This bunch of cunts
can shove their fucking Olympics up their fucking arseholes.
So Baroness “Bitch” Warsi has succumbed to a corruption scandal. I find myself bewildered. Surely she’s not short of a quid or two? In which case, why do all these rich influential people completely flounder their political career for the sake of a bit of pin money?
I’ve got a theory about this: it’s because they have acquired their riches through dishonest and underhand means. It’s the only way they can view the world. So the border between what they are allowed to do and what they can get away with has become terminally blurred in their minds. They have no moral compass and have lost the ability to discern between right and wrong. In fact, they don’t even understand what they’re doing wrong.
The funniest thing of all is that (in this particular case) this person has been hectoring us on not being religious enough. Well, up your arse, Baroness Bitch.
There seems to be an imbalance in the way contemporary concerns of society regard the well-being of the old compared with the young. There is always plentiful cash thrown at children – some more has been suggested the other day with some blethering claptrap about “parenting classes” (excuse me while I puke) – and this money seems to be coming more and more from that which ought to go to the elderly.
There seems even to be a distasteful undercurrent in some of the recent crop of light entertainment shows where it is supposed to be “funny” for young people to cast scorn and derision upon the elderly, who are universally stereotyped as ugly, smelly and mad. It may be standard fare for intellectually lightweight comedy, but it’s insidious and potentially societally dangerous.
And every so often there are the occasional spiteful letters printed by inhumanly fascistic young people who appear sincerely to believe that anybody over the age of, say, sixty, should be denied any of the benefits of a civilised life *precisely because* they are ugly, smelly and mad, and (worst of all) *don’t wear the right clothes*.
Tough times ahead, folks, there are some nasty brutal children around – and many of them are running the government.
Daddy who’s dead,
Your name is far to posh for peasants like us to use.
You’re going to be boss, and we’ll all have to do what you say
whether we’re alive or dead.
Where’s my breakfast?
Oh, and sorry,
in the same way as like people say sorry to me
If you don’t want me to do it, then don’t put me in situations where I can, du-uh?
Oh, and do what you can to get me out of the shit.
Because you’ve got control over everything, and don’t you like to be reminded,
and that’s never going to change.
This is a new category of philosophical position which has been recently brought to the fore by such as Baroness Warsi and others whose names I have better things to do than try and remember.
What is a “militant”? The word comes from the same Latin root as military.
Wikipedia: “… usually is used to mean vigorously active, combative and aggressive, especially in support of a cause…” and “… sometimes used to describe groups that do not name or describe themselves as militants, but that advocate extreme violence“.
Delightful. But who are the militants here?
There was a cardinal the other day who said that he wears red because it means he’s prepared to kill unbelievers.
Right, that sets our positions clear.
I’m prepared to take on any monotheist who fights against a secular society. Choose your weapons, but be warned I’m a crack shot with a rifle, can hold my own with most bladed weapons, have fists like hammers, have no compunctions about biting, scratching and eye-gouging, and am prepared to fight to the death (yours, hopefully).
And I swear like a fucking trooper, and blapheme like I shit on Mohammed, so don’t expect to take me on in irrational debate and come out unscathed.
You fucking religious shithead cunts.
Interesting statistical anomaly.
Driving to work on the morning of Tuesday 25th October, I saw an interesting car number plate on the Bath Road, travelling towards Junction 12 on the M4. It was of the pattern: aaZ nnnn (where a denotes a letter and n a digit).
For those who don’t live in Britain and are unfamiliar with the registration plate system, here’s a quick overview.
Number plates of vehicles on the road at the moment are usually in one of two formats:
(1): aann aaa
(2) : annn aaa
The digits in format (1) indicate the year of registration: either the last two digits of the year (from 02 to 11) or the same with 50 added (from 51 to 61). The latter format signifies the second half of that given year. Hence you can tell exactly how old a motor is by those two digits.
The first letter in format (2) also indicates the year of registration, for years before the second half of 2001: so Y indicates August 2000 to July 2001 and earlier letters indicate further back in time.
The rest of the letters indicate in some coded form the location where the vehicle was registered.
Well anyway, back to my story. Here was a vehicle with an unusual registration plate, and no indication where it came from. (Most foreign motors have a nation plate and the steering wheel on the wrong side. This one didn’t.) I gave it a good look as I went past it. It didn’t turn down the motorway, but instead took the exit to Theale. I noticed the driver: a young woman with big black hair.
