in all of its glory, galloped into the prairie, the Great American Desert. In two years or less, the vivacious nag would have all of its questions answered: Nowhere, nothing, and noone.
2016.01.03 22:46 dubmcswaggins Never make a deal with the devil. No matter how small.
My name is Brent. What i am about to tell you is true. I do not care if you believe me. I am posting this to hopefully save someone's soul. Do not ever make a deal with the devil, no matter how small. This is my story.
Growing up, I had semi-religious parents. Going to church on Sunday was about as far as they went. When i was younger I believed in God, but as I got older that changed. I always thought people at church were so fucking judgmental. Like if you didn't have at least a 150 dollar suit on, well you can burn in hell. Fuck that. Around the age of twenty one I had completely stopped believing in God, Satan, ghosts, the boogie man, etc. I was hanging out with a group of friends, one of which was my best friend, Steven. Steven was pretty damn religious. He went to church and never said god damn. He always wore a cross necklace and prayed before eating. The only vice he really had was he liked to smoke a little weed and maybe drink ( Neither of which i believe is a sin, but what the fuck do i know.).
Steven, my other friends, and I were chilling out one day. Smoking a little bud and playing some ps3. The topic of religion was brought up .I uncomfortably sat there and thought about how the idea of heaven, hell, and everything inbetween was so fucking ludicrous. I wish I would have been right.
Steven asked me what i thought and unfortunately I told him the truth. " None of this shit is real Steven." I hissed. " God, If you are real strike me down now. " Nothing happened. " It Doesn't work that way Brent." Steven insisted." But please stop. I don't want anything to happen to you. Sometimes the devil will answer if you call against god." Now this is were i made the biggest mistake of my life, which probably won't be to much longer. " Nah fuck that, neither exist." I said. " Hey devil, I sell you my soul for a nickel." Every body looked at me like i was fucking crazy, but still nothing happened, yet.
Two weeks or so passed and I got a call from Steven. " Hey bro, you wanna go to church with me? They are having an open house so there will be a lot of people there who are way less judgmental." For about 30 solid fucking minutes I protested, but Steven knew the way to my heart. " Alright dude, If you go with me tonight, drinks are on me AND I also happened to come across some O.G. kush." Fucking Steven, He had me at drinks. Steven picked me up and we arrived to a fucking PACKED church parking lot. As soon as I walked in I felt sick to my stomach. Literally sick. I sucked it up, thinking about the drinks, bud, and meeting a girl would be the ever needed cherry on top.
Everyone in the church exchanged pleasantries and sat down. At first nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The preacher started his sermon, and I sat there bored as fuck. But I kept feeling worse. I felt dizzy know, had a huge head ache, and started to sweat profusely. Trying to breath slow and make it through whatever was happening to me, the preacher started to get loud. " There are things in this church that are NOT WELCOME. You have tainted this church with EVIL. You need to come up and ask for forgiveness, or LEAVE." At this point i'm still not convinced, but oddly I was about to pass out. Steven took notice and recommended we went in the hall way and get some air.
When we got in the hallway Steven looked concern. " Are you okay?, Let's go up front and get you saved Brent, It wont hurt." Rage immediately flew over me and i have no idea why. " Fuck you Steven, How the fuck would that guy now anything about me. I just don't feel good. I probably ate something, Don't fucking judge me like every one else." Steven being the nice guy he is agreed and offered to buy me a drink from the one dollar vending machine. He put a dollar in, pressed mountain dew, but nothing happened. He pressed it repeatedly, still nothing. " Of course." I said. " The perfect little church want's to rip us off." I punched the machine as hard as i could. Still no drink...but something fell into the change dispenser....It was a fucking nickel.
Steven stood there in aw. Begging me to go beg for forgiveness and get saved. I should have. God damn I was so stupid. I stormed out of the church telling myself it was a coincidence. I don't remember whether or not i truly believed that or not. But I do remember it got much, much worse. I was in Stevens car waiting, He walked up to the car when service was over. " You ok?" He asked. " Yea man I feel better now, you can take me back home." " Nah bro, you need a drink." He said, and I was glad he did. We went to a little bar called " Rigsbys" What it meant i have no fucking idea but there were always girls and a live band there. I started drinking pretty heavy to try to forget about the day. A man came up and ordered a red devil. " Good choice." the bar tender said. " That'll be 6 dollars. The man paid but he said something that caught me a little off guard. " Here ya go, 6 dollars,...oh and take this." He gave the bar tender a nickel for a tip, winked at me and got up to leave. " What about your drink?" the bartender asked. The man turned to me and said " Let Brent have it."
