proof of alien life - tiahuanacu and puma punku

Amazing proof of technology that has yet to be equaled in modern times was being used in 15000 BC! In bolivia

http://www.world-mysteries.com/mpl_6.htm

interesting proof of alien life - antikythera

a crazy working clock mechanism from 200 BC!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antikythera_mechanism

The Antikythera mechanism (pronounced /ˌæntɪkɪˈθɪərə/ AN-ti-ki-THEER-ə), is an ancient mechanical calculator (also described as the first known mechanical computer)[1][2] designed to calculate astronomical positions. It was recovered in 1900–01 from the Antikythera wreck,[3] but its complexity and significance were not understood until decades later. It is now thought to have been built about 150–100 BC. Technological artifacts of similar complexity did not reappear until the 14th century, when mechanical astronomical clocks appeared in Europe.[4]

Jacques-Yves Cousteau visited the wreck for the last time in 1978,[5] but found no more remains of the Antikythera Mechanism. Professor Michael Edmunds of Cardiff University who led the most recent study of the mechanism said: "This device is just extraordinary, the only thing of its kind. The design is beautiful, the astronomy is exactly right. The way the mechanics are designed just makes your jaw drop. Whoever has done this has done it extremely carefully...in terms of historic and scarcity value, I have to regard this mechanism as being more valuable than the Mona Lisa."[6][7]

The device is displayed in the Bronze Collection of the National Archaeological Museum of Athens, accompanied by a reconstruction made and offered to the museum by Derek de Solla Price. Other reconstructions are on display at the American Computer Museum in Bozeman, Montana and the Children's Museum of Manhattan in New York and in Kassel, Germany.

on little children

so i don't want kids. maybe this will change but as of now i just cant understand it. it just seems like such a fruitless endeavor. bust my ass all my goddamn life to buy a nice house with a picket fence and a little fuckin dog. Use all my beer money to buy diapers and baby food cause you gotta feed these things, i guess.
And what thanks would i get? "Gee, thanks dad for buying this overpriced absorbant plastic that i wrap around myself so i can take a shit whenever i want." Wouldn't happen. Damn it. I want to take a shit whenever i want.
The reward ultimately is perhaps a smaller version of myself. Well, I'm not even especially fond of myself so another, whinier, helpless, more annoying version is not what this world needs. thank me now, because i just saved you a pain in the ass.

i was thinking about getting a shopping cart

I was thinking about getting a shopping cart and bringing it with me wherever i go. I coupld out alot of my belongings in it, perhaps some clothes, and pictures of my relatives, so i could have them if necessary. It would be great because i could just hop into the cart and take a nap. Or if i found a nice bench i would have all the clothes and newspapers i would need to make myself quite comfortable, even some cardboard if it started to rain a little. I wouldn't even need a house. I only use it to keep my shit in, anyway.

the danger of the ducks

Ducks. When we think of ducks, we think of funny little birds with large bills. Right? Well, I’m here to say that they are a bit more than they seem. Actually, a lot more. The events I am going to relate here will be very hard to swallow. Just follow along and don’t stop ‘til the end.
It was abut 3 a.m. The buses had stopped. I was walking by the campus pond and had decided to go down and watch the ducks. I sat on a stone bench under a large tree and watched the ducks for several minutes. All of the little feathered things were flapping around and quacking their little quacks. Just normal harmless duck things. That is when it happened.
They came in from the sky in their large, silver disc like craft. The lights on it were flashing and there was peculiar hum that was barely detectable emanating from it. It came to a halt on the far side if the pond, right up to the edge of the water.
I saw them when they emerged.. From my vantage point from my bench under the trees, I was hidden and had a view of them. They were beings that were there but not there. They were ghostly beings, formless and colorless.
I wasn’t the only one that had noticed this large craft. The ducks were quacking and flapping their wings as the entire flock moved towards the craft and the forms. I heard clicking sounds from the beings that I guessed was their way of communicating. The flock finally settled in front of the aliens. I was surprised when one duck swam forward to the front of the flock and said to the beings in plain English,
“It’s about time you guys showed up! This long, stuck on this planet, in this get up of feathers and wings was starting to get to me. You left us here for 500 years. I thought the plan for an invasion was going to be put in effect 200 years ago. It’s about time. That ‘s why you guys are here, right?”.
The beings emitted more clicking sounds, which the ducks seemed to be listening to intently. Then the flock emitted a great amount of flapping and what sounded like laughing. It was obvious that the two groups were communicating. One of the beings went back into the craft and then emerged aging with what looked like a toy laser gun. The being aimed this at every duck one by one. When they were hit with this laser, the ducks instantly changed into one of the formless ghostly beings. They all were aliens.
I could not believe my eyes. This was just too much for me. I ran as swiftly and as quietly as I could from under the tree. I was not quiet enough. The entire group had their eyes on me. I kept running. They didn’t come after me.
The next day I was walking to the police station to report what I saw when a duck appeared in front of me. It looked me right in the eyes and in English again, said “We saw you last night. You will not tell anyone of our plans. I don not know how we did not detect you sooner. You are the one that could bring about our downfall. You will not live.” \
All around me ducks dive bombed me. I ran as fast as my feet could take me, dodging the ducks. That morning, I was pecked within an inch of my life.
Since them I have been on a crusade against the ducks. I tried to recruit many with no luck. I have fought ducks many times. I have tried to determine their plans, when they will make their move. I have not learned a thing. We must join together with me because it is the only hope against them. They will attack soon. We have no time to waste. Does anyone hear me? That is why you need to let me out of here. I am not crazy!!! You have to do something. Let me out. I am not crazy.”
Shut up! Inmate #47 you are giving me a headache. You’ve been yelling all day and I’ll send you to detention if you keep it up. Wait a minute, what is that quacking sound? Woah, the ducks, they’re everywhere!!! Help! Help!

Poetry

Peak is high
The snow covers the mountains
It is soft and untouched
The winds float lightly
Warmth on the front
Start, sun line
Mother makes a tired child supper
Descending
Penetrating all
Rivers roam side by side
City lights keep flow
Businesses become bankrupt
Men leave their jobs and find a new one somewhere else
Country farms worship passing
Mills churn
Nature imparts wares
Prerequisite for sediments
Oomph absconds
Faceless ride and enjoy
Depart for there is link
Formidably isolated
Isolating rapport
Nostalgic masses drink of the sweet nectar
No one stirs when everyone is gone
The rivers flow
The tree rests and blisters
The roots run far under
Reflective liquid surges
Back onto itself
Flames touch all and die
New countries arise out of ash
A war begins and all is consumed
One promotion with a superb surge
Provoked to the heavens
Divinity flies and alights upon partial regards
Manipulative yield by no means
Lonely river burns in deficient liberation
Densely ceaseless compulsion
Opaque monotony on an elderly generation
Mumbling man walking down the road
Fumes spit from the smokestacks
Seamstress drops a needle in the barn
She leaves and does not sew
An old dog lies on the floor
It sleeps and dreams of a march hare
A young boy draws a cartoon
As if he had been doing it all his life

horror story

The dunes were quiet and cold as John Fitzer walked upon them. The wind whistled by, sending individual grains of sand spiraling along in an endless churn. John breathed heavily as he worked his way up a particularly steep, windy sand trail, sweat forming on his brow, then catching the breeze and dispersing into the atmosphere. He had been walking for the better part of an hour. He was surrounded now by an endless expanse of sand. The path he was traveling had been well tread and he was thankful for this because it would be hard to keep his bearings without it.
Clouds were forming and the sky seemed to grow darker in a very short period of time. John puzzled over this for a moment but continued on his way, confident that he would be reaching his destination soon, that being the rural strip of highway that ran the length of the dune and the suburban landscape that was on the other side.
John kept a steady pace. Each step he took, however, caused him noticeable fatigue. His legs were growing tired and there was a very distinct ache in his thigh muscles that made him stiffen with every step. The highway should be coming soon. Even at the top of this hill it might come into view. This thought gave John a little extra motivation and he quickened his pace, ignoring the increasing pain in his thighs.
He noticed now that the path that he was on had become clear of footprints. As far as he could see the sand was unbroken, with only the natural, windblown curves that differentiated each dune from every other. This was strange to John. The path did not split and as far as he was aware, this was the only direct way across this expanse of sand. Why would it not be riddled with steps after it had been up to this point?
He raced forward but each step seemed harder and harder to take. His feet seemed to become very heavy. It was as if they were being dragged down by some source from below the surface. John was having trouble taking steps now. He was fighting but was unable to clear his feet from the sand. He was only able to drag them, now grasping his legs and pulling forcibly, perhaps creating a humorous image to anyone who could have seen him, pulling at his legs and only shuffling along inch by inch. The severity of the situation was that his movement was being obstructed, he seemed almost to be attached to the sand in an irresistible and unbreakable bond.
John was unable to move at all now. He struggled and shook and screamed in terror. He dropped to his knees, feeling the dragging weight over his whole body, forcing him against his will down towards the soft, sandy floor. He was sucked down, sprawled out completely. He dug his hands deep into the sand, searching hopelessly for some sandy purchase. He cried now and yelled for help but there was no one to come to his aid. The force seemed to be increasing and now the sandy surface below him seemed to decrease in solidity. He began to sink, the crushing, dragging weight pulling him down. John raked his fingers along the sand as he sunk. Sand forced its way into his mouth and nose as he was pulled under. He was having trouble breathing now, gasping for air with only sand finding its way down his throat.
He screamed in pain. What felt like sharp nails were ripping at his legs, penetrating deeply into his calves. He felt the warmth of his own blood pour down his legs. Then came the sickening sensation of his legs being pulled apart, his bones crushing as a terrible force pulled and tore, separating the bones and sinews at the knee. John tried to scream but no more breath would come and none would leave through the sand clogging his nose and mouth. He felt himself grow faint and his eyes closed while the terrible scraping continued and he disappeared below the surface of the sand.
John came around and immediately noticed the pain in his legs. He groped them only to find wet stumps with sharp pieces of bone sticking out. He choked on sand and finally uttered screams and then more of them. The place was dark and cold. John stared desperately around in the pitch, trying to get his bearings, trying to ignore the pain in his legs and think rationally. As his eyes adjusted, it seemed to John that he was in a tunnel. The walls were solid, the sand having been bonded together. They were strong and did not give under Johns force.
It felt the vibration of movement through the walls of its sand home. It liked its prey alive and struggling and now was the time. It raced down the tunnel, spit dripping down its large serrated teeth. The taste of man’s blood when it licked its claws fueled its hunger.
John heard scraping. He saw something in the dark coming towards him now but he was unable to discern what it was. Only the yellow of its eyes could be seen, piercingly bright and approaching rapidly. He felt a terrible weight and a blinding pain as whatever it was attacked, pinning him down and sinking its razor sharp claws deep into his stomach. John screamed as a mouth opened wide and closed around his face.
Above the surface, Jerry and Alison Deveuve were sweating as they made their way up a steep, sandy path, and looked at each other in wonder as the footsteps they had been following disappeared. Below, the tunnel walls vibrated. It licked its lips. Blood dripped down its mouth but its hunger was never satisfied. It was time to feed again.