Trundling down the M4, a few miles further on I did a double-take, as I saw what I thought was the same car again. It had what looked like the same number, anyway: aaZ nnnn. The first letter and the first digit were the same. Surely it can’t be the car that turned off towards Theale? So I stamped on the accelerator and hauled past this motor to look at the driver: a young woman, but this time with curly red hair. So it definitely was not the same motor. Well, well, I thought, two of these vehicles with odd number plates. Wonder how many more I’m going to see?
A few miles further on, there’s another one. Older and more scruffy, driven once again by a young woman, although this time she had a companion (another young woman). That’s three.
Then about ten miles further on, there’s a van, about Transit-sized, again with one of those weird number plates. That’s vehicle number 4. They must be all around after all. I didn’t get to look at the driver because at this time I’d reached Junction 14 and needed to turn off.
I got to work without seeing any more of these number plates – until I turned into our car park and there in front of the office next door is yet another of these number plates. That’s five of the things in one simple 26-mile journey of 40 minutes.
Five minutes research told me what I needed to know about the pattern aaZ nnnn. Well, it turns out that such numbers indicate registration in Northern Ireland (technically part of the “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland”, to give my country its full name). And some people have been known to use such numbers as vanity plates, as it is not easy to determine how old such a car is.
How much of a statistical anomaly is this? How frequent are these registration plates seen on the road? Well I’ve kept an eye out since. And (apart from the one that parks for the office next door), I have never seen any more than the occasional one on any of my subsequent similar journeys.
Five (okay, technically four) in one journey, and none since? That’s what I call anomalous. Maybe there had been a convention attended by Northern Irish female students and they were all going home. Who knows?
Been wasting time contributing to discussions on the internet (various places) about religion. I don’t know why I allow myself to get so hot under the collar.
How is it that intelligent people can believe unquestioningly stories of impossible things happening just because they’re written down in a book that somebody has told them is true?
Everything written down in books has been written by people. Things are also written telling you that those things are actually written by “God”, or “inspired by God”, or some such, therefore it must be true. But these things were still written down by men, who may have been making things up.
I believe that people are frightened. Not at anything specifically, just frightened of something, they don’t know what. Death, probably, as one of those biological imperatives (not wanting to die is pro-survival). And maybe there’s a bit of the fear of the unknown, and fear of not understanding, and of everything being so big and worrying. And they’re afraid of the dark, and the quiet, and the sheer nothingness of Beyond.
So they make up comforting little stories, and make up reasons to believe those silly little stories, because otherwise the fear would be too much to bear. But in order to believe these stories, they need to shut out those nagging little voices which say, “It’s all a bunch of lies, you know.” And in order to shut out those little voices, they need to silence the other people who actually say the things that the nagging little voices say, that is, anyone who questions the belief systems they have built up.
People who believe in Creationism (in whatever of its forms) are intellectually unwilling, or unable, or both, to study or even consider the evidence in favour of evolution. Their attitude is: I don’t understand the mathematics and science behind this theory, therefore it must be rubbish. Ben Goldacre says something along these lines in Bad Science (2008). There are ample popular science books which give a well-thought-out analysis of the mathematics behind evolution, but they can not get past the concept: “This mechanism (e.g. an eye) is complicated. It’s so complicated that I can’t understand how it works, let alone how it could be put together. Therefore someone must have Created it.”
No good arguing back at such people. “You scientists,” they scoff, “aren’t so clever anyway. You had your religious faith in the Higgs Boson and built an extravagant temple to worship it at – and you didn’t find it! That means all your science is rubbish! Therefore Creation must have happened exactly the way it was said in the Babble and so we were right after all!”
If anyone pesters me with claptrap about some tetchy old man in the sky with a cross face and a beard, I’m going to stick my finger right up his nose.
Why do I bother arguing with them? It’s a complete waste of time.
I can see there’s an excellent reason for religion. Many people are insufficiently socially evolved as to be able to act responsibly and unselfishly (i.e. morally and ethically). In order to get them to be nice, you have to set up a system of rewards and punishments. Religion is an efficient means of keeping these subhumans under control because all you need to do is to make them believe that if they do bad things on earth, then all sorts of bad things will happen to them after they’ve died. How wonderful is that? It’s impossible to disprove! The knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers lap it up!
The administrators of religion are perfectly aware what a bunch of lies they are spouting, and they really, really don’t like it if you question their doctrines, because they may lose control over their charges. And that wouldn’t do at all.