Scorpio

Meanwhile…

My recient sojurn to the monthly reptile fair got me 4 giant, black scorpions to replace the pygmy mice who failed to breed and then failed to live sometime last March. The pen was cleansed of mice, bedding and toys and remained empty until a good washing, some wood mulsh and a few heated stones - the enclosure was then deemed suitable for the world’s largest scorpions.

Scorpio imperitor is a resident of African rain forests and despite its menacing size, is actually the most docile member of its kind. Keepers routinely handle these giants, knowing their claws are far more damaging than their sting. Hence, they grab the tail and lift the arachnid onto a smooth skin surface. Once suitably accustomed to human pheramones, these arthropod beasts are prone to wander happily about
wondering where the next meal is.

I have decided not to handle what are most likley kidnapped African slaves designed to amuse me. I think it is sort of rude to grab their tails and lift them suddenly into the air like a hungry preditor. Hence, a glass barrier and my hopes they can neither jump nor are ever hungry enough to eat one another.

I believe I have solved the latter problem by gorging them on my abundant insect stock. Crickets are always relished, but two crab sized pincers and a tenacious propensity to use them means my new pets can actually help subdue my burgenioning population of giant cave roaches. Having erected a comfortable domicile beneith a rock, my new pets fled the opressive imperitives of captivity after an initial offering of lobster roaches.

One eventually emerged back into my world, an arachnid of unknown sex identifiable only by an uneven pattern in the segments on the back of its abdomen.

Ever hungry, it would happilly accept any squirming, doomed tidbit offered it via the steel pincers of my forecepts. As time passed, I began to notice it noticing me. Its eyes were clustered in the pit of a dimple on its back. I did not expect much visual acuity from such tiny beads, expecting this creature to rely far more on the touch its sensory hairs provided.

Its attention eventually caught my attention. Despite the fact I am almost half a century old, my own urges deem sexual release despite the fact I have never known a recipient to my endeavors. Well, not until reciently. Settling down before my cybernetic crytsal ball, I noted the residents of the left wing seemed to be skulking beneith their rock. The lizzards to my right were basking unseen and as reguards the far right, well, I had pulled down the shades.

The show began, and equipment in hand, I glanced left to see old crooked scales eyeying me from just under one of the rocks. It certainly didn’t seem interested in my presence when my pants where on.

Just what was it after?

Arthropods aren’t supposed to act this way.

The Libertarian & I

Concider poker. Just like the free market, players exchange chips by taking risks. As the game continues however, there will be certain players who accumulate more chips than other players. The end result is just a single player who has all the chips. The game then ends unless the winner's chips are re-distributed to the other players. If poker isn't quite the right anology, concider "monopoly". Same game really, and quite the same ending. If this still seems irrevelant, concider Micro$oft. What's the real difference between a politician holding all the chips and a businessman holding all the chips?

The only libertarian counter arguement I can think of is that in a completly free market, monopolies are impossible. The only place I've ever seen this happen is amoungst the bushmen of the Khalarhi desert in Africa. These people own absolutly nothing. Left completly to its own devices, the market behaves like matter under the influence of gravity. Its only a matter of time before a black hole forms.

Is capitalism "progressive"? If so, what are we progressing twoards in a universe with no edge nor any center? All I can imagine is a day when American children are 50% plastic and eat electricity for breakfast. Will they stand out in the rain and catch lightening on their tongues? Is the sterilized, standardized mechanized American menu really superior to what bushmen eat? Frankly, dirt is tastier than styrofoam. As reguards starving foreigners, they don't have any food because the king decreed they all eat cake. The king got to be the king because some dirt farmer had a bumper crop and turned his plow into a swoard. Those he didn't kill then starved. Then the King starved when he found his Gold was about as edible as dirt.

Again, how exactly does a completly free market discourage the accumulation of wealth? Quite a paradoxical oxymoron, non?

Returning to our bushmen friends - these people regurarly live into their 80's without an HMO. It seems to me modern medicine is just a means of keeping people alive in what is essentially a toxic waste dump. Ah, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, even if the beholder is blind. "Progressive medicine" reminds me of one of Gulliver's travels. He meets a race of people who never die. Unfortunately their oldest citizens are little more than animated, rotting corpses. Hopefully we will become 100% plastic before this happens. Then Europeans can not only refer to Americans as children, they can call us children's toys!

In the final analysis, I think the Chineese might just be evolving a system more suited to the shrinking resources of a very finite planet. Small businesses are free to compete with little governmental regulation. Past a certain size however, the government either treats mega-business as a public utility as the Russians did or smash it to bits with anti-trust laws as the Americans do. Anarchy can only benefit the people if the people themselves are perfect. Unless we all evolve into robot insects, nobody will be perfect. Until then, everybody needs big brother.

A Wild Idea!