Erotic Fiction

What a difference a love makes

As the snow fell, Lillian was someplace warm. She was in John’s room. It was a place that she loved to be. John was nibbling on her neck. Her body tingled as he slid his tongue slowly down. He licked and bit her nipples and she felt a warm, wet rush build between her legs.
She reached down and felt his hard cock underneath his boxer shorts. She unbuttoned his pants and took his swollen member with her hand. She pumped slowly and softly and felt the first beads of his cum drip slowly out. John moaned and ran his fingers down her stomach and into her panties. She shuddered with pleasure as John ran his finger lightly along her wet slit and slid it slowly inside her. He moved down, with one finger sliding in and out slowly, and kissed her inner thigh. John’s tongue was so warm as he ran it in circles on her inner thigh and gradually brought it to her clit. It was hard and sticking up a little bit as he took it in his mouth and sucked on it lightly, giving her a little blow job. She started grinding against him now, pushing herself against his wet mouth and finger that was filling her up. She felt herself starting to melt.
“Do you want me to feel inside you?” purred John. She wanted nothing more.
“Fill me up, baby.” she begged him. She could not stand it. She wanted his big cock inside her. She wanted to be fucked, hard.
John took her panties with his mouth and pulled them down her legs and off slowly. Then he revealed himself. She looked at his hard cock. It was quivering and ready to fill her up.
Lillian loved John’s cock. It was so beautiful. It was so wonderful. Every time she saw it, it made her wet and wild with desire. She grasped it with her hands and pulled him towards her. She gasped as he entered her. She beckoned him, contracting her muscles and holding him tight. John’s hard cock made its way slowly all the way inside her. She squealed as he filled her up to the brim and went as deep as anything possible. She felt the veins on his hard cock rubbing against her wet walls. She felt the head of his penis grow larger inside her.
John increased the pace, sliding in and out of her quickly. The vibrations went up and down her body. His large testicles slapped against her tight ass. She was getting fucked and she loved every minute of it. His hard body slammed against hers and she began to lose control. They moaned together. John desperately brought his lips to hers and she tasted his kiss and sucked on his tongue.
They moved together, as one, irresistibly entwined. Lillian could feel her mans cock swell inside her, getting ready to burst and coat her with its warm juices. She squeezed on him even harder, and she felt her pussy drip and melt around him. It was overwhelming now. She could not take it.
“Fuck me harder. Come inside me now.” She reached around and grabbed John’s tight ass, pulling him towards her as hard as she could. She could not stand it now.
They came together. They clutched at each other desperately, pulled each other, smothered each other. Johns prick exploded inside her, his warmth penetrating her to the core as she shuddered uncontrollably and felt herself melt around him in wave after wave of mind blowing ecstasy.
They were both breathing hard and John collapsed on top of her, leaving his huge pulsing member swimming deep within her dripping pussy.
“I have to go,” Lillian said, as they lay afterwards, smoking a cigarette and basking in the glory of their satisfaction.
“Ok. Will you come over later?” John asked.
“I don’t think so’, Lillian said. “We’re still broken up. I love this but it can not be the way that it was. I do not want a relationship. Maybe someday, when you start to take care of yourself better and can actually take care of someone. I‘d like to see you every now and then but not in any form of a relationship.”
“Lillian, listen. I cant -” John closed his eyes, resigning himself to not saying what he was just about to, and, with a slight hesitation, said “You had better go, then.”
Lillian dressed quickly, gave John a good bye kiss which seemed to her as only half-heartedly returned, and made her way out his front door and on to the street. She began to walk rather vigorously. She was agitated after all of that. She loved him still, after all their problems. His hard member always brought her back. She needed it, craved it. She became wet as she walked just thinking about it. But what should she do? She needed to do something else with her life. As much as she loved John filling her up in a way that no one ever has, she could not stand the thought of living her whole life without knowing if there was one that could fill her up even more. She needed to talk to Craig.
Craig was Lillian’s best friend. They had known each other since they were very young. Her first memory of him was when he threw a water balloon at her from his tree fort, proclaiming
“No girls allowed.”
She was furious and climbed as fast as she could, burst into his tree fort, and made to throttle him for all he was worth.
“Wow”, Craig exclaimed as he nimbly skipped around the fort, easily evading her grasp, “I’ve never seen a girl who could climb that well. You can be allowed.”
Craig’s deep blue eyes and easy smile caught Lillian off guard even then. She was, from that day forward, an honorary boy and they would meet in that tree house nearly every day for the next many years, first to talk about how to get rid of the girls in their neighborhood, then to move onto every topic friends discuss as they grow together.
Nothing had ever happened between them, though Lillian suspected thought about it often and suspected Craig did as well. Late evening discussions had often left them in each others arms, holding each other tightly for reassurance against the big world that they lived in.
The 2 of them were in their late 20’s but still made visits together to sit in the fort and talk whenever one, or the both of them, had something that needed discussion.
It was in the fort that Craig met her that day, a huge smile on his face.
“How are you, girl. It’s been awhile. How’s old what’s-his-name?”
“Oh, Craig. I guess I didn’t tell you. I left him. I just can not be with him now, even though I guess I still want to be. It’s just so hard to do what is right these days, you know.”
Craig did know. He always knew. His smile vanished immediately and he held her, like he always did, in the way that let her know that everything was alright.
Lillian brushed Craig’s curly black hair back and saw him then, as if for the first time. He was very handsome and very successful. He had always been there for her, despite the times she had been a self-declared bitch. He had always been the friend that John never was. John loved her and cared immensely, she knew. They had never had such a connection, though. Craig never expected sex in return for his efforts. His only hope, it seemed, was to make her smile.
She buried her head in his chest and felt the muscles ripple beneath it. Then she felt a marvelous bulge press against her. Maybe she had felt it before but had not noticed. Maybe she wanted to notice now.
“Oh, Craig” she gasped and before she knew what she was doing, she had her lips on his and was overwhelmed by the taste and beauty of his tongue.
They kissed for what seemed like hours. She ground herself into him, feeling the bulge grow even larger. Finally, Lillian drew her lips away and looked into her friends eyes. His beautiful eyes.
Craig smiled, knowingly, as if he had planned the whole thing. Without a word, he took her hand and led her up the rickety steps of the old tree fort. The minute they were at the top of the stairs, Lillian was on him. She grabbed him and pushed him to the ground and then jumped on top of him She took hold of the collars of his white shirt and ripped, popping each button off and sending them flying in all directions.
Craig was doing the same thing. He pulled her down to him, pushing each sleeve of her pea coat off of her shoulders and then grabbing it and tossing it away. He unbuttoned each of her buttons slowly and buried his face against her chest. He kissed her breasts, moving her bra slowly down to expose each one.
It was freezing outside but Lillian got hotter than a microwave with each kiss. She felt his hard cock aching to be free of its confines. She wanted him inside her, to feel him so deeply, to know him in a way that she never had He ground himself into her, his mountainous bulge massaging her and she felt herself explode with a wet warmth.
Lillian could not control it now. She pushed him down, undid his buttons and exposed his huge, throbbing member. She felt light headed as she saw how big his cock was and how ready it was for her. She pushed her panties aside and came down on him hard. His cock slid in easily and she gasped as it filled her. It was overwhelming. She came down on him, again and again, but never fast enough. She ached as she felt his cock slide in and out. She came up too high and his penis slid out. Lillian screamed with frustration. She grabbed it and came down on it even harder. She felt it throb as it entered her again. Craig moaned and pulled her down to him, running his fingers through her hair and kissing her neck and breasts desperately. His penis filled her and he moaned,
“Oh I’m cumming. You fuck me so good. I’m cumming so fucking hard.”
She felt him explode. She felt his hot load shoot up inside her. That was all it took. She came, wave after wave of screaming ecstasy. She melted around him and collapsed on to him. They were both sweating and breathing heavily.
“I have been waiting for that for a long time, girl.” Craig said. “I knew you wanted me. I knew that we could be perfect together.”
Lillian smiled at him and kissed him deeply. But even then, with his hard cock still pulsating inside her, she knew that it had been a mistake. He was her friend, not her lover. As confused and stressed by her whole situation as she was, even right then she knew that Craig could be nothing more than a friend.
“I’m sorry, Craig. I shouldn’t have done that. This is just a very confusing time right now.” she said.
Craig ran his fingers through her hair.
“I think this is the only thing that has made sense in a long time.” he said.
“You have been with that jerk. I watched him treat you like crap but never said anything because I know that you loved him. I’m just glad that you finally found out so we can be what we always could have been.”
“John is not a jerk. He loves me more than anyone ever has.” Lillian jumped off Craig now. She felt his hot load slide down her leg and she shuddered.
“If you’re such a good friend, you should have told me how you felt about it instead of just sitting there and watching me live in something you thought was terrible.”
Craig stood up and reached for her. Lillian stepped away.
“Lil, I just wanted you to be happy, even if it was not with me.”
“So you wanted this the whole time? As close as we have ever been, that was your only motive?”
“For us to be together, to be happy, like you always were when you were with me? Yes. I guess that it was.”
Lillian could not even look at him now. It was all he had ever wanted. The friendship was nothing more than an effort by him to be with her. Even years ago, he would always ask her to kiss him, even ask her to lift up her shirt. It was a game then or so Lillian thought. She never thought of him in that way and what happened just then should not have happened.
“I’m sorry, Craig” she said.
“I….I have to go.”
She began to descend the steps of the tree house.
“Wait. Lillian, wait. This is all I have ever wanted. Don’t take it away now.”
Tears began pouring down Lillian’s cheeks. It was not right. It was not the way it was supposed to go. John was supposed to make her happy. John did make her happy. Only by hearing these words from Craig did she actually realize it.
John was watching television and cursing himself. Why couldn’t she be with him? Why was it so damn hard? It did not seem to be that hard when they met. Throughout the relationship, all he had done was what he thought was right. Why couldn’t it be the way it used to? They both seemed so happy.
John was happy now, though. He loved her but he had not been wasting his time. Screw her for leaving it open like that. She came over whenever she was horny it seemed and that was it. He was still emotionally involved and she was not. He felt used and hurt and made the decision awhile ago to not let that happen to him.
There was a ring at the door bell. Who could it be now? It was almost 2 in the morning. John played around with the idea of hiding and not answering the door. His mind got the better of him, though, as he began to think it might be a friend in trouble or, maybe even better, Lillian, struck with grief and wanting him back.
He made his way to the door and it was her. Lillian’s eyes were wet with tears and she burst in the door as soon as John opened it and held him tightly.
“I made a terrible mistake,’ Lillian said, crying uncontrollably now. “I want nothing more than to be with you forever and ever. I am so sorry, baby.”
She looked up into his eyes.
“Please take me back. I promise myself to you for the rest of my life. I can’t live without you.”
John looked at her and smiled but Lillian saw that he had a worried look in his eyes.
They were still standing in the doorway. Lillian was reveling in her epiphany and was covering his face with little kisses This was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She knew that now and felt herself start to drip at the very thought of it.
Just then, a car pulled into the driveway. A very pretty girl got out and walked up to where the two of them were standing. John became rigid and moved several steps away from Lillian. She saw that he started to shake.
“Hey baby. Surprise!’ this girl said, addressing John.
“Hey, baby girl. I didn’t know you were coming tonight. I thought you would not be back from your trip until tomorrow” John said and walked over to her and kissed her just as he had just kissed Lillian.
Lillian could not believe what she was witnessing. “Baby girl” is what he called her and only her.
“Yeah, I thought I would surprise you. I can’t stand when I am not with you. My work ended early and I have been racing for most of the day to make it here to you.”
“Who is this?” Lillian screamed. She was utterly amazed about what she was seeing right in front of her.
The two of them, with their arms around each other, turned to face her.
“Lillian, this is Natasha. She is wonderful. We met after you left me. I did not think you would ever come back and could not just wait for that someday you always mentioned, when you might be able to stand me and want this relationship. I have told you that I do not ever have that time. She treats me right and is not afraid of what I have to offer.”
Lillian began to cry, now. She collapsed in front of the two of them.
“I am sorry, Lillian. I wanted you more than anything else in the world but it is hard when that feeling is not reciprocated. I have been waiting for you to come back for a long time. I have been hoping that you would show up on my door one day and do what you have just done. You just waited too long.”
John and Natasha went inside and closed the door behind them. Lillian sat on the front step for most of that night. At times, she heard a moan of pleasure as Natasha felt John’s muscle fill her, and cried as she thought that it could have been her in his arms, could have been her that he was filling up. As the sun was rising, she stood up, dried her eyes, and walked slowly down the street.
“I will never love anyone if I can not have him.” She said softly to herself. “I will wait for him forever.”
She was good with her resolve and died, many years later, alone. Her last thought brought the last of the many tears she had shed throughout her lonely life. She remembered the time she made the fateful decision to push away the love of her life.

