You Know Nothing

You Know Nothing

I find all this serious discussion and analysis of the latest bombing of Syria just fucking ridiculous. I don’t know anything about Syria, and neither do you. Nor do most of the journalists, or the commentators, or your friends on Twitter and Facebook who are certain there was no chemical attack in Douma—they may well be right about that, the point is, they’re guessing. They don’t “know”.

I have zero faith in the credibility of any sources (including the video below); we all should. There is just so much bullshit and propaganda everywhere; it is impossible to see behind the curtain, to see who’s pulling what strings. And it is impossible to begin to make sense of any of it until you admit your ignorance.

All I can see clearly is consistent accounts of an enormous amount of military ordnance and matériel getting used and I wonder who is paying for that, where the money is coming from, and where it is going to.

Because as far as I can figure out, modern warfare is not about politics, it’s about profits.

It’s a business.

The strikes on the weekend were likely some kind of marketing exercise. Someone wanted to show off their new kill-toys, and now all the psychopathic world-leader kiddies will be lining up around the block to get theirs too, their cool new shiny kill-toy.

I am cynical enough to believe that is ALL it is about anymore.

I have zero credible information about Assad, nor could I give a fat rats arse about him; he is somebody elses’ problem. To form an opinion based on the level of bullshit we are constantly fed seems to me the height of arrogant stupidity. Syrians can have an opinion. They are there; they have to make decisions based on the reality they confront daily. So too their friends and neighbours … but everyone further away is just blowing hot air up your arse.

It is a vital and radical act to say: “I do not have enough credible information to form an intelligent opinion.”

Because think, in whose interests is it that we believe we’ve read enough op-eds or seen enough footage to weigh in on this and argue, argue, argue, pontificate, argue, argue..? While right in our own backyard we have psychopathic sadists torturing refugees, children, blackfullas, the elderly, the poor, the disabled and getting away with it, as all we know how to do is hold polite protests where all our anger is contained neatly within the signs we carry?

Cui bono?

And doesn’t it set your bullshit meter clanging to hear the oh-so-serious pundits discussing the motivations behind every new atrocity as it they are the acts of rational–albeit cruel–actors? Most human moves are made out of panic and stupidity. Most things are mistakes. Most people are idiots, and that goes double for anyone who is so addicted to power that they’ve performed all the inhumane acts necessary to reach “world leader” status. If the pundits ever got up and said: “I don’t know what the hell they’re up to, it’s quite possible someone just pressed the wrong button,” or “could be because it’s a Tuesday, Anderson, he often gets low blood pressure this time of the week,” then I’d be more inclined to listen to their ‘expertise’. But as it is, I can take only so much of this po-faced gravitas before I want to go running down the street reminding people that Columbus thought Turtle Island was India, and Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin by forgetting to put his lunch in the bin before he went on holidays. Or that the Titanic sank because a guy lost a locker key. Or that the Berlin Wall came down because a politician fluffed a press conference. Or that Kennedy’s attempt to de-communise Cuba failed because the idiots forgot about the time difference between Cuba and Nicaragua, thus taking us into the Cuban Missile Crisis and nearly WWIII. But everyone prefers the version where Kennedy is the most solemn of statesmen who saved us from the evil Reds and would never, ever, lose his house keys.

People are moronic. They’re forgetful, they’re lazy, they’re greedy and they’re usually nasty with it, and the higher you go the nastier they get. Politics, and war, are more Yes, Minister than Thirteen Days; more Dr Strangelove than Black Hawk Down; more Veep than House of Cards. Or perhaps there are some films & novels we should be looking at to better place ourselves amongst this incessant, torrential, deluge of ‘information’… I recommend Wag The Dog, Tomorrow Never Dies, and Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop.

Forget it. Forget trying to understand the conflict unless you’re there and have first-hand experience. Turn your attention instead to who is making what obscene profits from the business of constant war, from these dreadnoughts and killer drones, and missiles with an IQ higher than the Minister for Women.
And to how can we turn their abominations around and point them towards their houses, instead of towards normal people who just want to have a nice meal and go out dancing and get their kids to school on time tomorrow?

