Pseudo-profound Bullshit

Yep, that’s what it is when I watch some tacky North American paranormal show on TLC to bore me to sleep late at night. Aside from all the useless overpriced gadgetry, there’s usually some bible waving git professing that yon schmuck is possessed by demons from either a worn out ouija board or a bunch of half-assed Lewiccans trying to cast a circle but can’t get the cardinal points right. The amusing thing is, no amount of smudging, prayer or holy water can seem to lose the spook, so obviously these self-proclaimed exorcists are barking up the wrong tree. It’s what happens when your mate is bipolar and unwittingly keeps trying to summon their own inner schweinehund by some paranormal means. Well gee Sherlock, so what happens now?...

The Curse of Bio-fads

I don’t know what it is about health and care products these days, but they’re really going overboard with putting Aloe Vera in everything. Due to a nasty allergy to algae based foaming agents, I’ve long been unable to use any kind of toothpaste, hence, brushing my teeth with bicarb and relying on mouthwash to do the anti-bacterial. This is now becoming impossible with the addition of Aloe Vera to damn near all of them, that I’m not taking well to at all. I just spent 4 days on corticoids and novamin to overcome the severe neuralgia caused by the allergic reaction. I’m finally able to sleep on that side without the flaming throbbing pain but it’s going take another week of salt water and bicarb for the gums to desensitize. Heaven forbid whenever these companies have “new formula” emblazoned across their products. I could curse the lot to no end.

My collection of shrunken heads

Ever find yourself invited into some no-brainer non-discussion where the incumbents just post endless “pretty pictures” and meaningless quotes scavenged from google to make up for their dubious lack of interactive communication skills? It’s like those menageries of dolls and figurines kept by desperate housewives, or any item akin to hoarding where there’s not much you can say except admonish and praise each acquisition. While I could wonder what motivates such unwitting fashion statements, chances are, they don’t get out and around much. Sure, everyone has their mementos and keepsakes, especially if you’ve been around in the world, but this lot are like hapless victims in the film “Needful Things”. I don’t think I want to know what else they are trying to hide behind that kind of posturing, in hope of awe from some captive no-mind.

Something Ugly This Way Comes

I see an organized effort of pro-alt-right trolls and sock puppets stalking the internet, and not just from American and European factions but especially Russia. While some have actual identities, there are the ones who change nicks and avatars wherever convenient, leaving a trail of fake accounts behind them. It’s pure psychological warfare that likes to thrive on any open-public groups and individuals who have a large following, especially if it involves any debates on socio-political or religious issues. This is where sock puppets come into play, intent on overwhelming the target with opposition, usually spouting rhetoric in a crude derogatory way. For the more sensitive of us, this can be a real intellectual turn-off, reduced to a choice between fight or flight. Of course fight only degenerates under a barrage of cajolery, unless you have admin rights. Then it’s a matter of sussing out the fakes and banning the culprit. This is what I did to Nigel Farage on FB when he tried to come onto me with the AfD and nazi catchwords like “Lebensraum”. In the pagan world, I’ve seen these shysters come on with every kind of new age fantasm from ancient aliens to antarctic atlantis, say nothing of the Pleiadean masterrace and Dravidian lizard conspiracies. No surprise that this lot get their money from wankers like Arron Banks. The real reason behind their agenda is to befuddle people with so much utopian woowoo, that they lose all sense of healthy skepticism if not the real world altogether. Well sorry pal (no actually I’m not) but being pagan doesn’t mean I have to regard logical reasoning as some kind of throwback to a bad 50s SciFi, save the Walmart-esque pseudo-culture. Sell your snake oil and fake news elsewhere.

In this day and age of fake news and blame shifting regimes, it’s no surprise how many wannabe crusaders have fallen folly to such overpaid-overrated shills as Julian Assange, Alex Jones and David Icke. While I am sure what motivates these people has more to do with vanity beyond its wildest dreams of avarice, it’s not like Edward Snowden really proved more than what we figured all along. Yeah, let’s blame the Russians for opportunity as if embargoes are really going to stop anything. It only makes the secret deals all the more profitable for the contenders. Have we really evolved above the oneupmanship of harem building? I think not. As long as there’s something to be had on the sly, there will always be nosy neighbours and shysters. Save the conspiracy theories, most denials serve to cover up some really perversely stupid mistakes, nothing ingenious. Just follow the money if you want to know what’s really going on.