Childrens Story

Buddy the Bear finds his way


Buddy the Bear set out from his cave

On the morning of a bright fine day

He was excited…very, very excited…

As he made his merry way

He was taking a walk to the tangled wood

And he was looking forward to going there

He was to go to a bear country jam

And meet with his mother bear

He whistled as he walked

It was a very pleasant tune

He was getting more and more excited

As he knew he would be there soon

But suddenly angry clouds came in

And the bushes became very thick

And Buddy began to worry

And he felt a little sick

Buddy the bear looked all around

But the path did not seem right

The place was dark and scary

And his way was out of sight

I’m lost, he said, Oh my

What ever shall I do?

I must be brave and think a happy thought

If I am to make it through

So he smiled and thought of his mother

and walked through the deep wood

This happy thought made Buddy brave

as some happy thoughts could

There was nothing scary in the forest

Buddy began to see

There were other little animals like him

Living and playing in the tree

And when he made it through the scary trees

What do you think he saw?

There was mother bear at the country jam

She was smiling and waving her paw

Buddy was brave and made it through

He was happy to have learned something today

Although the path may be dark and scary

A happy thought can help you on your way

Pressing Issues - short story

“Pressing Issues”

The manager at Ace Printing Company was wary of the little man who now sat before him. The mans beady eyes, flannel shirt, and untrimmed mop made him resemble a serial murderer who the police had just brought to justice. This man was a killer who had a good job and a nice family, a regular well to do fellow who turned into a monster after the sun set. Nevertheless, he decided that he would exercise his best behavior. At least with his initial greeting.
“Howdy-doo, mister….Closoff? Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“Yes sir, just like the things you and I are wearing. Please, though, call me Oliver.”
“Very well, Oliver. My name is Roger Bernard’, with a slight sneer ‘mister Bernard to everyone except my wife. Let me start this off by asking what brings you to my beloved printing company?”
Oliver hesitated a moment, seeming to ponder his next lines to a point, Bernard thought, that bordered on excessive.
“Well, sir,’ after what seemed like a long time, ‘I have been a farmer for my entire life. Planting, seeding, slaughtering, plowing, and other such activities have been my daily routine for as long as I can recall. The other day, I had what people call an epiphany. I just looked down at my field and felt like I can’t spend my whole life doing this stuff. There is too much out there to do instead of waiting for the corn to grow.”
He gave a nervous laugh.
“Spending a life time at this’, he continued ‘is no life in our world of technological advancement. I had a buddy who ran an underground funny pages of sorts who let me play around with his press from time to time and I always enjoyed it very much, even got to be quite good, as they tell me. So, to put the pig in the pot, as we say back home, I was wondering if you could offer me a job?”
Before Bernard could even think of a way to let this man down easily, which was surprising because of his repertoire of ways to do this, the little man piped up.
“Just give me a chance, sir. I sold my farm and most of my favorite things to move out here to ask you for a job. I won’t let you down.”
Somewhere, deep down in Roger Bernard’s cold, bitter heart, a pinprick of pity made its way through.
“Ah, hell,’ he thought ‘I guess I could give this guy a shot. What harm could it bring, anyway? If he sucks, I could have the pleasure of kicking him out the door.”
Bernard chuckled to himself a bit.
“Alright,’ Bernard said ‘This is what is going to happen. I’m going to give you a little job to run. If you can do it, in a respectable time, you have a job. Bear in mind, boy. My father built this company from the ground up, and entrusted it to me in 1920. I‘ve been running this thing for 15 years and from that day to this I have been dedicated to excellence so as to do my father proud. If you can‘t cut it, you‘re out.”
“You won’t regret this, mister Bernard.” Oliver exclaimed, enthusiastically.
“You’re damn right, I won’t,’ thought Bernard. He turned to his intercom and said,
“Lucius, it’s your time to shine.”
“Lucius ‘Bernard explained to Oliver ‘is our head printer here at Ace, He’ll give you that little job I spoke of.”
At that moment, an enormous fellow strode into the room. He was the biggest, meanest looking black man that Oliver had ever seen.
“This guy looks more like a boxer than a printer”, Oliver thought. “He looks like he would crush the press before he got any prints out of it.”
A little thought came into his head of this man pressing the buttons on the machine to start the printing process but instead of starting the job, the machine collapses under the sheer stress of this mans finger and explodes in a mess of screws and levers.
“Lucius’ Bernard said ‘this is Oliver, your new fresh meat, I mean, fresh face.”
Lucius’ giant hand grasped Oliver’s and shook until the little mans bones and sinews threatened to snap.
“Nice to meet you, Oliver” Lucius said, in a deep, throaty voice that reminded Oliver of the way a snake might greet a mouse.
“Care if we get started, Mr. Bernard?”
“Go right ahead. Good luck, Oliver”, Bernard said.
“This is quite a group of fellows, here’ Oliver thought. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left my farm.”