And then to what do we have to do to ensure Peter Dutton loses the very marginal seat of Dickson so we don’t have to die knowing we let him become Prime Minister on our watch?

And how to not choke on our own guffaws watching the Daily Telegraph trying to paint Scott Morrison as loveable. (Does that mean he is Murdoch’s choice for the post-Turnbull leadership? Seriously, Rupert, you’ve been out of the country too long if you think that’s gonna fly.)

Now, practice saying with me: “I know nothing.”

Feels good when you get used to it. Because it’s the truth.

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At least this guy is actually in Damascus. I know nothing about him and can’t vouch for his credentials but there are a couple of nice shots of people having dinner, and he has a point of view other than the breathless warlust of most current media morons.

DEUW-YORE eSEARCH

DEUW-YORE eSEARCH

Deuw-Yore eSearch is a customisable internet search engine, frequented primarily by professional sociologists, academics, client experience enhancement consultants, clinical beauticians and other truth-seekers.

Kon Spiro Cetheris, supported by leading truth-in-reporting advocates Al X. Jonz, Dave Id-Icky & David Avocado Turnip, developed Deuw-Yore to fill the gap left by the Illuminati take-over of Google and Bing. The company has since become a favourite in scientific rationalist circles for its unbiased, dispassionate, measured analysis of cutting-edge theoretical controversies in various academic disciplines, and of trending internet tropes.

It has become one of the world’s leading search engines in recent years, after revelations of its popularity in both the White House and the Fox News research department.

Whereas Google’s user demographic skewed towards the YUPPIE—Young Upwardly-mobile Professionals Pursuing Innercity real Estate—Deuw-Yore is more popular with CLOUWNS—College-deprived Overeating Upwardly-Wakey Non-Sheeple.

Users tend to be committed proselytisers, dedicated to carrying the message even to the bowels of Youtube comments sections, where they can be identified by their anarchic abandon in the matters of grammar, caps lock usage, and ideological coherence, and their anti-mating calls:
“Wake up, Sheeple!”
“Deuw-Yore eSearch!”

This commitment to proselytising for increased usage of this particular engine is remarkable. It is not known what percentage of users are actual shareholders of the Deuw-Yore eSearch PiTY Ltd, but anecdotal evidence suggests that many actually volunteer their time, which they appear to have a great deal of. It has been suggested that they are perhaps rewarded simply by the warm inner glow of setting right a net denizen on the verge of intellectual error. It has not been believed, but it has been suggested.

There are marked correlations between Deuw-Yore eSearch advocates,  Moon Hoaxers, Flat Earthers, Birthers, and Mandela Effect enthusiasts, possibly due to the high standards of truth, proof, and grammar also required by those sub-demographics. Or possibly not. More data points should clarify.

They drive mostly flat-bed pick-up trucks and big ol’ John Deere skidders, are fond of movies starring Steven Siegal, Bruce Willis or The Rock, and their favourite flavour is purple. They vote conservative if they are not too drunk that day, Sovereign Citizen X if they are.

Dogs don’t like them.

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NEXT: An informative breakdown of the online shopping habits of people who believe both that crisis actors are mostly illegal refugees and that the Titanic was an inside job.
Based on extensive data* collected with absolute ethical fanaticism and never, ever, passed on without permission except when paid. We here at Quaerentem pride ourselves on our commitment to the loftiest standards, and as we speak, FB is running their flag the highest though that may change. Hi Alphabet. Contact details above. 🙂

 [*cheers, Zuke, cheque’s in the mail]

Anyone for otters?

Anyone for otters?

Here, have an otter eating a lettuce. It’s good for what ails ye.

Oh god yes, give me baby otters, please, please, give me all the baby otters, I’ve just had to watch Barnaby Joyce claiming to be a rural battler and I need some Oxytocin desperately.