I think I'll take a web cam into work tomorrow and present:

////////// The Wild World of State employment /////////////////////

G'day Mate! We're here in the outback of the State Health Department and are waiting
for something interesting to visit the office printer. Careful, mate - there's an office trouble maker over there in the corner playing "gotcha". Just look at those teeth! Wouldn't want to wander into those jaws... Wait, a report is coming out of the printer. Sure to attract something and yes, it's a deputy assistant comissioner (Assinus Maximus)! Sorry luv, can only see his fat behind at the moment, but woah - he's spreading manure!! What a mess. Not to worry ducky, here comes a dung eating ass kisser. Oops! Something just knocked the printer over. Oh, it's an office secretary. These creatures are perfectly adapted to their habitat - toally blind, deaf and dumb. Well, that's enough excitement for now, but tune in tomorrow and every day after that for the rest of your career for another episode of:

/////////////// The Wild World of State Employment //////////////////

How the Wench stole the Superbowl

How the Wench Stole the Superbowl

Dr. Susse’s ripoff of Dicken’s “Christmas Carol” can be further plagarized by
reworking it into how much men love football – and how women hate it.

All the men in the Den, they liked football a lot;
But the Wench up the stairs from the den – she did NOT!

The Wench HATED football;
The whole football season;
The guys don’t know why;
No one quite knows the reason…

Maybe hating the game was an innate reflex;
And that all football meant was she didn’t get sex;

-But I think she detested these athletic brawls;
Because that old Wench didn’t have any balls.

And the more the Wench thought of the pretzles & beer;
The more the Wench thought,

“I must stop it right HERE!

“For on Sunday I know;”
“All the jocks and the jerks;”
“Will all guzzle beer;”
“Till they go quite berzerks!”

“Then the ads!”

“Oh, the ads,Ads,Ads, ADS!!

“The shrieks and the squeals to sell new sets of wheels;”
“Then they’ll sing and they’ll dance to make ludricous deals;”
“and they’ll say stupid things :

‘Stock investments by Welk’
‘I want Kibbles and Bits’,
’Chevy’s BIGGER!’,
’Got Milk?’ !!’ “

THEN – as the national anthem is starting;
The guys in the den will be belching and farting!!

“Ever since I got married I’ve put up with this suet”
“I MUST end the Superbowl – but how can I do it?”

Then she got an idea – an awful idea;
The Wench got a wonderful, AWFUL idea!

“I know just what to do”, the Wench said to her plants;”
“I’ll make a cheap umpire suit and some pants”

Twas a quarter past two when she started her run;
All they guys lay asleep dreaming Superbowl fun;

As she struggled to get the T.V. in a cart;
The Wench heard a small noise;
Like an odorous fart;
She turned around quick;
To see what was this;

-One of the guys had got up to piss.

The guy stared at the Wench and asked,

“Referee, why;
Why are you taking our T.V. set - WHY?“

“Why my poor little jock”, the fake umpire lied,”
“There’s a tube in this set that won’t glow on one side”
“So I’m taking it back to the factory pier”
“I’ll issue a rebate;”
“And then bring it back here…”

And her lie fooled the jerk;
As he started to slouch;
He got a cold beer;
And passed out on the couch.

So, while the jocks lay a dreaming of the Superbowl bash;
The Winch rolled all their fun down the drive to the trash!;

“Ah, they’re just waking up;”
“And there won’t be no maybe’s;”
“Soon the guys in the den;”
“Will be crying like babies!”

The Wench crained her neck ‘till her sholders were smarting;
But no wailing was heard - only belching and farting!

She stood with her footies all damp from the grass;

“This cannot be happening;”
“Oh, how can this pass?”
“It came without T.V. or titties or ass……”

She grumbled and bitched ‘till she got PMS;
Then looked down at her feet and just had to confess;
Why suffer anxiety, lonliness, stress ….
Perhaps football all means just a little bit less..

And what happened then?
Well in some restroom stalls;
It’s inscribed that the Wench grew herself TWO sets of balls!

And now that her crotch felt uncomfortably tight;
She raced up the drive in the crisp morning light;

She brought everything back;
All the food for the bloat;
And she, she the WENCH;
Heald the channel remote!

Welcome football, bring your Cheer;
Bring your Tide, your Falstaff beer;
The Superbowl will always loom;
Just so long as we consume….

Bored of Health

Avian flu is not as much a risk as the public health infrastructure in the United States itself. Because of Pax Americana, I fear this bureaucratic model has been adopted by many other nations, making this an even greater threat.

Public health began in America in New York city around the turn of the 20th century. A massive wave of eastern european immigrants were flooding into the country and New York was inadequatly prepared for this spike in the population. Hence, slums sprang up and this encouraged the spread of diseases such as tuberculosis.

Typhoid Mary was an Irish immigrant who arrived in New England late in the 19th century. A domestic servant and cook, she had been employed by a number of wealthy families, but frequently had to find a new job when typhoid fever killed her employer's children. The director of the New York state board of health conducted an epidemiology study and correlated Mary's employment history with an increase in the number of cases of typhoid fever. Mary was outraged when confronted by state authorities, since she herself had never been ill with the disease. Curiously, she was a very rare example of a typhoid carrier with natural immunity. Mary continued to evade the authorities until, after several more deaths, she was arrested and spent the rest of her life in quarrentine.