Doomsday Obsessions

As far back as I can remember, my parents were obsessed with death and destruction, and that on a daily basis. While I can understand it was some kind of post-war/cold-war PTSD, people don’t necessarily all react the same way. Some were inclined to compensate by appreciating life one day at a time, while others had a wild hair up their butts on a strange quest for the promised land. What I got bombarded with was just plain coercive, like everything I took any degree of pleasure in had to be shot down with every kind of tragedy as a point of argument à la “Whatcha gonna do if”. If it wasn’t some Fate Magazine style article of some astrophysical cataclysm, relentless reruns of Steinbeck and Felini, or the loss of a beloved pet through their misdoings, say nothing of their objections to every friend I had, there was always the threat of mutually assured destruction at every turn of the cold war. Stuck in the no-zone between east and west forced me down a path I never would have taken if I had a place to call my own, but they all made sure I couldn’t even aspire for that until they were all gone or dead and buried. Now brushing away the ashes of all the bridges I had to burn, I still hear echoes of it from the numpty’s mood swings, but I’m just getting too wise to fall for that futile hostage crisis. The real problem is not so much death as staying alive and sound of mind, so I’m not about to have an anxiety attack just because some jerk can’t stand anyone having a good time. Go pray to your gods for deliverance and let me drink my wine in peace.

Never Ceases to Confound Me

Every day, when the numpty gets home from work, he gets in front of that cursed computer to molly coddle his beloved NZ troll, and that right in front of his wife. Aside from this circus also starting at around 5 in the morning, it gets much worse on weekends not to mention the confabulated family histories and comparative analysis of how bad we are compared to his and her holiness, which in reality scarcely falls short of bipolar delusional. While my parents were never really the loving kind, at most both physically and mentally abusive, I’m inclined to blame that on growing up in a war zone and its subsequent brain and behavioural damages. I was the first born, and as my father put it so quaintly about women, we’re only good for marrying, but irony would have it, I never did. In this part of the world, I’m not alone among those kind of dysfunctional families, so I’ve come to accept my lot in life, appreciating the small pleasures while making improvements wherever they’re feasibly possible. With him it’s an entirely different story. He was my parents golden boy who could do no wrong, and being as my mother was so frontal lobe damaged, it was forced upon me at the age of 8 to be some kind of surrogate mother as my father was seldom there. To make matters worse, the numpty got extreme pleasure in getting me penalized for his misdoings, the epitome of which he almost set the damn apartment on fire. Of course I opposed the beatings vehemently and refused to be housebound, taking every opportunity to escape into the wilds. Unfortunately I was given such a bad rapport by my family, my every flight to freedom was always under public scrutiny, while their own children were getting away with every kind of atrocity on the sly...but I never let that stop me from doing whatever necessary for my own peace of mind. Being dragged half way across the globe and back, there’s not much you can really call home anyway. No community for moral support, no business or property to build upon, let alone inherit. I tried saving up a nest egg, only to end up having to compensate their every mismanagement. Say nothing of the bank card the numpty had secretly acquired to pillage my mother’s account. Needless to say, I wound up penniless with the numpty still on my case. For all the parental blame-shifting he still seems to think he’s above the law, tells people I abused him as child like I was supposed to be his mother, and therefor owe him every kind of financial and emotional support...and just as he finally got over his insolvency, he goes to NZ while still trying to get over pneumonia and winds up in emergency with severe thrombosis. Now he’s 17 grand in arrears for that stunt and still won’t admit that it’s the female hormones he’s secretly taking that caused the whole problem in the first place. He believes a sex change is going solve all his emotional issues. As for the troll, between emotional blackmail and Hepatitis C, I just don’t see what she really has to offer, especially after that sex change. This guy is so far removed from reality, the other day he questioned my remark about his jekyll and hyde behaviour between us and his troll. “Oh like you don’t get cynical to other people” he says. I laughed and responded; “Sorry pal, but I’m not the one going around claiming to be Mr. Nice-Guy. On the contrary, I take no prisoners, and I’m well-known for that”. Well, by the time he gets over that failure, he should be about 75 and hardly fit to start a new life anywhere. Whatever the case, after 20 years struggle to get away from one colonial backwater, I’m not about to go running off to another one. Not anytime ever.

Retrospect

In a week I will be 64. The odd people I once knew, landed somewhere across the Atlantic, now either dead or faded into anonymity. I’m not even sure they understood where they were coming from, let alone going to, for lack of any communication skills beyond their own mind set. How they struggled to be the status quo, in a regime of banana republic double standards. Stuck in the political no-zone between lost adolescence and latent xenophobia. Never really aspiring anything beyond that deleterious comfort zone. The wanton pillars of a community that scarcely remains a memory. The lame attempts on social media, only to be blatantly ignored. Did you honestly think I had nothing better to do than conform to such petty platitudes. Like a ship in the night I simply moved on until that last beacon disappeared beyond the horizon. As always I had other plans but you were always too full of yourselves to even notice. Que sera.