THE NIGH IS ENDED IN THE WORLD

THE NIGH IS ENDED IN THE WORLD

Well, the Apocalypse is upon us again, is it that time of the year already?

This time it’s October 15th, apparently, which will be nice because it’s my birthday.
“Happy Bir— ¡BOOM! ” Yikes. At least I suppose the fireworks will be spectacular.
It’s also a Monday, and who doesn’t secretly wish for the apocalypse when Mondays loom? We’re only human. (At least you and I and the New Zealand Prime Minister are, I’m not so sure about Barnaby Joyce. Did you see that hat??? They breed them shameless at Black Stump Primary.)*

But, it got me thinking… whatever happened to “Nigh”? Back in the olden days, when I was a mere stripling of a lad and Playboy Bunnies roamed the earth, The End was never next month on a Thursday afternoon, it was simply Nigh.

Back in the day, doleful fellas in sandwich boards used to roam the streets adjuring us to:

“Repent, for the End is Nigh.”


Compared to them, Twenty-first Centurions are bewilderingly specific about the approaching Apocalypse. Nowadays, lovely, completely undoleful fellas like David Meade feel obliged to tell us The End is going to come on the stroke of midnight December 23rd. Or before breakfast, the third Tuesday of March. Or 12.36:09:and-a-bit:pm precisely on the 27th June, 2021 (possibly because zombies) and don’t bother putting a paper bag over your head, it won’t save you from Niburu, the Greys see all. Extraordinary, their accuracy**. It raises the question of how on earth they know, but this is not a question Apocalypse-Predictors are likely to answer sensibly; I strongly advise you not to try asking. It will only end in tears.

Ah, I miss the old fellas. It was a lot easier on the nerves when The End was merely Nigh.

We had no trouble believing it, either, the End certainly felt very Nigh, in the heady, carefree days *cough* Rubbish. They totally weren’t. *cough* of the Cold War and The Bomb. None of us fully expected to live much beyond the age of—oh, say, six, so news of the Nighness of The End hardly surprised us. (The bit about the zombies did, tho, which is why I don’t like to talk about it, we Cold-Warbabies don’t much like surprises; we always think they’re going to involve a ¡BOOM!)

“Oh, yes,” we’d nod sagely when confronted with said sandwich boards. “Nigh, is it? Highly likely, what with all this carry on in the Common Market and Unmarried Mothers running about willy-nilly thinking they’re just as good as normal people, the world’s going to hell in a handbasket I tell you and now you say The End is Nigh well I for one don’t doubt it, what with this here new-fangled Daylight Saving bewildering the livestock and god knows the Labor Party ain’t what it was. Something had to give.”

I do miss the satisfying rubberiness of Nigh as a date. You could concertina Nigh in your imagination to indicate as long or as short a period as you wished. Nigh could be sometime early next week, if you had a nasty teacher/parent meeting looming, or it could be well after Christmas if you were hoping to get a Malvern Star bicycle with those dinky little streamers on the handlebars, maybe in red, and didn’t want The End to ruin that for you. And there was nary a zombie in sight, except for The Late Late Late Movie which is where they belong.
Yes, as a date, Nigh was very accommodating.

Nowadays, however, things are very different indeed (except for the bit about the Labor Party, they’re still not what they used to be). We’ve already had to live through 2012 and every year it seems we’re forced to live through it again. Those Mayans knew what they were doing when they ended the calendar, this world clearly should have finished some time ago, it increasingly feels like we’re in the fifth season of a once edgy show and the writers have run out of both ideas and perspective. I mean, a demented Cheezel as U.S. president?? Kate Middleclass as Princess of the World?? Barnaby Joyce** as an actual human being with unassailable rights to food and oxygen??? Now they’re just jumping the shark.