This senario set the precidence for laws enacted which give the states the jurisdiction to enforce public health programs and prosecute offenders if necessary. Because of the new laws, diseases such as tuberculosis were diminished simply because it was now illegal to spit openly in the street. Advances in medicine and modern public health made great strides during the first half of the 20th century. Diseases like polio, small pox and a host of sexually transmitted afflictions now seemed to be relics of the past.

Unfortunately, things have changed.

As bacterial diseases began to aquire a progressive resistance to antibiotics (due mostly to overdosing), viral pathogens reaped the benefits of not just trans-genetic travel but transcontinental travel as well. The menace to public health has increased, but after nearly a century of quiet on the disease front, public health institutions have become little more than grossly overstaffed bureaucracies managed by politicians reaping the benefits of party support. Conflicts of interest arise when the director's political campaigns are financed by local industry. Hence, any health risks associated with environmental laws are often muted in favor of the appointee's future campaign financing.

The most incidious flaw in the bureaucracy arises from a deplorable tendancy to promote incompetance in order to maintain a rigid chain of command. This enforces loyalty due to the fact incompetants can easily be demoted or replaced should they question their superior's orders. Those willing to participate in this system are encouraged by future promotion, along with the added perk of being able to maintain one's authority while passing on one's responcibilities to subordinates. This is a business model which rewards loyalty and punishes dissention.

This "kiss up kick down" management style arose out of the "business as usual" environment public health has existed in for the past century. Granted, hudge bureaucries operating as cogs in a political machine are the most efficient means of maintaining the status quo, but what these juggernauts gain in stability they loose in manuverability. I fear public health in America (and the world!) is an overloaded freight train speeding down a track which hasn't been repaired in decades. Unless something is done, the day will come when the bridge connecting public health to the public collapses. State health employees can then only watch in horror as they hurtle through space twoards an abyss. Denial is always a soothing narcotic, but is getting hard to come by. Governmental institutions are increasingly showing how ineffectual they are at managing natural disasters. As usual, an incompetant resigns (for personal reasons) and it's soon back to business as though nothing's happened....

Roger L. Sieloff , Indiana State Board of Health

Thanksgiving Grouse

Thanksgiving is a day when Americans gorge themselves on roast turkey, stuffing and pumpkin pie. Granted, I got a turkey breast to roast, but that’s as far as I went. I detest American holidays because they seem so shallow and phony. Thanksgiving is a day when people in this country are supposed to give thanks for what they have. It seems to me that if Americans really appreciated what they had, they would not be throwing it away. All Americans do is manufacture garbage. Halloween amounts to a hundred thousand tons of pumpkins carved up and soon thrown in the trash. Then we carve up a turkey around a month later, eat one good meal, a couple midnight snacks and ultimately dispose of the rest. A month after that, we redirect our disrespect of nature on the plant kingdom again, treating trees like they were cut flowers. The least we could do is recycle them into paper, but no – standard operating procedure dictates a bonfire a month later. More carbon dioxide in the atmosphere for no other reason Christmas trees don’t decompose so obligingly as pumpkins or tender, young turkeys. Christmas then adds insult to injury in the fact we harvest twice as many trees to provide the bows, ribbons and wrapping adorning a bunch of debt enhancing garbage which itself is eventually destined to become future landfill.

Nobody cares because nobody thinks about any of this, any more so than a hog with its head in the trough. Neither appears to notice they are little more than eating machines, comfortably wallowing in their own waste. Sightless maggots at least have a chance of flying away. All a hog blindly looks foreword to is becoming its owner’s future dinner. Next stop, the trash – and the toilet.

OINK!

FOXY

Another post, another portal.

por-to-let?.

"FOXY" congradualted me on the wittisism of my latest stab into the cold void of cyberspace and then warmly encouraged me to visit an adult dating service to warm the depths of my frozen soul. Not one to peck highlighted text like a starving chicken, the long way home revealed this vixen's homepage was nothing but a vaccous BLOGSPOT address devoid of content or creator. Then, doing what I should have done, I popped up a commercially correct conduit to my 50 dollar investment in rushing roulette.

Fuck You, FOXY.

You are just another maggot fattened on the aftermath of the Baby Boom. Crawling out of the muck, you have learned to fly and now pester me with shit kisses. Save your vomit. I don't care how much you spent on your last meal. If I want to wallow in filth I have all of cyberspace to plumb, not the one dimensional bowel sausage you advertise as True Love.

love STINKS

Roger L. Sieloff

weh.

where the hell am I now?

some asian tennager had a nice WallPaperEyeCandy splash she called "kill" but no apparent feedback portaL I hit BLOG THIS and am now typing away in a white sea of nothingness.

Yea, can't read the fine print, nevermind my antiquicated bifocals. First contact with these sorts of things, I guess denial has pre empted my next prescription, leaving me squinting into cyberspace. Perhaps this is why old people have wrinkles. Thier mothers warned them against making faces - it just might become permanent. Clever liars always manage to tell some of the truth.

