Category: morthos

The problem with deceit is that it is the ultimate weapon.

Take my ‘lie.’ When things aren’t going smoothly it becomes more than mere deceit. At these moments it is a potential weapon, the first article of war that burns within me.

And it only serves to make matters all the more worse.

As a weapon its power is legion. When she pisses me off it urges me to tell her. To reveal that I never intended to touch her hand that fateful night. To mention that what she takes to be the start of our relationship was just… an accident.

And that urge is pure vengeance.

The ‘lie’ now becomes a set of words, designed to hurt.

And what scares me is that I would use them without any regard for my own preservation…

Now she might shrug it off (given roses and chocolates and Baileys…). But no matter how happy we might then seem the ‘lie’ would live on.

In both of us.

And when the tables turn, and they would, she would use the ‘lie’ against me.

Because my words would fester in her heart from then on, and thus my vengeance would be the undoing of everything.

So much for the ‘truth…’

Dear Mr. Dentith

I recently saw Lom Wang who is suffers from backpain. I treated a needles in his lower region – he will be unable to sit test.

Dr. Law

–

“I need an A for this course.”

“No, you want an A. You don’t need an A; what you need is a passing grade… Like a C-.”

“I have to get into Law next semester.”

“Admirable. So you’ve come to ask after what to study for the next test…”

“No, I just want you to give me an A.”

“Really? Tell you what, you study really hard for the next test and get full marks…”

“But I’ve failed the course…”

“Don’t be silly; the last test is worth 40%… What did you get for the other tests?”

“I didn’t sit them.”

“… Sorry, why should I give you this A?”

“I have to get into Law next semester or my parents will kill me.”

“I’d recommend police protection then.”

—

“Do we have any larger bulldog clips? Ah, thanks, that’ll do nicely. Now I just need to find some nipples to pitch.”

Some stories would be much more amusing if I weren’t in them. Take, for example, this text message. If only it had been received by a talented wit rather than my own ordinary self…

I WISH U COULD JAB IT UP MY ASS LIKE U JABD IT UP MY PUSSY YSTDAY I WANNA FUCK U SO BAD MY PUSSYZ ACHING I KNO U WANT ME AGAIN

Now, how would you have answered? Would you have texted back the reply ‘Very Amusing’ or gone with something slightly more interesting? I thought as much.

Of course, had you done so then you might not have got the following reply:

DONT B LIKE THAT U MOANED LIKE I WAS A GODDESS THE WAY MY TOUNGE SWIRLED ALL AROUND THE NOB OF UR MAN CHICKN 😉 U LOVED IT

Sardonic players of this game might, by this time, have raised a single eye-brow, taken a sip of their whiskey and sent back the loaded ‘Really?’ Or, maybe, thought ever so briefly about taking note of the number and giving this precocious thing a call. For me, only a touch of the former.

HELL YES WHY U BEING SHADY IS UR GF THERE? U SHOULD GET RID OF HER U NO HALF UR M8S WANT ME BUT I WANT U SO U GOTA MAKE THE DECISION

By this time ‘on to it’ readers will be wondering why I am not providing them with the number in question (sorry, fellahs, but this happened two and an half years ago and the number is not likely valid) and wouldn’t at all appreciate a ‘Highlander’ reference, such as ‘But in the end there can be only one!’ as a suggested reply…

Such readers, of course, have my highest admiration.

AND UR POINT BEING – STOP PLAYIN AROUND DO U WANT ME OR NOT IF NOT STOP GRABIN AND TOUCHIN ME WHEN U C ME GOD IM 20 I DONT NEED UR BULSHIT

Most pundits will, by now, have invoked their fantasy-states and will no longer be reading anything other than the capitalised sentence-fragments (which make up the better parts of this missive). And a good thing to; I have no idea why anyone, especially me, would think that ‘20?’ would make a good reply at this juncture.

WHY IS THAT SO SHOCKN ITHORT U SAID U LIKED MY FIRM TIGHT ASS AND MY FIRM HANDFULS HMMMM UR BING SHADY 2NGHT ANSWR MY QUESTION DO U WANT 2 FUCK ME OR NOT

The answer to this is obviously very, very, very clear and thus not suitable for genteel folk that read ‘Brainstab.’ My response, horribly predictable as it was, needs no groans of frustration or feelings of sympathy from you; being deplorably ‘English’ is bad enough. Instead, I offer this tale to you as a moral lesson, with the hope that it is not morality that you take away from it.

Now all I need is to imagine a better end to the phone call from a stranger that started ‘I’ve just got word that they’re giving me the bikini modelling contract…’

Memories and love.

It’s a funny combination.

There is this girl I know. Know well, if you catch my drift… We’ve been close, on and off, buying into each other’s fantasy. And she has this memory, a recollection of how we met. Common friend’s place; playing some insipid boardgame, just the three of us. She and I were sitting next to each other, joking and doing that ‘thing’ where people talk without asking direct questions.

Typical Kiwi flirting…

Anyway, I throw the die, get a six and throw my hands in the air (at the unfairness of it all, you know) before bringing my hand down on hers.