Lucius showed Oliver all around the press room. They went to the paper room, the ink storage, the cutting and collating room, and the dark room. Oliver marveled at all these things, having never been off his farm, much less into the hustle-and-bustle of a real, live, functioning printing company. Oliver was just a small town, country boy after all and wasn’t used to this much activity in such a small space.
After the tour, Lucius led Oliver over to a small corner of the building where a large pile of rusty junk sat in the corner, collecting dust and spider webs. Oliver was used to old presses for the one his friend had was not exactly in good working shape.
“This printing company ‘ Lucius explained ‘is responsible for printing our local paper as well as the papers for several surrounding counties. The reason being is that we are the best. Therefore, we need the best to keep our business running smooth. So, do this job well and you will be spared the pain of me throwing you out the door.”
The job Oliver was given required quite an amount of skill and labor to complete. Oliver worked hard and worked fast and finished the job quickly.
“How can you be done so fast, boy? That should have taken you twice as long.” Lucius’ face turned bright red and Oliver thought he could see smoke coming out of his ears.
Lucius was continuing his rant about the impossibility and the “goddamn nerve of you to be such a cocky bastard” when Bernard came by.
“How are we doing, Oliver?” asked Bernard, hoping to be answered with the desperation of hopeless defeat. Bernard noticed the neatly stacked piles of perfectly printed paper.
“Wow, Oliver. Top rate job. You’re definitely the right man. Just stupendous! Better watch yourself, Lucius. I think you have a rival for best pressman.”
With this, Bernard walked off. Lucius gave Oliver a very cold stare and felt the rage in his throat.

The time passed quickly for Oliver. He gained great respect from his fellow coworkers for being such a gifted pressman. All around the printing floor, they were saying things like,
“Hey did you hear that guy once ran the entire Sunday edition, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back, in half as much time as that asshole, Lucius?”
Oliver being compared to Lucius was how all these stories ended. For Lucius, this was more than he could stand to hear. He began to think of the implications here. Lucius had worked hard, and been hard, to get where he was today.
“I’m not going to lose all that I have’ Lucius kept thinking ‘not when I can do something about it.”
But what could be done? Lucius had done evil things to get where he was. He was not afraid to do them again.
“It’s a ghastly business, but if taking this boy out is what’s necessary, that’s what I’m going to do.”

It was late and Oliver was busy. He had lately been allowed to stay by himself after hours, due to Bernard’s ever-increasing respect for such a talent. Bernard had asked and Oliver gratefully obliged. It was Oliver’s pleasure.
“I love the satisfaction of being able to get the important stuff out to the public.”, Oliver had said, and thought to himself now, as he busily bustled back and forth, his hands moving as efficiently as any machine’s, without a single movement wasted.
“This is a gift, to be able to contribute my services to advance the people’s knowledge of our world. I am able to expand their world. It is a true blessing.” He heaved a sigh of utter contentment. “One that I would not trade for anything. One that I would fight for.”
A rustling sound made Oliver twirl. He had a brief moment to see something large, dark, and bald hurtling toward him at tremendous speed before he was hit in the chest with an overwhelming force and tossed against the press. In his daze, Oliver struggled to make out the figure of his assailant.
“Not so confident now, are you, boy?’ came a growl that could only have belonged to Lucius.
“You know, ’Lucius went on ’I’ve been head pressman for here for over 20 years and I am not, repeat, not going to let you prissy foot your way in here and take away what I worked so hard for.”
Oliver saw the light catch a blade as it was removed from its sheath.
“It’s all over for you, boy.” Lucius growled and darted towards Oliver.
All Oliver could do was take one step back but one was enough. Oliver tripped and fell backwards, avoiding the serrated bringer of pain that Lucius was slicing erratically through the air. He knocked his head on the concrete and blacked out. Lucius, forced forward by his own momentum, with nothing to stop him, sped uncontrollably into the large press and hit his head on the press feeder with a terrible crunching sound. The machine was in full printing mode and the grabbing gears tangled Lucius’ clothes and skin together with the print job. Such a large obstruction did not slow this machine. Instead, it continued on its merry printing way. The local daily, however, was now being spit out the other end, printed in a brilliant red.

Oliver awoke several hours later, wondering why his clock hadn’t gone off. He had this horrible dream that Lucius came after him. Just a dream.
He started to lift himself. But he wasn’t in bed. His head ached and he remembered and screamed out loud. He looked around. The first thing he noticed was that the printer was still running, and a steady drip of red ink was being produced from the corner of the machine and pooling on the ground.
“I don’t use red ink.”
Oliver got to his feet and limped over to the press. His chest hurt. Something broken.
The press was fairly clean. It seemed that all of Lucius had been mixed together and had turned into this beautiful, bright red ink that had been used to print this mornings edition.
Oliver glanced at the clock on the wall. The edition was supposed to go out in one hour and the only versions Oliver had were red copies. There was no way he could print the whole edition again in that time.
“I guess I could send these out. Would it make a difference anyway? It would make a difference if there was nothing to go out. I won’t compromise my job because of this.”
When the local distributors came to pick up the neatly collated stacks of the morning edition, Oliver hid himself in the corner and crossed his fingers.
This news broadcast aired on the AM evening news.
“This mornings readers got a shock when they received their morning edition printed in red ink. The real news here, though, is the discovery that the red ink is nearly unsusceptible to wear. Mr. Ely Kensington noticed his child scrub the edition vigorously. Kensington noted that the paper was worn away but the ink had not faded in the slightest. His discovery prompted an immediate call to the press.
According to Roger Bernard, owner and general manager of Ace printing company, a pressman named Oliver Closoff ran this job. Closoff has been unreachable as of yet to shed any light on the ingredients of this newly dubbed “Super Ink”. This station will keep you up to date on this breaking news event.”

The next morning, Oliver arrived for work and was greeted by a small army of newsmen.
“Oliver, what is your “super ink” made of. Is it your own invention. I have been told that you are very skilled at working with ink. Have you been experimenting with new combinations?” a particularly beefy reporter who had muscled his way to the front asked.
“Well folks,’ Oliver said, thinking quickly ‘Right before my father died, he called me over to him and said ‘Ollie’ (he liked to call me Ollie), I have to let you in on a secret. This secret has never made its out of this family. Your grandfather was used to be a pressman and one day he came across a way to make ink that would never fade. He used this ink often but never gave away the recipe except to me, his only son. I never used it. You are my only son, and a pressman that would make your grandfather proud, so I will pass this recipe on to you. Your grandfather said never to give up the recipe, on his deathbed he made me promise him.’ And so, on my fathers death bed, I promised him that I would never give up the recipe. You’ll understand, surely, why I am not going to share it with you. Now excuse me, I have work to do.”
Oliver breathed a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked away from the mass of newsmen who had erupted in a cacophony of questions and yells of dissatisfaction.
“I’ve got myself in pretty deep, here.” Oliver thought.
He tried to get himself off his troubles by immersing himself in his work. He was just starting to feel a bit better when Roger Bernard raced into the press room.
“Oliver, where have you been. I’ve been looking for you all over.”
“Yesterday was my day off.” Oliver replied.
“It was? Are you sure? Well, never mind. I need you to print tomorrow mornings edition so make up a new batch of that “super ink” of yours. I was going to ask Lucius but he hasn’t been seen for a few days. Hit the road, finally. I was going to fire him anyway. He scared me. Oh, by the way, I don’t know what made you think it was alright to print in another color without asking me. Lucky for you your ink is amazing.” Bernard’s voice rose and fell as he spoke as if he was in a battle with himself over whether to get mad or not.
Oliver’s mind reeled and raced.
“Sir, this stuff doesn’t just pop out. I’m going to need time to make a new batch.”
Bernard’s face grew stern.
“You have until tonight or else you’re fired. I’ll let you do whatever you need to but get it done.”

Oliver was stressed. He paced the floor of his dirty apartment and spoke loudly to himself.
“What am I going to do? I can’t just say the stuff is made of blood. I won’t be able to prove that I didn’t just throw Lucius into the press. He was the one and only person that was keeping me from being the top pressman. I would get locked up and they would throw away that key. I guess I only have one choice.”
He was out on the street now. His eyes darted one way and then the other and then back. He spoke to himself in a low whisper.
“I don’t have another choice. I gave everything up to get where I am now and it will be a dark day in hell before I give it up. Besides, killing isn’t so bad.”
Oliver thought back to his days on the farm when he would have to slaughter pigs, cows, and chickens. He remembered even enjoying it.
“Why should people be any different?”
Oliver had been walking very quickly, with his head down, because he was in a very dangerous part of town. He did not notice the only other person on the street until he walked right into him.
“What the fuck?’ the little Italian with the ratty mustache said ’why don’t you look where you’re going, dumbass? I’m the only person on the sidewalk and you walk smack into me. HAHA, you dummy! Get out of here before I teach you a thing or 2 about how we handle dummies around here”
Oliver fumed at being dubbed a dummy.
“Better get it over with now ’ he thought and lunged. The little Italians screams were muffled by a gloved hand.