It’s all rather unsettling really. Back when The End was only Nigh. it was perfectly acceptable to forget all about it for a while if one was enjoying oneself, having a peak sexual experience for example, or a very nice counter-lunch. (Whilst not fretting about zombies.)

When The End was Nigh, you could take time off from thinking about zombies it. When The End was Nigh you could at least pretend to be nonchalant about the undead the whole business. But now that it’s August 14th just after lunch it all gets just a bit more… brain-munchingly terrifying personal.

I find myself worrying about not having a Will, and then I remember The End goes for everyone so my offspring won’t care whether they get my collection of funny hats urinated on by inebriated footballers or whether their brother does. Then that thought depresses me and I wonder why I even bother to collect funny hats urinated on by inebriated footballers. It’s a sad, sorry state of affairs when one questions such harmless hobbies.

Why just last week I found myself calculating whether I could put off paying the electricity bill until after the latest date of the Apocalypse, and if so, can I use the money to get footballers inebriated or would that just be asking for trouble?

I blame the government. If they hadn’t invested so much in technology for the classrooms we wouldn’t have this rash of computer-literate eccentrics. They’d be wandering the streets in sandwich boards instead, comforting us with messages of hope. Telling us to buck up for godsake, there’s no need to stay indoors with a paper bag over your head on the evening of Wednesday 24th, because The End is merely Nigh.

Sigh. Troubling times. Predicting The End Of The World has become an exact science, legions of the re-animated roam our mental landscapes unchecked, and the Labor Party STILL ain’t what it used to be.

I miss the 20th Century.

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btw, don’t believe the Beetrooter’s carry-on about his humble state school origins. He went to Riverview. 

**that is, the accuracy would be extraordinary if there was any. So far I have lived through 39 and a half predictions of the End of the World so forgive me if I’m a tad jaded. (The “half” was of course the admittance of women into the Marylebone Cricket Club. Turbulent times. It’s still standing.)

PLIK

PLIK

On the island of Haiti, there is a village called Plik. 

When the U.S. president, Evil Homer, recently spoke dispagagingly of Haiti, word travelled to the village of Plik rapidly.

“He’s an evil version of Homer Simpson,” they cried. “Something must be done.

Some demanded an apology. Others just wanted a lock of his hair.

They must have obtained it, because before too long, President Evil Homer was beginning to show the effects of some terrible magic: his speech became repetitive, illogical, and disorganised, he started forgetting important things like which nations were allies and which enemies, he began firing anyone who failed to flatter him fulsomely enough, and soon he was trying to date his own daughter.

It became clear to everyone that the poor orange man was losing what few marbles he had to begin with.

Eventually, the voodoo took full effect, and the President went dancing naked through the streets whistling Dixie and sticking sprigs of straw in his hair. This was too much, even for a White House peopled by sychophantic kindergartners. They arranged for him to be taken away by some nice young men in clean white coats.

And the villagers of Plik who had criticised the presidency took credit.

Tours were organised, from the USA to Haiti, to shake their hands. There was much rejoicing throughout both lands.

Many said the Plik villagers were heroes.

Others, however, shook their heads sadly and said:

“It’s nothing more than critical Plikners gone mad.”

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SICK & TIRED

SICK & TIRED

I worry about the health of people like Pauline Hanson, Peta Credlin, Alan Jones and our other RWNJs, I really do, because they are so often sick. They complain about it all the time. Not only are they sick, but they are tired; in fact frequently both sick and tired. Sometimes even sick to death! 

I suspect it’s something they ate, they admit themselves that they’ve had a gutful. Maybe they just ate too much, like when they tell us they’re fed up, often to the point of being fed up to the back teeth. 

They must know something’s wrong, they say themselves that they’ve had just about as much as they can take. And they’re clearly measuring their own intake, because they know when they’ve had it up to here.

Sick and tired, sick to death, had it up to here, had a gutful, fed up to the back teeth… these are not signs of a healthy organism.

I hope they feel better soon, I really do, it’s not a mood you want a person to go out and vote in.

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