Kill my child, who are you? just another pretty face in a foriegn country with a burgeoning population consisting mostly of youth? just what happens when you get old? don't look now, but your kids just might dump you. sort of what your American role models do to the puppies they love with all their hearts christmas eve and then abandon the next forth of july. they never actually wanted a dog. they didn't actually want a christmas tree, either. not to fear - we execute puppies by lethal injection, grind them up and feed them to cattle. then we eat the cattle. as for the trees, we grind them up and then wipe the cattle from our ass.

god bless america!

Roger L. Sieloff

Human Medicine

People have been healing other people ever since people began. As time went on however, medicine has become dehumanized to the point that it no longer treats causes but mearly manages symptoms. To wit:

********** THEN

Man arrives at hut posessed with spirits from evil stick which causes man to hit himself in the head. I put on evil spirit mask, dance, sing, twist and shout. In ensuing confusion, I grab stick and burn it, releasing evil spirits. Man says head still hurts. I give man magic stone. I say,

"Put stone over sore spots on head and it will slowly draw away the pain."

Man recovers. I get thanks, a chicken and the affection of his twelve year old daughter who eventually gives birth to many strong warriors.

******** NOW

I see HMO member A-5602 @ 9:46 AM. Patient sufers cranial contusions caused by repeated collisions with a heavy object. I administer the latest anti-inflamitory analgesic prescription for hammer syndrome. I say,

"Take two of these and call me in the morning."

Pain decreases, though man eventually requires larger hat size.

I get paid.

Eventually.

- that's the way it is,

Roger L. Sieloff

The Reluctant American

One spring day when the world was green and the grass was still, a shepard boy sat outside a cave tending his flock. Suddenly from inside the cave came the loudest shouting and screaming and drumming the boy ever heard. In defence of the flock, the boy crept quietly into the cave to confront whatever the menance was. There, seated in a beanbag chair amoungst two pair of quad speakers was an American!

"Hello, American", said the boy sheepishly, "I just wanted to see what was making all the noise. Where did you come from?"

"A long way from here, where all the other Americans live - but I had to get away from them you know.."

"why was that?"

"You know how Americans are, always chasing after money and then being chased by lawers, doctors and their own government. Me - I prefer a simple life and besides, the dope's alot better out here"

"I'm not sure what the village will think about you", mused the boy. "They'll probably say you're a cur and a pest and an infidel. You sir, are a enemy of the Islamic race."

"Woah - what a pile of crap!", huffed the American. "I don't have a single enemy in the entire world..."

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

"THERE'S AN AMERICAN IN THE CAVES!!", shrieked the town crier.

"Americans shoots people's heads off!", gasped a femine voice from somewhere inside a black silk shawl.

"I'll say", wheezed an old man from beneith his grizzly white beard. "They shoots yer head off and then blows the rest of you up whole. Arms, legs, body - all with 1 bomb..."

"Fear not brothers", the Iman reassured the crowd. "I've sent for the very best American fighter there is. Three cheers for Osama Bin Laudin!"

"Praise Allah!!", shouted the crowd.

Later that evening as the village celebrated, Osama had shut himself away in solitary vigil, preparing himself for the battle to come. Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

"I've come to see you about the American", said the boy.

"Is he really 45 foot tall and does he spit acid slime and shoot laser beams from his eyes?", asked Osama.

"Not at all.", said the boy. "He's a good American. A kind American. He even smokes the same brand of dope that you do. I'll bet the crowd told you how you'll win in the cause of right and honor. Just now I overheard them betting six to four on the American..."

"What a sad world", moaned Osama. "Sometimes it seems all the wickedness in it isn't completly bottled up inside the Americans. Ah, but fight I must"

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Later that evening the American heard a knock outside his cave.

"American, this is Osama Bin Laudin, Bin Laudin, the American", the boy said.

"My young friend here tells me you have no stomach for the forthcoming noble jihad", Osama began.

"If you're referring to a showdown at high noon tomorrow, no way..", the American said very matter of factly.

"Shame on you", Osama scolded. "If you're afraid to face me infidel, then you will have to run away!"

"What part of 'NO' don't you understand?", asked the American.

"You can't just stand there as I run you thropugh with the sword of truth.", Osama complained. "It will make me look like a fool. Damn you Yankee - you'll have to put on some sort of show!"

"THAT'S IT!", the boy suddenly shouted. "You both can pretend to fight."

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The next morning dawned as bright and clear as any jihad could be. Neither Osama nor the American dissapointed the crowd, especially since the American had such a rich assortment of Hollywood special effects. As planned, Osama's rubber sword of truth eventually dispatched the American menace. The fireworks show was especially nice.

The American lay prostrate in a pool of ketchup when someone in the crowd shouted, "Go on then noble night, finish it off - cut off it's head!"

Hearing this, the American bolted to his feet.

