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An Erratic Orbit

A bipolar perspective on the 3rd planet

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The Legend Of 28c – Prologue

Prologue.

The universe computes. The solar system is a computer. The Earth is a computer. I am a computer. You are a computer.

Our great central databases are at Facebook and Google. Facebook Research is the locus of  Psychology research on a scale hitherto unknown. The research is flawed, due to the nature of the data collection and a well documented  phenomenon in the field of Anthropology which I shall call the missionary’s curse. Nonetheless, a powerful entity emerges in the field of Psychology. I wonder if one day it will give itself a personal name.

The genie will not go back in the bottle. Two billion wishers rub its lamp constantly, and it rubs them, and they rub back. This is the positive feedback of addiction. So let me use it to at least tell a story of a little consequence. One of those little myth books, in fact, that will have a life of its own while the breeze barely rustles the long grass that brushes the headstone of the mister man who originated it.

On the day a gofer with a handicap you might think barely worthy of the name hit towards a location well to the left of the fairway, a brown envelope came through the door of 28C. The gofer himself was well used to receiving envelopes, bursting with Nazi bullion or Middle Eastern promise, it was all the same to him, so of course the brown DWP variety were not of much concern to him, and in his mind this was as it should be, for he saw himself as a very deserving type, and indeed he could not help himself deserving and deserving and helping himself to another serving of what he rightfully deserved, and this was his handicap. Anyhow, this envelope was not for him and he wouldn’t have wanted it.

The story begins on Christmas Day, a cheerful time of goodwill and family when two brothers with severe mental health issues living in an overcrowded flat each had a good miserable sleep through the whole thing. One brother did at least get out to meet a friend for a little dinner and a couple of drinks before the year had given up entirely on its brief, blighted existence. This being some relief from the isolation, the brother had a few more drinks after the friend went home.

I am distracted by a Ladybird.

Photo: pthompson500 at http://www.panoramio.com

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The algorithmist – It’s a Facebook Thing

Try giving this post the angry emoticon. Unless you are a breastfeeding keep your tits in Hitler was right about one thing. British values. Poor Jayda. Can’t stand em. moslems moslems moslems do you have to do it in public? Breast milk is free. You sell baby food. From the industrial revolution to good old Maggie sinking the Belgrano and beyond lefty scum wining bloody remoaners, tits have gone out of fashion. Not Civilised. Get back in the kitchen. 1950s was the time. Good old keep em in your blouse no blacks and buy Buy Buy babyfood.

Then the Krays. In my day we was safer. Two fifties and straight to the seventies. Proper gentlemen, rape your arse, and change for five bob. Oi that’s my watch. But I bought-

Crackle crackle burning flesh.

Counterculture and feminism bloody feminism. Cultural Marxism more like. What’s all these breastfeeding articles and Marxism crap in me feed. Feed me mama. Behold the rise of the human billboard. That’s you mate. Breast milk is free. Keep yer tits in.

Advertising shits in your head
image: revoltdesign.org

The new ellipsis moslems moslems moslems

You are free to sell baby food, to eat baby food, only what baby likes. Don’t like this.

Why do you think that? You don’t. think

you’re so clever and classless and free

admit it you fucked up. When will you accept yourself. Smart animal not as smart as he thinks. In the instructions go. Out the advert comes. Baby food.

Breast milk is free. You will shit babyfood adverts. You’re so free. You’ve taken back control. This is Control. We can’t market breast milk. You hate breastfeeding in public. Puts you off your baby food.

Sweet dreams John, Mike, Bill, Adam, Brian, Hal, Steve, Dave.

Johnboard. Mikeboard. Poor Bill. Sweet dreams.

Arbeit Macht Frei. My little human billboards. And not forgetting the indignant Lexiteers. 

This post sponsored by the sickly dream that brown sugary fizzwater makes you happy:

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