Now this is were i started to freak. Who the fuck was this guy and how did he know my name? I turned to Steven to see his reaction. He was talking to a pretty brunette. He hadn't seen anything. I got up hoping to find the man outside but he was gone. I shot a text to Steven telling him I was tired and needed to get some sleep. " I'll get a cab." I told him. The ride home wasn't relaxing either. The cab driver was probably Dominican , judging from his accent. I noticed he kept looking back at me in his rear view and lit up an incense. He kept staring at me, and mumbling something that sounded like " AV Maria, grati plen." I have never been able to figure out what that meant because I probably spell it wrong. " Is something wrong?" I asked. " Don't hurt me." He said. " Nah man no worries i just need a ride, why would I hurt you? Do I know you or do you know me? What's up with that?" I asked. " Just don't hurt me." When we arrived to my apartment, he would not take a cent. He wouldn't look at me or roll down his window. He just took the fuck off. Now I tried to brush things off my back all day but I pretty much knew i was fucked at this point. I went straight to my bed. Didn't even take my shoes off and surprisingly, passed out immediately. I awoke the next morning to Steven's text, asking me if i had made it home safe and bragging about taking the brunette home. I told him " Fuck you and yes i did thanks for asking." I was off that day so i just slept. I woke up around 7 P.M. I was fucking terrified as soon as i opened my eyes. The man from the bar was sitting at the edge of my bed, staring right at me. " Sleep good?" " Get the fuck ou...Who the fuck...What the fuck do you want?" I screamed. " Oh Brent, I have everything i want, I just wanted to give this to you, you haven't taken it yet." He extended his hand. There it was. A fucking nickel.
EDIT: Sorry I couldn't Write more. I will post more tomorrow. This is a very sensitive story for me and I am currently trying to find some sort of redemption. Thank you all for the questions and support.
Part 2
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Growing up, I had semi-religious parents. Going to church on Sunday was about as far as they went. When i was younger I believed in God, but as I got older that changed. I always thought people at church were so fucking judgmental. Like if you didn't have at least a 150 dollar suit on, well you can burn in hell. Fuck that. Around the age of twenty one I had completely stopped believing in God, Satan, ghosts, the boogie man, etc. I was hanging out with a group of friends, one of which was my best friend, Steven. Steven was pretty damn religious. He went to church and never said god damn. He always wore a cross necklace and prayed before eating. The only vice he really had was he liked to smoke a little weed and maybe drink ( Neither of which i believe is a sin, but what the fuck do i know.).
Steven, my other friends, and I were chilling out one day. Smoking a little bud and playing some ps3. The topic of religion was brought up .I uncomfortably sat there and thought about how the idea of heaven, hell, and everything inbetween was so fucking ludicrous. I wish I would have been right.
Steven asked me what i thought and unfortunately I told him the truth. " None of this shit is real Steven." I hissed. " God, If you are real strike me down now. " Nothing happened. " It Doesn't work that way Brent." Steven insisted." But please stop. I don't want anything to happen to you. Sometimes the devil will answer if you call against god." Now this is were i made the biggest mistake of my life, which probably won't be to much longer. " Nah fuck that, neither exist." I said. " Hey devil, I sell you my soul for a nickel." Every body looked at me like i was fucking crazy, but still nothing happened, yet.
Two weeks or so passed and I got a call from Steven. " Hey bro, you wanna go to church with me? They are having an open house so there will be a lot of people there who are way less judgmental." For about 30 solid fucking minutes I protested, but Steven knew the way to my heart. " Alright dude, If you go with me tonight, drinks are on me AND I also happened to come across some O.G. kush." Fucking Steven, He had me at drinks. Steven picked me up and we arrived to a fucking PACKED church parking lot. As soon as I walked in I felt sick to my stomach. Literally sick. I sucked it up, thinking about the drinks, bud, and meeting a girl would be the ever needed cherry on top.