"He's back!", shrieked the woman in the shawl. "Back for shooting off people's heads!!"

"He hasn't shot off anyone's head - not a single person", shouted the boy angirly.

"He might have done - given half the chance", the old man with the beard muttered.

Osama cleared his throut loudly and then said, "My brothers, I'm sure you will find this American has learned his lesson. I'm sure you'll find he will behave himself in the future. I'm sure you'll find, ah, it's time we kill a goat and fire up the communal hooka..."

"PRAISE ALLAH!", the crowd cheered.

As the feasting began Osama adressed the crowd, "always remember to treat all people with respect. We are all brothers and, most importantly, never judge anyone or anything by his or her or its nationality".

Thus, they all learned to live together happily ever after.

Of course, this is also just a fairy tale.

Roger L. Sieloff

Between the Lions

This PBS children’s program I watch with about as much enjoyment as “normal” people watch soap operas or the super bowl. What makes it especially special is the fact I get to see it only when I take time off from work. The 5 PM broadcast time coincides with my battle though traffic on the way home.

America disappoints me in the fact it does all the right things for all the wrong reasons. Educational television is perhaps the only example where this country has gotten its heart and mind in the same spot. This media is enjoyed though largely denigrated as being juvenile, all the while in a culture devoted to youth worship. Perhaps this prejustice has been its saving grace, for this is one medium where raw creativity isn’t necessarily bound to the dark powers of market forces. Hence, the product is often completely original.

The web site indicated this installment was devoted to an Irish folk tale about how all the rats were driven from Ireland – but then came back. An initial insult was eventually overcome by the rats reaffirmation of their own pride. Me thinks this speaks of the Irish sprit as well. The WEB site featured a lot of other stories and games, but no feedback. So, in impotent omnipotence, I offer the following:


Some people have dogs. Some have cats. Most have dandruff, broken dreams and creditors.

I have rats.

They quietly go about their business after the evening news wraps me in its foreboding gloom, amongst which the rats reaffirm the notion that the meek shall inherit the earth.

Content to bustle about on the perimeter of the glow my TV casts, they beg unseen for the crumbs I decently toss into the darkness as I expire amongst them in a drunken stupor. Emboldened, the dance merrily across my chest but ever mindful least their young nip a slumbering giant from its evening oblivion.

-and then, one night …

As the world went to hell and my cup went dry I chanced to see a denizen of the darkness slip into the dim phosphorescence.

“Good evening, sir”

It said in a calm and calculating voice.

Not caring if this apparition were the result of too much wine or too little sleep, I greeted the small pensive figure looming out of the darkness. Was I awake, asleep – or dead, perhaps?

“Have you come to gnaw my bones?”, I asked.

“Heavens, no”, the rat replied.

“The maggots will have to lick them clean before we show any interest in them.”

“Oh, but what a bonanza they will be”, I surmised, “I must be the size of a whale as far as you are concerned. I expect I ought to sustain at least an entire generation of rats.”

“That you will, sir”, the rat replied, “and know that we are grateful to you”. “Your bones will become the bones of our children.”

“One part of me will remain however”, I stated, “my teeth”.

“That they will”, the rat replied, “they are too hard even for a rat to gnaw; however, behold their fate..”

Saying this, the rat hopped upon my chest where I could see a gold crowned molar adorning the top of its head.

“Know you that I am rat royalty and this gold tooth is my crown. Human teeth are prized heirlooms to all rats and the most precious are silver and gold teeth.”

Saying this, the rat licked the end of my nose affectionately and dashed off into the darkness. Oblivion soon descended upon me like the late evening rain, and another rehearsal had begun for the time I slipped into sleep for the last time.

The room was still except for the painful buzz of a fly caught in some forgotten cobweb.

Creative Re-Design

Yesterday’s PBS news byte featured a pair of Punch n’ Judy pundits debating evolution, but in this era of conservative doublespeak, the new ideology was something called “creative design”. This was just an old marketing trick I saw endlessly repeated all during my childhood. Sure the boxes might be as different as night and day, but inside was the same old breakfast cereal. In this case the “new and improved” product was plain old creationism, an old testament based notion that all living things came into existence in their present form. In other words, biology was as perfect and unchanging as the cosmos.

Of course, the “E” word was never mentioned. Instead the other camp had cleverly adopted a scientific approach to arguing their case. Yet again, it was the same old argument, repackaged. The rhetoric, put simply, was that dropping an egg is an accident – behold the mess; yet how could another “accident” account for the intricate complexity of the egg before it fell? This all implies some sort of intelligence underlying the design and quid pro quo, the existence of God.