“I guess it’s all done, Mister Bernard.” Oliver said. He flipped through the stack of newspaper, the brilliant red ink catching the light and refracting it around the room.
“God bless you, Oliver. They’re beautiful. Just beautiful. A little lighter than the last batch, wouldn’t you say?”
“My ingredients were a tad bit lighter than that of my first,” Oliver explained. “It’s nearly impossible to get it right every time.”
“You have to let me in on this little secret one day, my boy,” Bernard said ‘perhaps I could help balance it out.”
Oliver chuckled.
“I could tell you but I would have to kill you.”
They both laughed.

So, dear reader, as they usually do, this story will come to an end. Oliver became the famous press man he always wanted. He patented his “O. C.’s never-fade” ink and made a nice fortune for himself. The police never caught on to his frightening escapades and actually pinned him a hero when he spent countless hours and gallons of his famous ink printing missing person posters for the people that seemed to be disappearing quite rapidly from the lower east side slums. Then Oliver, very proud and fulfilled by his efforts aiding the common work-a-day folks in getting their daily news, retired to a modest little place where he lives to this day. Despite now being at a very ripe old age, he still runs a little underground newspaper, printed with his gorgeous, glistening red “ink”.

Sports Journalism

The Shit town Glory Chasers played their first home game of the regular season yesterday, sweeping the Nowhere Ville Shit Takers with a score of 77 - 0. This marks the Glory Chasers first chance to play football on their home field since it was rebuilt after the bombing of 2009.
Chasers Quarterback Vince Asshole threw for 5 touchdown passes and 550 yards in a game where his team held the Shit Takers to just 120 offensive yards. Asshole’s performance sets a club record for most yards, set 14 years ago by his father, Vince Asshole senior.
Wide Receiver John Sitter received 20 out of 20 Asshole passes and scored 3 touchdowns. Sitter also set a club record for most confrontational outbursts in a regular season with 2, as he spat in the face of one of the referees and engaged in a fist fight with a rival team member. He is awaiting a hearing scheduled next month.
The Glory Chasers came out running and stunned the talented Shit Takers, scoring on their first 2 drives. Running back Quik Asadick had 20 carries for a total of 188 yards, including 2 runs on the first drive of 20 plus yards, bringing the Glory Chasers to the 2 yard line. This set up an Asshole pass to Sitter for a touchdown.
“We had a solid first half. I really got to move around in the pocket.” said Asshole.
This is a surprising win to many concerned. The Shit Takers had a wide margin of victory in this meeting. This team has been dominating the opposition all season. They had come fresh off an impressive victory over the Dicktown Sucks. The Shit Takers outscored the Sucks by a massive 45 points. It was a somber group that entered the locker room after the game.
“We just went out to play some football.” said Shit Takers Quarterback Dipshit McDoogle, who threw for only 18 yards. “This is a tough blow but these things happen and all we can do now on our by week is to practice and move on.”
The skill of the opposing team was not taken for granted by any of the Glory Chasers. They have been training rigorously over the past week, getting themselves ready for what they knew would be a tough match up.
“The Shit Takers have the reputation for being a tough football team.” said Glory Chasers head coach Holden Rox. “My guys just went out to do their best and luckily came out on top.”
The Glory Chasers will be on the road to Bitchland where they will be playing the Bitches next week.

Sweet Resume Outline

1. The Heading. This is one of the only sections where it is in your favor to tell the truth because it outlines your contact information. All those employers who are going to pay you a zillion dollars to do something you are not qualified for, and will be calling you 24 hours a day, begging you to work for them, need to know how to find you.

Kev Mo (your name is supposed to go here, idiot)
Street address
City, State
Zip code (so they can mail you all your riches)
Telephone (for begging purposes)
Email (to show you at least know what a computer is)

2. The Objective. You have to let the employer know which job you want for some reason. Maybe because he or she can not remember all the positions available. It usually looks something like this.

Objective: Head person in charge of shit

3. Education. If you have any, mention it. If all you have is grade school, why are you writing a resume? And how? Can you read this right now? If you have a high school education it is a gray area as to whether you should mention it or not. I suppose it is important to let people know that you barely scraped by through one of the most remedial forms of education that there is, on the off chance that you do get hired do work with something sharp, or shiny, so that you would not be allowed to. Best thing to do? Get a god damn college degree. At the very least it might help you think that you know what you are talking about.

The University of Bumfuck, Bumfuck, BF 9/02 - 5/05

Bachelor of crap with a concentration in irrelevant shit and a minor in ass kissing
3.0 G.P.A.
3.5 Degree G.P.A.

If relevant, pop in this little doozy, just to let those employers know that you, unknowingly to them, slept through, but at least attended, classes that could have contained possible relevant information.

Related Courses:
Shit 101-the art of talking out of my ass
Shit 102-the art of kissing ass
Shit 103-the art of taking shit

4. Work Experience. If you are wondering what to put here, get a fucking job. Work at some crappy place so at least you have something to put here. If, in your majestic life, you have actually worked somewhere decent, put it down. And if you have graced the presence of more than one place that required more of you than sitting for $3 per hour and picking your nose, then do what comes naturally to all that experience, and pick the best ones. Usually about four of them at the most. I am sure that you would love to rattle off all the terrible jobs that you have had but do not because no one’s attention span is that long. I do not believe too many people could get through more than four of these and still have the stamina for the end of it, the special interests section, where you get to really let lose.
Here are guidelines for writing of your job experience, broken down into lines.
The first line mentions the name of the place or company you wasted your time with, the state it was in, and how long you wasted your time there.
The second line mentions the best title you can come up with for your menial position. If you performed a task once but it was the only thing you did other than pick your nose, that was your job.
The third line mentions what your responsibilities were. Here is where it gets really interesting. As I mentioned before, if you worked 8 hours a day, picked your nose for 7 hours and 59 minutes of that time but the last minute you actually bothered to say “what’s up” to your friend who came by to see how the nose picking was going, your responsibility for that job was public relations.

Uncle JOJO’s crap shack, Bumfuck, BF, 2/08 - fucking forever
Head shit taker, head shit eater
Responsibilities included extensive taking of shit, the ability to work with shit under shitty circumstances, in a shitty place.

Repeat 4 times

4. Special Interests.
This one is amazing in its possibilities. There is no limit to what you can say here. Just make shit up. Did mommy take you on a trip to London when you were 6 months old? Extensive experience in international travel. Have you produced a complete sentence even once in your life? Accomplished communicator. Have you played Nintendo? Working knowledge of electronic equipment. The lies and the distance you can bend the truth can be spectacular if you want them to be. Just go on and on for a little while about how hot of a shit you are in your mind and I believe that you too will be able to create a wonderful special interests section. Remember to stretch that truth.

If you can condense all your bullshit into one page, you have a resume. You have lied through your teeth, proclaimed yourself the undisputed ideal employee candidate of the universe and best thing in the known world, and exercised your creativity to appease some sick fuck who holds your life in his or her hands and would revel in crushing it like a small, easily crushable thing. Those things are the most accurate job requirements that exist.

more religious ramifications

“The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener, by the name of Bartleby, had a desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was thoroughly exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, out of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort: and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not to - in other words, that he would refuse point blank.”