Where, after a smug grin, it stays.

Let’s just say that later that night we ended up kissing… And, well, other stuff.

She tells me later that I did it deliberately. I immediately agree with her. Which leads to more of the ‘other stuff.’ Later she tells our friends the story (with me sheepishly nodding away in the background) until, within months, it becomes ‘the’ story of how ‘we got together.’

Which isn’t true. My hand landed on hers, alright, but it was natural clumsiness (with associated good consequences). But I, insecure enough to think that this was the be-all and end-all of the relationship, couldn’t let her think that.

And it was only a little lie, wasn’t it?

The problem was, weeks later, it wasn’t. More and more people became party to it. So when it became ‘the’ moment it went from minor to major.

So I did what I could to rectify the situation.

Perhaps, I rationalised, I had intended to touch her hand. Maybe it was me that was at fault here. I couldn’t admit to my gambit, so I was downplaying it. The lie wasn’t our story, the lie was not allowing the story to be true.

So the lie became truth and truth, oh so tritely, became fiction.

Isn’t it strange how it only takes a few moments to become convinced.

Love and memory, eh?

The trouble with any future political paradigm is that the future is neither left nor right.

I’ve spent the last eleven sermons bemoaning particular aspects of the ‘Now,’ sometimes with serious intent but more often with nothing more than silliness on the mind. This being the last of the ‘New’ Sermons I feel it is time to lay all my cards on the table, leave the room (possibly the country) and let you mull my hand over before returning to ash my cigar.

The polities/ideologies that we call Left and Right are terms that apply to an age that, whilst not over, is dying. We are looking at the last ditch effort of a paradigm that should be shot dead with extreme prejudice. Leave such fractured beliefs to the wildebeest; they, like it, are simply unable to cope with what the future will look like… [1]

So if Left and Right (and Centre) are dying paradigms what does the future hold. Quite simply, in the future there will be robots.

Oh, you want more? Well…

In the future there will be more than one form of human consciousness, and it will be available in dairies. Future patriotism will be something we apply to brand names, trademarks and celebrity peer groups. Time will be measured in relative lengths and property will extend not just to insubstantials but also to non-existents. People will vote on everything but most people will let computers do that work for them. Cats will be our walking computers and dogs will be your roving medi-systems. Cars will refuse to take you home when you are drunk and working days will be flexible without the threat of overtime. Actors will put themselves in stasis between gigs and musicians will be AI-enhanced with tracks that adapt to the mood you are in. Taxes will be both high and abolished and earning money will be seen as an odd past-time that indicates a high level of sociopathy. Murder will be committed by bi-local entities and religion will be the drug-meme your parents resent.

But, most importantly, in the future there will be robots.

This is Pope Xander Teilhard de Chardin I, MHM, signing off.

…

1 – For those of you keeping score on your Bingo cards you will be ware that we have entered the ‘Extreme Hubris(TM)’ round; whatever I say about the future is untrue for one of the following three reasons (and we recommend that once I have hit all three you yell out ‘Dreidel’ and reenact ‘No Pants Friday.’)

One – The future has not occurred and thus, consistent with Aristotle, there is no truth to statements about it. Thus anything I say is fiction, even if the fiction ends up being eerily close to what shall obtain.

Two – The ‘future’ might not obtain in that the ‘future’ might well look something akin to the ‘past’ (‘future’ here applying to whatever description I give; given enough pressure or factionalised war-mongering we might revisit feudalism or that exciting hunter-gatherer lark we had going about one million years ago rather than the exciting 1950s utopia the Jetson’s so enjoyed).

Three – The future is so open at this stage that any statement about it will be the equivalent of a fifties science fiction writer describing the world of 2006; no one really got close to the reality of our current day. Thus whilst the likelihood of viral analytic philosophy is high today a change in teaching methodology tomorrow morning might mean that that particular future will never even begin to form. This is a variant on reason one, but it has a free will theodicy thrown in for good measure… The Neo-Catholic Church might not promote the belief of Free Will (in fact, we oppose its very mention in dispatches and quarterly pornographic glossies) but we do like to make use of it from time to time, partially because it keeps the punters happy but mostly because we get paid by the word and ‘Free Will Theodicy’ is not just three additional pence, it is another pound of exposition.

I have heard the sound of madness.

Have you ever either been so ill or, conversely, so excited and vital that attempts to sleep extend almost indefinitely? You have been forbidden the grace of rest; your stupor or energy are to be wasted in a state not quite life and not quite the lesser death. When denied sleep, denied rest, your mind processes information, it connects and tags every sound and image, all because your mind cannot, will not, rest. It is something which, given extended duration, will take a stable mind and rend it for all it is is worth.

For me this pseudo-madness has a noise, a signature sound that, experienced in any way, drives me to utter distraction. Until today I did not know what that noise was.

Now I do.

The sound of my madness is pink noise.

My madness is not the voices of psychosis, but the knowledge of every other voice that is not my own. My madness is the external world imposed upon my solitude, the sound of others when I would rather you be silent.

My madness is the madness of crowds.

For my madness is you.