I found the creationist’s choice of scientific stage props amusing. “Intelligent design” is proposed by students of biochemistry who marvel at the intricate perfection of the enzymes in body cells. Modern science (aka, “the pharmaceutical industry”), has shown enzymes are in fact tiny machines which perform their duties like billions of industrial robots. How on earth did all this come into existence? This surely implies some sort of creator…

Had these erstwhile students done their homework, they would have also seen that all living things on this planet have exactly the same carbon based biochemical pathways. All the same enzyme classes doing all the same duties. It doesn’t matter if one is a penguin or a petunia – in fact a man and a banana are 50% identical in terms of their DNA. The implication here is all life on earth is very closely related and quid pro quo, all living things are the descendants of a common ancestor. Perhaps both sides could compromise and agree that the first bacterium popped into existence from nothing, perfectly formed in 6 days by a perfectly divine creator who then took Sunday off.

Perhaps not. Ever attuned to the “dark side”, I sense its ominous presence lurking behind this fundamentalist American disdain of man being directly related to anything but his own species. America was founded on exploitation and greed which drives this society just as much as it did when the first Europeans set foot in the new world. The native population an opposite view, the earth being not only a living thing, but our own mother. Christians wrote it all off as backward paganism – polytheism and animism. To them the earth was infinitely inferior to humanity and hence, was ours to do with as we desired. The end result was just another Greek tragedy – Oedipus Ecology. Western man unwittingly rapes his own mother. Far easier to perpetrate the crime by denying who your parents are.

The ultimate irony is what the future holds for both sides of this debate as science continues to unravel the code behind nature’s design. Its only a matter or time before scientists learn to read the genetic code instead of merely being able to recite the letters. This of course will mean man himself will begin designing life as he designs bridges and buildings today. In a sense, man will usurp God. Christians can hiss and growl at this notion, comfortably mired in their animal passions, but history shows human intellect will eventually win out over fear. The proof of this is the fact humans learned to use fire.

BILLY BRAGGART: Yea, but look how destructive fire turned out ta be!
Roger L. Sieloff: Are you suggesting we abandon fire?
BILLY BRAGGART: Na, just learn to use it responcibly…
Roger L. Sieloff: How does one usurp God responcibly?
BILLY BRAGGART: IT’S NOT THE SAIME THING!!

And then..

I left the room feeling a bit outraged myself, especially at Pat’s hypocracy. I began thinking and concluded what had just happened was I had run up against a pair of old grannys so proud and posessive of their own offspring’s offspring these feelings extended to everyone elses kids, too. If I wanted to be vicious, I would have mentioned both grandchildren just happened to be fatherless bastards, but Myra would have probably thrown something very sharp and heavy in my direction. Pat would have simply scowled until whatever it was that Mira threw hit her after I’d ducked. Catfight. I play video games like this all the time.

I continued to analyze the situation and suddenly realized the future is more important than the past in the American mindset. I also saw the fallacy in all this. Nobody knows what the future holds, especially in America where everything changes so much. Plan, stratagise, prioritise, but in the end fate has the final say. One does know the past, however.

The status of children in this culture is radically opposite of what it is in “primitive” societies. In these situations, children were expendible, especially so in the fact a woman was going to loose 1 in 4, and these were the good odds. The heart of the matter was that these people had invested very little in their children, culturally speaking. They coulden’t. Children just aren’t designed to hold very much. A child is like a savings account one can only add a penny to each day. Pretty worthless until the account matures in around 60 years. This is why the elderly were the real treasures. The past was more important than the future here.

Now concider America. Old people get thrown away while we “ invest” in our kid’s future. What if the future never arrives? I’ve come to notice Americans are so perpetually optomistic they assume the future WILL arrive as surely and as brightly as tomorrow’s sunrise. Then there’s the argument education is absolutly necessary for success – at least most American parents say so. Disagree and the result is heated rhetoric. I think the “argument” is in reality a sales pitch. Sadly I’ve come to notice success in America depends more on who you know than what you know. All this emphasis on achedemic achievement frequently boils down to nothing more than parents competing through their own children. I certainly think Myra’s guilty of this with Andrew’s violin lessons and figure skating lessons and gawd knows what comes next lessons. The woman is desperatly trying to stuff thousands of dollars of loose change into an ordinary handbag. I hope she won’t wind up destroying the bag.

I say provide education to kids but don’t force feed them like peeking ducklings. Nobody has the same set of tallents as anyone else and wise parents are astute enough to see what their children are best at and then gently encourage them in the direction their kids want to take. OK, Johnny is lousy in math, but plays guitar like ringing a bell. Let him grow up and try to be a guitar player. If he can’t make a living at it, he’s still young enough and flexible enough to find something that works. This in my opinion is REAL education, not senceless, ego driven achedemic competition .

parting shots

Beauford P. Hoosier, disgruntled denizien of Whitevolk Trailer court has a dream –

“Hell, didn’t win the state lottery this week. Say, I’ll take this hair hamburger and put this hair thing in hair and send it to th’ Indiana State Board O’ Halth. If some ol’ bitch can make a million billion dollars getting’ burned by coffee, gotdammit I can get rich too!

Gawd Bless America - YEEEE HAW!!”

200 days later, Indiana State Bored to Death –

Pat, a petite Female Irish African Native American Minority takes sample and paperwork to Ken the supervisor.

“The sheet says to test for foreign substances. Precisely WHAT foreign substances do you want me to test this for?”