Everyone in the church exchanged pleasantries and sat down. At first nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The preacher started his sermon, and I sat there bored as fuck. But I kept feeling worse. I felt dizzy know, had a huge head ache, and started to sweat profusely. Trying to breath slow and make it through whatever was happening to me, the preacher started to get loud. " There are things in this church that are NOT WELCOME. You have tainted this church with EVIL. You need to come up and ask for forgiveness, or LEAVE." At this point i'm still not convinced, but oddly I was about to pass out. Steven took notice and recommended we went in the hall way and get some air.
When we got in the hallway Steven looked concern. " Are you okay?, Let's go up front and get you saved Brent, It wont hurt." Rage immediately flew over me and i have no idea why. " Fuck you Steven, How the fuck would that guy now anything about me. I just don't feel good. I probably ate something, Don't fucking judge me like every one else." Steven being the nice guy he is agreed and offered to buy me a drink from the one dollar vending machine. He put a dollar in, pressed mountain dew, but nothing happened. He pressed it repeatedly, still nothing. " Of course." I said. " The perfect little church want's to rip us off." I punched the machine as hard as i could. Still no drink...but something fell into the change dispenser....It was a fucking nickel.
Steven stood there in aw. Begging me to go beg for forgiveness and get saved. I should have. God damn I was so stupid. I stormed out of the church telling myself it was a coincidence. I don't remember whether or not i truly believed that or not. But I do remember it got much, much worse. I was in Stevens car waiting, He walked up to the car when service was over. " You ok?" He asked. " Yea man I feel better now, you can take me back home." " Nah bro, you need a drink." He said, and I was glad he did. We went to a little bar called " Rigsbys" What it meant i have no fucking idea but there were always girls and a live band there. I started drinking pretty heavy to try to forget about the day. A man came up and ordered a red devil. " Good choice." the bar tender said. " That'll be 6 dollars. The man paid but he said something that caught me a little off guard. " Here ya go, 6 dollars,...oh and take this." He gave the bar tender a nickel for a tip, winked at me and got up to leave. " What about your drink?" the bartender asked. The man turned to me and said " Let Brent have it."
Now this is were i started to freak. Who the fuck was this guy and how did he know my name? I turned to Steven to see his reaction. He was talking to a pretty brunette. He hadn't seen anything. I got up hoping to find the man outside but he was gone. I shot a text to Steven telling him I was tired and needed to get some sleep. " I'll get a cab." I told him. The ride home wasn't relaxing either. The cab driver was probably Dominican , judging from his accent. I noticed he kept looking back at me in his rear view and lit up an incense. He kept staring at me, and mumbling something that sounded like " AV Maria, grati plen." I have never been able to figure out what that meant because I probably spell it wrong. " Is something wrong?" I asked. " Don't hurt me." He said. " Nah man no worries i just need a ride, why would I hurt you? Do I know you or do you know me? What's up with that?" I asked. " Just don't hurt me." When we arrived to my apartment, he would not take a cent. He wouldn't look at me or roll down his window. He just took the fuck off. Now I tried to brush things off my back all day but I pretty much knew i was fucked at this point. I went straight to my bed. Didn't even take my shoes off and surprisingly, passed out immediately. I awoke the next morning to Steven's text, asking me if i had made it home safe and bragging about taking the brunette home. I told him " Fuck you and yes i did thanks for asking." I was off that day so i just slept. I woke up around 7 P.M. I was fucking terrified as soon as i opened my eyes. The man from the bar was sitting at the edge of my bed, staring right at me. " Sleep good?" " Get the fuck ou...Who the fuck...What the fuck do you want?" I screamed. " Oh Brent, I have everything i want, I just wanted to give this to you, you haven't taken it yet." He extended his hand. There it was. A fucking nickel.
EDIT: Sorry I couldn't Write more. I will post more tomorrow. This is a very sensitive story for me and I am currently trying to find some sort of redemption. Thank you all for the questions and support.
Part 2