We knew it will end this way.

Close the door, please!

I need to do this, OK? Don’t think this is all for nothing.

It’s just showing how and where and when. This slander is all in the newspaper, so they’ll know it’s real.


I am a man of letters and I walk the path of wisdom. Reading isn’t and it was never recreational for me, so the question ‘what’s your favorite author?’ is nonsensical to me. I’ve never read easy books; I’ve read 900 page books word by word, because skimming is a skill developed by Millennials recently, maybe in the past 20 years. Everything is fast paced, so you can understand how the people from the 2000s were the ones that had Wikipedia and virtual crutches that would always be there, in the background, like apps that don’t really consume a lot of your phone’s energy, but the downside of that is they never consumed a lot of your phone‘s energy. My ideal was always have all your toys with you, so that if you’re on a long and tedious train ride with an elderly man, he doesn’t outtalk you and you don’t discover the wheel while feeling like the stupidest Doe on the Planet; you can’t just whip out your phone each time you can’t remember a year or an insignificant word that would help you prove a point; you’ve either got it or you don’t. It’s as simple as that.

Back in the 20s, our grandfathers couldn’t understand analogy. If you told a person, imagine you woke up one day and you were in Asia, no knowledge of Asian languages nor culture, no means to reach anyone, what would you do, they would earnestly reply with something along the lines of, ‘but that’s preposterous; how could I wake up in Asia?! I’m in South Dakota!’. Abstract thinking is a discovery of the recent  years from the 20th century. Skimming and skim-reading (funny how it also points to a less nurturing lactate product, the word) are the product of the 21st century’s lack of involvement in any sort of real reading. Job postings do it, they babble away in a language that is stiff and obsolete in a way that encourages skimming, books do it, because people don’t write books the way Schopenhauer proposed one should write a book, from the overflow of knowledge, after becoming a well-rounded person, when you actually know what you’re going to write about before setting pen to paper and subsequent to having read some books, so you know what exists and what doesn’t, so you don’t just multiply the number of words we allocate to the same idea. Writing has hipsterized (a modest linguistic proposal) itself (Schopenhauer called them philistines, in Jesus’ time they would have been pharisees) for decades now: Americans, long before one of the most enduring TV show known to the New World’s public revealed no book on no shelf of none of the 357 episode – 14 season – 1 hour (roughly) each episode’s how many millions of frames?, wrote books that today are the tedious and agonizingly foolhardy, colourful and out of any paper-size convention equivalents to the 5 cent eBooks that only corporate suits and housewives on planes and trains alike read for a good pastime. Germany hipsterized itself, Italy hipsterized itself, Great Britain hipsterized itself. When a person like me ‘skims’ through the titles in a pub on a shelf, because that’s where our main source of knowledge ended up making its short-spanned mediocre living, among drunkards and people whom’s fists still see when their eyes are closed, I see random names and skittish titles that in 2016 would have been dubbed ‘cringy’, in the Backstreet Boys 2000s they would have been called ‘ridiculous’, and so on and so forth; authors that grew old and lost their serotonin and dopamine (because they are limited in our bodies) for nothing; futile 5 cent existences.

Now do you understand why when someone asks me ‘What’s your favourite author?’ I just plunge a long lost peanut residue from in-between an incisor and a canine straight into their noggin with or without an adjourning good laugh, depending on whether or not they’ve earned my respect or not? I mourn the days when you would also read so you could be contemporaneous with your people, siblings we all were, Earth not overcrowded with stupidity and Konrad Lorenz arid and deprived of any dream that would materialize into ‘Civilized Man’s Eight Deadly Sins’, when you would read so you could understand, not to relax… I mess with people in the bus or in the tube telling them, when I see them holding a book and trying to read while being transported to their modern slavery, ‘the butcher diddit in the end’; they frown and let loose a ‘don’t spoil it for me!’. Spoil… what are you, eating a cake while masturbating with your phantom limb to Leroux’s ‘Phantom at the Opera’?! An old man ‘spoiled’ a book for me once and I became obsessed with them. The same teacher, because he was one of my early mentors, described each detail of the book, explained it he did, and I still read it and it still made me braingasm away, as a book is so much more than its plot… Where are the old timers now? Do you respect an old dog at a dog race just for having gray hair, Schopenhauer so eloquently exemplified? That’s how we age nowadays and that’s how we end up writing silly books that are a massage to a wooden leg. And while we’re at it, the butcher did do it! It’s always the butcher, whether it’s history (hysteria, hysterika, uterus), politics, a novel with a basic plot or even a journal and you’re the butcher, it’s always been the butcher. We are butchers, and there’s a butcher inside all of us.

Look at us… we pee in the sinks where we wash our faces and we ask ourselves why the porcelain is yellow.

We fart in the rooms where we lay our heads and sleep, but we don’t air out the rooms before going to bed because stupidity doesn’t smell.

The chickens come home to roost, but they never left… we were here all along, and our barn?, our homes?!, we don’t care about them. They all went to shit and this planet is going to shit because we care more about money and getting nice  toys, before Plato’s gravel levels both retard and genius, than we do intellectual integrity.

Sorry, world, but what the fuck! What the actual fuck! I think you, siblings, mon semblable,—mon frère, and I don’t respect you… respect is a word that has been confiscated by the political left nowadays and has been turned into the synonym of dignity. How? They think respect should be granted. I heard them talking over the television the other day about how inmates are treated with respect in England… a man raped your underage daughter and you respect him?! Congratulate him and pat him on the back while you’re at it! That’s dignity! Respect you earn, dignity you get for granted, as a human being, as an animal, as part of this beautiful place that we call our own while we fowl our own nest.

Parenthetically, buy books, and buy the good ones. Ask if you don’t know which ones are the good ones, but never ask the person that’s already willing to ‘recommend’ the good books without you having ushered a single sound. I despise recommenders and this modern disease of boisterous word-of-mouth. Don’t ask librarians either, they’re part of the status-quo. Ask whomever your heart dictates you should ask, because you’ll end up reading the books that are closest to your current intellectual level, but always ask more than one person and change your ‘recommender’ as frequent as you change the books you read. Remember: a book is a mountain you need to pass; don’t sit on the mountain too long, it’s called proselytism, it’s called the Jesus squad, ‘the one book for 2 millennia book club’. And remember: buy your family a bookshelf of books; it’s all it takes. When your kids grow older, they’ll wonder what that guitar on the wall that used to belong to daddy when he was young sounds like, who Johnny Cash was, why Michael Jackson was a hit, and what’s inside those oak covers that so grandly protect our dead ones’ knowledge. Always buy the less coloured hardcovers. Avoid newspaper single-worded recommendations. If Sartre recommended it, it’s good. Good.

Look, I wouldn’t want to rant about a bagel, but this is my piece and what I have to say next is far more intense than what I said so far. So read the following carefully:


The advanced life form from Snowlipsism put the black-market newspaper about human beings down for a second… although in this Universe everything is set and everybody already knows everything, what they don’t know, the only thing they don’t know from future, present and past, is what the humans are doing. The life form can be pulverized if the omniscient god of Snowlipsism, Ras, would find out “someone” is reading an illicit material about the human beings from the other Universe. “What about this bagel?”, it asks…


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