The above is a passage contained in Herman Melville’s tale of Bartleby the Scrivener, a very delightful little story that I read recently. It is, as can be seen by the narrators complaint, what would be, at first glance the story of an unwilling worker, one that has adopted a method of thinking that is foreign to laborers of the time in which Melville wrote these words and, indeed, foreign to laborers in this or any other time. As one reads deeper, however, the notion that this story is simply one man’s gripe with an unpleasant employee begins to be eclipsed by the notion that Melville may, in fact, be touching on something deeper. I would like to make the argument that he is not touching simply on one mans individual complex but is actually showcasing his belief in the relative absurdity of structures, in this case those of religious base, that have been created by and as a benefit of our society.
Melville’s story seems to be, at its core, a look at what it is exactly that make certain people act and think in the ways that they do. There is no denying what is seen as the human life cycle. People are born and, although it is not a given whether or not they can survive, what is a given is that their lives inherently revolve around whatever they might deem necessary for their survival and whatever they might deem necessary for their well-being. It is human nature, it is inherent, it is a little thing called intuition to make one’s self as happy as one deems possible, as comfortable as one deems possible, in short to gratify whatever it is that they see is lacking in their life and therefore make a life for themselves.
But here is the proverbial rub. As people grow up, when an infant becomes coherent enough to recognize the wants and needs in their life, what they learn about making that life can be different in all examples. This occurs as a direct result of the surroundings that one finds themselves in. The gratification can only be seen in terms of what happens to be their relative place in the world. They know what they want and need but all humans know about the world is what they see, what they hear, and what they can discern from that knowledge. Humans, as do many species, learn from imitation. They learn that what is pleasing to some could potentially cause them pleasure and what is painful to some could potentially cause them pain. Therefore, what can be seen and heard, what is readily available to be imitated, plays a great role in deciding what is needed for the fulfillment of one‘s needs. A Vietnamese, for example, or any number of civilizations that have built their existence in what are referred to as impoverished nations, living in slums, dealing with disease and death and tsunamis, and earning a fraction of what is considered reasonable in the United States, find happiness in having a clean place to sleep or a roof over their head or maybe a small lump of bread. Some would leap at the chance of coming to work in America where they might earn that reasonable sum but one that, by their standards, could be considered princely. The life of Paris Hilton acts as a counter balance to this. For hers is a life that has been filled with what is understood as the finer things, never having to worry about money or working for yourself. She would not understand what it means to be poor and would positively die if sent to carry out the jobs that the Vietnamese have gladly taken.
Now we bring this line of thinking to the idea of religion and directly address the concept of Christianity which has been adopted and maintained and taught and which has consequentially been adopted by further generations. These popular beliefs say that there is a divine being that exists somewhere, an almighty deity that has created the human race as the conductors of his or her will, and has endowed in that race certain tools that are necessary to carry out that will, among these the aforementioned intuition. Therefore people can assume that no matter where it is that circumstances find them, the thought is that we are, in following our intuition, just doing what we were put on this earth to do. Why would god create such a feeling if it was not to his own purposes? And it would seem right, if this is a God that has created us to do its bidding, that a reward, the life of virtue that Christianity speaks of, would be in order.
What Melville appears to want to touch upon in his tale is that this intuition, whether it culminate in the idea of Paris Hilton to be disgusted by any sort of menial labor, in the idea of a man from Vietnam to relish that same menial labor or in Bartleby’s case, to “prefer not” to do anything at all, can not and should not be thought of to be Gods will. He says this for two reasons. First of all do any of the examples that I just gave sound like reasonable enactments of Gods will? From the moment that any of them were born, did it seem it would be such a great idea for any of them to live the life that they supposedly were destined to live? No, it seems like that idea of the various degrees of nurturing environments play more of a part in their respective pursuits. The second point that Melville is trying to make, and which I will illustrate by using again as a way of comparison the examples of the Vietnamese man and Paris Hilton, is that their pursuit of Gods will has not led to direct conflict with the norms of our society. But in Bartleby’s case, his intuition inspired in him an urge to cast off the shackles of what is considered normal. If people are endowed with a divine nature, it would seem that the norms of our society would be irrelevant. People are supposedly inherently enacting a far better notion of what the divine world is anyway. But the question is how divine can it really be if notions become problematic to the individual and to those around him or her.
Let us look at what a man Melville has made Bartleby here. I said before that he can be seen as a very stubborn, unwilling worker. His inclination when asked to fulfill any suggested task other than endlessly copying is to flat out refuse. His intuition tells him that to refuse his boss is the best thing that he can do. Then it tells him to take up residence in his sole, bare room of employment. It tells him never to leave. It tells him to remain in that room after he has been fired, and then told to leave, and tells him to remain even after the owner leaves as a result of his refusal. His intuition told him that the best idea would be to put a man to such inconvenience. His intuition tells him never to move when he is finally escorted to a mental institution and tells him not to eat and so to starve to death.
Melville seems to beg the question how a man relying on his intuition, a veritable tool of God’s creation, can come to such ends? Was this meaningless, miserable existence Gods ultimate plan, his will in action? And if it was, doesn’t this lead to the question of how much praise such a being actually deserves, if it can let its willing subjects come to such ends?
In the ways that have led him to his demise, Bartleby’s intuition has been acted upon by outside forces. He had never been to the narrators offices before that day but it stands to reason that Bartleby would not have found his way to the front door if he had not ignored his intuition before. Wouldn’t he be in another such room in which he found a similar attachment if he had not done so? Could it not be possible that his upbringing is responsible for such behavior? He prefers not to talk of his past. It only seems obvious that he does not wish to bring up such painful memories again.
Another key argument by Melville is that understanding of what it actually means to live a life based on intuition. The fulfillment of Bartleby’s intuition has been shown to be at the mercy of who feels so inclined to suffer it and a problem to those who do not. The narrator, for example, finds it in his heart to suffer this man, to accept his refusals without reprimand. He finds a way to show as much kindness and sympathy towards a man who does not share himself and who finally refuses to do the work given him. He allows Bartleby, who refuses to move, to continue to live in that one room despite there being no reason for him to do so. And finally he is escorted off the premises by the local authorities. Does this seem right? Bartleby is using God’s tools to conduct God’s will but for him to carry out that will is entirely dependent on the mood of who it is in the immediate vicinity. Does this mean society, for example police officers who intervene and save someone from a psycho whose intuition has lead him to want to cut people up with a rusty razor, can disrupt God’s will? Can they put a damper on the intentions of the creator of their very beings? Surely you jest.
The narrator suffers this man to such an extent that it does not come as much of a shock to learn that the narrator is himself a strong devotee of the Christian faith. I see Melville’s use of a devout Christian as a way of describing his utter disgust with that faith as a whole. The narrator plays the part of one that is, as is true Christian fashion, bending over backwards to “help”.
“Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday Morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door and did as he desired.“
I think that what Melville is saying, and what I do not want to come across the wrong way in saying for it is a touchy subject, is that a Christian and only a devout Christian would follow their own faith so indefinitely as to be put through the trouble of having to deal with someone like Bartleby. Their belief affects everyone. It does not simply single people out. If there is one example of intuition gone awry, Christians will have to practice what they preach. They will have to take responsibility for what they see as a benefit to the society and that could result in more than simple inconvenience as was the case in Bartleby the Scrivener.

religious ramifications

. I read a book recently by one Phillip Gourevitch, a journalist who spent several years in Rwanda investigating the genocide that occurred there in 1994 and wrote about it. His account of the Genocide, “We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families”, is, as he says, about “how people imagine themselves and one another - a book about how we imagine our world”, because the events that led up to the genocide, in which a million people were killed, only occurred because one group used an interpretation of the Christian religion to claim and create superiority and domination over another group.
There is no concrete evidence of when or how the Hutu and the Tutsi tribes came to be in Rwanda. They were believed to have migrated from opposite ends of Africa and to have converged in this one area. As people do that find themselves in each other’s direct company, the tribes began to intermingle. They eventually began to share the same chiefs, fight on the same sides in battles; even intertribal marriage was practiced. Historians now believe that intertribal marriages has resulted in very little ethnic differences in the modern Hutu and Tutsi representatives.
It is important to describe the differences in appearance between the two tribes, however, for, although there are many exceptions to the rule, there is often to be found a somewhat drastic difference between the two tribes. The Belgian colonists that arrived in the 1860’s saw that difference immediately and shaped their views around it.
Hutus are generally shorter, stockier people with thick lips and large noses while the Tutsis are generally tall, lanky, thin lipped, thin limbed, long, pointy nosed peoples. What they saw were two groups, one tall and impressive, “a stately race of warrior kings” and the other short and unimpressive.
The Europeans proclaimed the Tutsi’s an example of John Speke’s Hamitic hypothesis. This hypothesis drew on an imagined belief that “all culture and civilization in Central Africa had been introduced by a taller, sharper-featured people, whom he (Speke) considered to be a Caucasoid tribe of Ethiopian origin, descended from King David, and therefore a superior race to the native Negroid”. In his travels to Rwanda, he perceived many tribes including that of the Tutsi’s to be direct descendants of this Caucasoid tribe, their “fine oval faces, large eyes, and high noses, denoting the best blood of Abyssinia (Ethiopia).” Speke believed the Tutsi’s to be lost Christians, as masterful a race as he imagined the white Europeans to be, but wild and untamed, who only needed the knowledge of a proper European to bring out the “best” in him.
So it was that Belgium took it upon itself to “save” the Rwandan Tutsi’s. But before the Europeans arrived, the ideas of Christianity and the ways of proper Europeans were non-existent to the Rwandans. They had existing beliefs, and both tribes shared these. Rwanda, to the native Rwandans, was the center of the world, “the largest, most powerful, and most civilized kingdom on earth“ to quote Rwandan missionary Father Pages. Having never known anything else, it was easy for them to imagine that although their God might branch out to spread its influence across the land, it returned every night because its home was in Rwanda. There were no exceptions in this belief by any members of the Rwandan society.
The country was united in more than just a religious aspect. The Rwandan language, Kinya-Rwanda, was universally accepted throughout the country, in actuality throughout many African countries. And, despite some disagreements, Rwandans were found to be startlingly patriotic, almost to a point fringing on madness. Never even in European countries do we find universal religion, language, and patriotism. So Rwanda and the Hutus and the Tutsis, although they had their own problems, were far from needing to be “saved” by any Europeans.
In the end, as Gourevitch speculates, the only reason that the Hamitic hypothesis was accepted and even conceived was that the Belgian colonists “could hardly have pretended they were needed to bring order to Rwanda. Instead, they sought out those features of the existing civilization that fit their own ideas of mastery and bent them to fit their purposes” and the Rwandans, who recognized the riches of the Belgians, graciously welcomed them to their country.
To enforce the Hamitic myth, and therefore justify their invasion, the Belgians brought scientists and researchers to Rwanda who confirmed the difference in body and facial features between the two tribes. Armed with these ethnic guidelines, the Belgians set about conforming the country according to them by breaking down the Hutu sub-tribes, the last bastions of economic independence that the tribe had, and providing the Tutsi’s with unlimited power. Each Rwandan was given ethnicity cards labeling them Hutu or Tutsi making it possible “to perfect the administration of an apartheid system rooted in the myth of Tutsi superiority. The Mwami was taken out of office and a new one, “carefully selected for his compliance”, was put in his place.
The Hutus saw their power shrinking and their ability to act shrinking as well. The Belgians placed the majority of them in forced labor operations and the Tutsi’s were given no choice but to act as the driving force behind their toil (“you whip the Hutu or we will whip you”).
Gourevitch draws a comparison with the Bible story of the brothers Cain and Abel. Cain, the older of the two, was a farmer and Abel was a herdsman. By their respective offerings God judged them, favoring Abel and his magnificent herds over Cain and the lackluster vegetables that he produced. Cain raged with jealousy and murdered his brother. So it was that the European Gods favored the herdsman and the farmers acted accordingly.
The Hutus began to be fed up with their imposed limitations. They were, after all, the majority in Rwanda. In March of 1957, a group proclaimed that democracy would be best attained by embracing the Hamitic myth. The Tutsi’s were named Ethiopian invaders, peoples who had no rights to the control of Rwanda and were the minority in any case.
It was the supposed death of a Hutu revolutionary by Tutsi activists that finally sparked the revolution. Soon after, Hutu’s were attacking Tutsi’s, murdering them, and burning their homes. And the Belgians? Did they run to the aid of their “stately race of warrior kings”? No they did not. Belgian colonel Guy Logiest, the top commander that was to preside over the revolution, stood idly by, accepting the destruction as the Tutsi’s due and calling it a great step forward in the democratization of Rwanda. Hutu’s burned, looted, and murdered for years. With the aid of Logiest, the Tutsi chiefs were replaced by Hutu’s who held control over the polling stations and helped Hutu’s capture 90 percent of the top military and political spots.
Make no mistake. The democracy was no such thing. By ways of revolution, nasty government control had simply been replaced with another one, made all the more nasty in its years at the lower end of the social spectrum. Thus was the beginning of the genocide.