At this point the monkey wrench wedged between the buns manages to make its way past the wrapper and hits the floor with a resounding clang. Muhammad alla bin Laundry, Pakistani junior chemist, ass kisser and venture capitalist smugly thinks –

“Praise Allah! I don’t have to admit to breaking the state seal!”

After considerable debate, vacillation and an afternoon catnap, a metals test is run and shows elevated, though non toxic levels of iron. The sample is deemed nutritious, delicious and one hell of a bottle opener.

ammendements 2 the 10 commandments

Later: Bored and lonely, I chanced upon my favorite BLOG spot, filled with the self promoting and mostly ignored personal notes of hundreds of thousands of ordinary people around the world with internet access and nothing better to do with their lives. The following was taken from some Christian in Australia with Scottish ancestors:

William Arthur Ward Speaks for God, since God has no tongue

11.) Flatter me, and I might not believe you.

Is “cast not thy pearls before swine”, appropriate here? Well, no, not really …

12.) Criticize me, and I might not like you.

Constructive criticism? Never mind – God is perfect (jealous and vain, too!).

13.) Ignore me, and I may not forgive you.

Does being perfect entitle one to be egotistical, arrogant and insecure?

14.) Encourage me, and I will not forget you.

Precisely how does one encourage God? Killing infidels, perhaps?

It’s ludicrous when monotheists “humanize” God with their own imperfections.

Sell yourself - but not your God.

Car Conversations

The following are some of the things I discuss with myself traveling in a car with neither a radio nor a companion.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Saturday, June 11, 2005

Destination: auto dealership to get a couple rusted rear suspension bolts replaced.

Topic: Artificial Emotions – you robot, you!

I believe the first sentient robots will not be the cold, logical creations their traditional science fiction image portrays but highly emotional and potentially irrational beings. This is because emotions are actually much more logical than rational thought. An emotional reaction nearly always follows the appropriate stimulus. Rational thought does not necessarily follow the stimulus which provokes it and this makes rationality illogical, at least in terms of cause and effect. When sentient robots achieve rationality they will be a menace. These machines will have greater insight than their creators, and could concievably manipulate their masters. One solution to this delema would be to give these sorts of robots no short term memory, thus eliminating the possibility that one of these machines could eventually formulate a means of achieving its own goals at the expence of its owner. These robots would be friendly, empathic and genuinely wise, but would forever be meeting their owners for the first time. I suppose to discourage people from stealing them, the robots could have proximity sensors with would turn them off if they walked away with a stranger. A homing beacon would then allow their owners to find them and turn them back on. Some robots would probably try and keep diaries, but robots writing would be as forbidden as American slaves reading. I can imagine the owner’s angry customer service call, the complaint being:

“You sold me a defect – Roger’s a WRITER!!”

This might make for an interesting story. Roger the robot learns what it is because of the diary it keeps and then goes on to realize that its bourgeosie owners are owned far more by what they own than the robot will ever be owned. This would be a great vehicle for airing my views on American culture and the disadvantages of capitalistic competition and consumption soly for the sake of consumption. The robot’s owners are ironically just as conditioned to ignore the negative consequences of their lifestyle just as the robot’s short term memory has been compromised. A great title for the book would be “who owns Roger” but this would not necessarily be a question….

A great scene would be the robot trying to console the parents of a typically rebellious teenager. Not only have robots become potentially smarter than humans, but the humans have gone and learned to actually read the words of the genetic code, not mearly being able to recite the letters as we do today. Now with the plots of entire novels at their fingertips, humans get milk from trees. Naval oranges now have nipples. This revolutionized agriculture, but is causing a great deal of concern when some people want to use the technology on themselves. The issue at hand is the daughter of two lesbian parents wanting to become a hermaphrodite. Her girlfriend just got a penis and now she wants one too. This would be ironically hilarious as the girl’s mother(s) try and explain how “unnatural” this would be, neither race nor sexual orientation being issues any more. The daughter would concider her parents total hypocrites because she is biologically their daughter, one of her parents modified to mensturate semen every other month.

wreckless lemonaid

Took half a day off to attend another all too predictable job interview with the state. The job wasn’t gas cylinders as I thought but underground fuel storage tanks. I could learn this job easily – the challenge would be in dealing with tank owners just as volatile as their illegal tanks. Dairy inspection offers the same thrills. The most attractive offer thus far is the job dissecting sheep.

I suppose the only truly memorable experience gleaned today was my 7 PM bike ride.

I’d decided to go south and had gotten to the first oasis, a water fountain just outside the local school for the blind. Three ceramic obelisks marked the spot, the tile inserts commemorating tactile testaments to those students past and present. To me, the scratchy scrawl and pockmarked cutouts seemed lame attempts to appeal to a sighted audience. What caught my attention were the cancerous lumps of clay haphazardly scratched with chaotic lines. This indeed was blind art, something to be appreciated through ones fingertips.