hypothetical tale of a trip to New Orleans

This is how it could all go down. This is how one man could come to a conclusion that serious resistance is the only option. Let me tell you what I remember. Ah, yes it all comes back to me now, like it is still happening. We are rocketing through the hot, sticky substance that is the Louisiana atmosphere. It has been a rough couple of days and is not about to get any easier. At about 105 miles an hour in a Toyota Camry that would need about ten thousand dollars worth of work to be on its last leg, to feel like anything else than a juiced up coffin on wheels, a vague realization that there is no doubt as to what happened during the last few days but an overwhelming confusion regarding the reality of those days passes over me like the first waves of some sort of acid attack. There is no doubt that the realization has not been attained by any of the other whack’s in the car because the driver is still driving in a more or less straight line and the other is not raving on the floor, frothing at the mouth and making vague allusions to alligators emerging from the glove compartment and men in navy suits dripping off the rear view mirror. Very soon, I think, there will come a time when certain facts shed their lights on these people and when it happens, god help me and every other poor soul on this road.
About 80 hours and $200 worth of booze earlier, we were somewhere in Alabama, having made our way through the majority of the east coast of this land of disillusion that is America. We left early from New England, and now about 3 or so in the morning everything that was once exciting and classic about a road trip has blended into one long strip of black tarmac that never begins, never ends, and will never stop until it consumes you. 20 something hours on the road, time is lost and intervals between drugs is only measured by where you were when you last partook as in “how long has it been since the last joint?” “Tennessee!” Holy monkey, get rolling, mister!” Then something is rolled, some smoke is inhaled and you forget where you are, what you are doing, and any inclination that might keep you from stopping in a rest area in Alabama to catch a few hours sleep when there are truckers that wink at you and fiddle with their bayonet sized switch blades in the cab of their big rig one spot over.
As you try to fall asleep with the charming image of the trucker that could, at any second, leap from the cab, through the ever so breakable windshield, and slit the necks of all three of us from ear to ear with one deft swipe of his samurai switch blade, you realize that there are no pieces that seem to fit together. You are in a rest stop 20 or so hours down the road but it could be just next door to your house. There are no distinguishing features, nothing that says loud and clear “hey, you are in Alabama”, except the bum at the gas station that asks you for chips and other “favors” refers to you in a somewhat southern tinged mumble. Furthermore, there is nothing that gratifies the ever present thought in the back of your mind that says you are just wasting your time, that there is nothing down here that you won’t find down the road from your very own home, and it is costing you every thing you have, your very sanity, which is in short supply these days, to find out.
You wake, more like give in to the fact that there will be no sleep in this rest stop, and clear your mind of everything except the task in front of you. It is a hot, sticky but extremely welcome New Years Eve day in Alabama and that will soon give way to the mugs, the bugs, and the drugs of Bourbon street, New Orleans that is the final destination, that is the point where justification for this trip will hopefully be found in long stemmed glasses, large plastic mugs, and women that feel they have nothing better to do than to show their tits for beads.
But when we get there, it is not what I imagine when daydreams take me to more wondrous places than the one in which I currently exist. The brightly painted houses with their pristine porches interlaced with roses and various exotic flowers where beautiful southern belles sit and sip whiskey on ice while endlessly deliberating with their equally gorgeous friends on whom they will accompany to the ball that evening are absent. Oh, it is true that I find some of the houses of my dream but their porches feature fat middle-aged men, sipping cognac and producing nasty looks, odors, and ways of speech. They glare at me as I walk by and why not? They are the ones sitting on those pristine porches, they’re the ones that can pick the topic of conversation and do not give a flying fuck about who is taking who to that evening’s imaginary ball. These people have the say and all I can do is stare wistfully at the houses and try to think of a time that may have never existed, when the country was freer and the south was as picturesque as the one that I see in my dreams.
We reach Bourbon street on that bright, balmy, sunny New Years Eve and if it was not what I imagined, my ability to focus and pinpoint what exactly was lacking was severely impeded by just about everything. Bourbon street is what the world would look like if there was no such thing as government, if there was no such thing as a police force and no such thing as work except for those skilled enough to doll out liquor at the rate of two drinks a second which I imagine was the rate of consumption here. We plunged in. At this point, there is nothing more than hazy recollections of the following several days but I will, to the best of my ability, attempt to relate the sounds, sights, smells, injustices and travesties that occurred down here in the “Big Queasy.”
My accompanying wacko had to relieve himself in the disease ridden bathroom of some gas station on the fringe of the devils playground. It was then that the move was made. With wild accusations of trespassing in areas and conducting business maneuvers that were too hideous and horrible for the likes of us, we were felled by the police and then carelessly discarded.
Later on that night, I was walking down the street, chugging down some booze, smoking some shit, swaying to and fro, not wondering which way to go when the man comes up to me and he says “you been doing things I don’t like, I see the shit, now get arrested or take a hike, you be goin’ away for a long time if you don’t listen boy, I will play with you like a little toy. Yeah, and I was like, Whatever!!! Cuz this is my United States of Whatever. Or something along those lines as I found my way into handcuffs as one of the accompanying whack’s and I made our way down the sidewalk as drunk and disorderly as two fellows are allowed to be at the stroke of New Years. A few minutes previous to greeting the new year with a drink and a holler, this wacko and I found ourselves in a monstrous pile. We were smoking something. It must have been weed but for some sick suckers sake I do not remember. The following events seem to be quality assurance that it was..
I had this burning stick of something good in my hand as the man drove his car and its flashing lights straight at us like some blue winged demon. I tossed the stick to the ground but the portly devil swooped in with its chains and had us both in its grip before we could chant, baptize, or do whatever it takes to send devils back to their personal hells.
The devil greeted us bound innocents with threats of eternal damnation (at least 3-5 years or $10,000 worth of fines) as he waved the still smoking stick in our faces and then let us go because of the many other innocents that he felt he needed imprisonment that night. We were not friends of the devil but now we knew its face, having avoided its evil grin earlier that night and having now faced it again.
These 2 meetings with the blue devils provided evidence then affirmation, as my face was ground into their sleek, dark chariot, of what was calling me to this place. I had felt the likes of it before but had never reason nor rhyme to put it to paper. Now, as I was witnessing it first hand, I cannot believe that I never had.
This realization that reached its cold, dead hand out of the netherworld to grasp my jugular and throttle me for all I was worth was that of the nature of the blue devil itself. For they are everywhere, they take many forms, and they are on the hunt at all times. They never sleep, never rest until good citizens such as you and me are defiled and overthrown. We are members of a generalization that they have formed, one formed by those unknown to us, those in dark corners committing unknown acts of pure evil. These darkness dwellers have existed and, through the reasoning of the devils, provision of a so-called service, producing wild accusations on a whim, taking whatever liberties they feel like in order to route out these subterraneans, is what they make claims to. And now, I am onto them. I know them, know their true faces, their true colors, and they are shining the fuck through.
Yet the previous events only hinted at their true nature. One must realize their true colors when an angry mob of them in dark suits, with helmets and large, submachine guns bust through your door of the Monte Carlo Hotel, outside New Orleans at 3 that morning, with snarling dogs that snap just inches from your face and mace that stings the eyes and reduces you to one of those sniveling generalizations, the ones that writhe on the floor like some kind of fish, out of water and begging for mercy to the unforgiving hook-holder that stands above it. There will be no mercy, no release to the cool, life giving ocean that is the regaining of your once intact credibility. Mercy, release, understanding, believing? These are not the true colors of their rainbow. Lies, deceit, cruelty, accusation, generalization, misrepresentation. These are the make up of the rainbow and you are the little fucking dip shit trying not to be crushed underneath them. Good luck.
These men will produce a story. “Where is the child? We know you have him somewhere. Under the bed? Speak up and thank your lucky stars I didn’t bring my club, you son of a bitch!”
They see the ripped children’s t-shirt in the trash that my friend had bought earlier because he was out of shirts and then ripped apart, disgusted that he bought ones that were too small. They see the juice boxes, the individual helpings of yogurt, the toy from the Frosted Flakes box and they put it all together. Who is to say that these two fellows and I, working our way through the effects of twenty or so Mai Tai’s and Jagermeister shots and cold Miller Lite’s together in a one person room in the middle of the worst part of Louisiana, did not, at some point of our drunken revelry, kidnap and force ourselves on some defenseless little girl, defiling her over and over again, strangling her, and tossing her in some dumpster around the corner, where she was found? This was the closest establishment so, “Hey Guys, let’s check if those worthless fuckers didn’t just stop in here for the night before they continued their rape and murder spree clear across the United States like so many self-righteous young Americans have in the past”.
“They say they didn’t do it, huh?” one says to the other. “50-life”. And that’s it. No more return trip. No more chucking beads at hot chicks with big tits. All the tits you get to see belong to your 350 pound cellmate, the one with a bald head and 3 teeth. He gives his tits away for free. He only needs beads to choke you with until you show him yours
But…an escape. Some hackneyed, slacker motherfucker has taken little pride in his work and has been left alone with 3 blood thirsty bastards who have now come to like nothing more than to shine the light of sweet retribution into the clotted bowels and charred heart of any one in uniform that they can find. It is done and so the whack’s make a break for it. No pictures, no fingerprints and no proof of the bound and gagged official individual crying for his mother in the trunk of a Camry that is speeding down the road at 90 miles an hour. There will be no going back. Only steady and speedy progression from one ultimate punishment to an other. We whack’s will see if the devils blue is more than uniform deep. But no, not punishment. Purification through fire. The brimstone will hurtle through the sky today, my friend, until none will be left singe-free.
But then, everyone in the beat up Toyota gets distracted. It is time for work, time for menial, soul sucking activities, time to take a place in the pile of fools. Just one more American face in an ocean of bile and disillusionment with a starving officer still locked his trunk.