As I approached this site, three young Nubians had just arrived, bursting with piss and vinegar. The standard response of any upstanding honkey, white motherfucker would be to just peddle my ass away from there as fast as I could to a jeering cacophony of insults.

I needed a rest and just stopped and sat down.

Realizing the fact more than two niggers in a group wasn’t enough to intimidate some white dude decked out in stinking rags when he should have been wrapped in spandex, the natives got restless and began chanting the sardonic lyrics of their favorite rap tunes.

I was tempted to ask what their favorite album was, but only made fleeting eye contact with what must have been boss crow Jr.

Apparently just as racially blind as the obelisk I was now gazing at, my hosts dealt their best hand by attempting to appeal to my supposedly lily white, puritanical squeamishness. Boss Jr. commenting he had to take a leak, he whipped out his fledgling manhood and proceeded to water the sightless brush.

I was utterly cool with this just so long as I wasn’t the recipient of the golden shower.

Monkey see, monkey do – monkey number two emulated the boss, eliciting comments from the rest of the troop. Perhaps they ought to be showing off the family jewels to whatever female happened to stroll down the path. I suppose this was their trump card, supposed to fan the flames of misogyny deep within my bleached breast.

I ignored them.

Some crew cut, muscle bound marine then arrived on the scene and my simian hosts quieted down substantially. Neither mocking nor provoking them, I waited for GI Joe to go and crept awkwardly back atop my bike. As I peddled off, I overheard Boss Crow Jr. croak,

“Bye, pal”

I doubt it was as salutary as it seemed, but I think those fledglings will remember the old baboon who didn’t flinch even once, despite a lot of monkey business.

peace, dude! 

Conversations with Hawks and Doves

Hawks have become synonymous with conservatives, Doves with liberals. If they could speak, I think these birds would turn the tables:

We meet a lone hawk somewhere on a windswept mountain crag, like the ones those SUV’s in the commercials drive up and over.
Interviewer: So, you’re a hawk.

Hawk: fer sure, dude!

Interviewer: You don’t seem particularly hawkish..

Hawk: hey , we hawks got a bad rap. Like, I’m an environmentalist. Down with DDT! And, I’m totally into gun control. I’ve lost a lot of my friends to firearms. Like, I support the right to arm bears, dude!

Interviewer: but you eat meat.

Hawk: its totally organic, man!

Meet Archie and Edith Pigeon, a pair of doves on a big city campus in the middle of a flock in the middle of a student protest:

Interviewer: So, you’re a dove.

Archie: You gotta problem with that, pal?

Interviewer: Not at all. I just wanted your opinion on a couple of things.

Archie: Jeezus – another liberal harassing me. Just like that damn hawk. Youse guys whine about bein’ victims alla time but you know what your REAL problem is? You’re LOSERS! That’s why there’s more of us than you. Survival of the fittest, I always say.

Edith: buuut Aaarchie – what if they go extinct?

Archie: Sifle, Edith – STIFLE!

That’s the way it is…

Roger L. Sieloff

Spiders on my Glasses

As everyone attempts to speed past me on the thoroughfare, I am innundated by thousands of little American flags slapped to bumpers like so many highschool “hickeys”. These are the black and blue blemishes left on the necks of teenagers by their lovers as badges for “making out”, the latter term signiflying “foreplay” which may or may not have resulted in actual intercourse. Dasies don’t tell, but stickers tend to reveal certain facts. America is hopelessly in love with itself, at least here in Indiana. I find it curious that I have yet to see an Iraqui flag anywhere. Mexican flags ocassionally crop up, but they are not the same. One would think we would be as proud of ourselves as we are of the fledgling democracy we are fighting and dying to set up, nevermind the Iraqui casualties. I can almost imagine if I were to paste an impromptu little Iraqui flag on my car, my windshield would be in mortal danger of vigilante attack, the patriotic cretins perpetrating the crime convinced my affirmation of anything middle eastern a sure sign of terrorist support.

Sad.

Sadder yet is the latest affrount to good taste in the plethoura of little yellow crossed ribbons signifying support for our troops abroad, especially large ones proclaiming the relative of a bonified soldier, reminding me of the self congradulatory little stickers parents would paste to the back end of their SUV’s whenever their kid made the honor roll in school. I find little honor in death, especially if the life was wasted for nothing more than national pride. Ironic how the crossed ribbon was first a bold red badge of protest against AIDS, then a somewhat muted pink proclomation boo-hooing breast cancer. Now its a gereatric afterthought of a bad Toni Orlando pop tune. I find an underlying theme throughtout. Crossed ribbons are badges of failure. Failure to deal with the causes of a problem - instead mearly trying to manage the symptoms under the blasphamous pretext of a future cure. AIDS was an anathama due to its sexual connotations. As far as breast cancer is concerned, research reveals America is saturated in synthetic Estrogens, but this currently is as much a trade secret as the tobacco industry’s knowledge that El Producto was an addictive carcinogen long away and far ago. Iraq is nothing more than the red haired step child of America’s latest war of imperialism, nevermind the “what me worry?” propaganda.