journalistic thoughts

Should the media employ Ombudsmen?

I have to give a hearty thumbs up to the employment of Ombudsmen. My decision comes from my belief that maintaining accountability is one of the most, if not the most, important thing than a journalist can do. If an Ombudsman can accurately and fairly address issues without allowing his paycheck to involve his decision making process, then I believe their presence is essential. They can bring back faith in the media by making it apparent that there is an outside source that is watching out for the interests of the readers, whose appreciation and satisfaction is, and should remain, the most important issue.

Should the media identify rape victims without their permission?

This was a tough decision for me but if I have to decide, I would have to side with allowing it. Fairness was a key deciding factor for me in that as long as the accused is named, the accuser should be as well. Spiteful men and women do exist who might accuse others of rape to tarnish their reputation or in hopes of receiving financial rewards. These people do exist and, given the possibility of their existence, it seems unfair not to mention them. Another key issue here was rape victims that were named and identified puts a human face on rape. The victim could be your best friend, your next door neighbor or your baby sitter. It happens everywhere to many different types of women. If they are identified, it might spurn other women to come forward because they could identify with those women. Rape is a serious problem that needs to be addressed and anything that facilitates this process should be acted on.

Can fair and balanced reporting be done by embedded journalists?

I have to say that, yes, they can or at least they should be able to. Journalists should stick to their credo of objectivity at all costs. It takes effort in these situations when journalists eat, sleep, and become friends with the platoon that they are embedded in, but any journalist worth his weight should be willing to take the necessary measures that will maintain professional distance. Additionally, embedded journalist will see both sides of the war firsthand as they will be up close to what is transpiring. They will witness both sides of the war and therefore be able to provide both sides of the story.

when i was single

when i was single, i used to go out and try to meet women. but it never really worked out very well.
First, I would go up to them and say "Hi. My name is kevmo. What's your name?"
They always scream "you're freaking me out." and they start with the rapid fire questioning like "how'd you get into my house?"
duh, your window was open.
And then they start immiediately in on the demands, like
"get out of my house before i call the police."
You can't tell me what to do' I say "I'm the man in this relationship"
and they usually don't understand me at all
"Relationship? you sick freak, you broke into my house. I don't even know you."
"I told you my name is kevmo. you haven't even told me yours."
then, they usually start with the threats, something that anyone might have to deal with in a relationship, to keep their partner on their toes and never let them be too comfortable.
"that's it. I'm calling the police."
I usually leave at that point because you always have to leave them wanting more. But even after all that, they never call, only the state acting on her behalf to tell me that I am wanted for questioning on breaking and entering charges. Still trying to play hard to get, entangling me in bureaucratic red tape, It's all part of the chase. But I can never find you again. Oh, well. I never let that stop me.

the beginning of a book i'm trying to write

f people like this and yearn for more, I might post more. furthermore, if you are a publisher or agent, contact me.

title pending


Mexico. The hot sun is coming down. That’s what it does down here. I need to find a telephone booth.
I am sweating and the sweat drips off my nose as I ask the little Mexican fellow sitting outside this little corner store in the middle of this desolate landscape if there is a phone nearby.
“Una telefona, amigo?” That’s all I got in my Spanish language repertoire, short of holding the thumb and pinky of my one hand close to the ear and mouth respectively.
“Around back, amigo.” The little man replied with a little smirk.
“Thank you.” I said and walked around the corner of the dusty little shack. I need to call a cab and find a hostel of some kind. I have 2000 dollars. I got enough for some time in Mexico but not that much time. Not enough time it seems. Fuck it. There is always time.
I call a cab.
“Una hostella?”
“No problem, senor. And which one would you prefer? Near the ocean?.”
Amazing how everyone in this country speaks English. How about that?
“The cheapest one, my friend. I’m not really worried about seeing the ocean, just need a place to think.”
“Ah” said the little driver “I know just the place”.

It was just the place. It was a cheap room in the nearest town. There was no ocean. In fact the room was just a small room in the back of a man’s house. It is exactly what is needed when one needs to disappear. A tiny, shitty smelling little hovel built into the side of a shittier larger main hovel in the middle of nowhere in Mexico.
It has a cot. There is also a little table nearby. I have some pencils and paper and this is what I start writing for you. It is a story that must be told if only for the sake of my motherfuckin’ sanity. I need to understand how this worked because I am in a lot of trouble for it. I don’t know if I’ll go to jail. I don’t know what I will do from here. I need to start a new life. I need to keep moving. I need to maybe get a lawyer. I shouldn’t have run. I guess it doesn’t really even matter anymore.
She is dead. He is dead. My life has changed irreversibly. Everything that has been has been destroyed. I can’t play music. I wouldn’t even want to. I need to try and move forward. I need to get this out and I will try to stay away from harm until this is done.
I will try to recount the story, as I mentioned, for my motherfuckin’ sanity because it will not make sense to me until I see it all out. This story must exist, as well, perhaps for someone to understand that I do not think I was to blame for the things that I have done.
I only loved her I only tried to keep a dear friends memory alive. Of course I enjoyed myself a bit. But I feel that I even was helpful and influential and used what I used to have for good, not evil. What a fucking rats nest of a problem it all turned out to be.
I didn’t know these things. I didn’t know that it would work itself out this way. Wouldn’t I have fucking changed it if I had? I think I would because I am not a bad person. I would not harm anyone intentionally. I don’t know if anyone will believe me. After all that is happened, I don’t know if I believe myself.

Drug thought

I've used drugs and alcohol. I've used them to the point that they must even feel used. I imagine the exhaustion that they have had to endure to satiate my appetite must be incredible. They must be pissed off even, thinking, "man, I'm gonna fuck this kid up." And they do. Often I find myself groggy, achey, even violently nauseous enough to violently spew forth a truly massive vomitous mass. I'm sorry, drugs, i owe you a lot. I did not want to make you feel used. You have always been so good to me. you are such a welcome companion after a long day at work or after having to suffer one of the completely shit filled asshole people that seem to infest this world. Let's have fun like we always have and stop making me feel like crap.

Ethiopian Restaurant

I was walking down the street the other day with a friend of mine. We passed an Ethiopian restaurant and my friend looked puzzled, then laughed, and said "Ethiopians dont eat".
That's a good point. What would they serve in that restaurant? Possibly you would be provided with a spear and allowed to consume whatever your "hunt" provides on the premises. Or perhaps your order would consist of a chance at the "goodwill" aircraft's delivery that flies by every 2 weeks, dropping a crate full of provisions that you must fight over with the other patrons. Remember, you need to make reservations 2 weeks in advance. Or you might simply be served the freshest helping of grass, rocks, and dust that money can buy.

just a funny thought