Don't hate me because I am a cute Asian, hate me because I am a cunt. And what are you looking at anyway? I would like you to fuck off. I don't want people here. People who read blogs are cunts, or at best, arseholes. This is somewhere for me to record things, things I care about. Things like trephination and FGM and who feels the orgasm when the Hensel girl(s) masturbate. Also, Rolihlahla Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi are cunts. I don't like Mother Teresa much either.
................................................I was once known as Aquarians Love To Fuck (ALT-F). I am now Vagina Dentata (VD)................................................
Okay, now, it must be understood that I hate the Yankee as much as the next gal, but for fuck's sake, the BritishCritters really fuct up but good here. Innit?
What? Ya think I'd post "Taps" or sommat? Fuck you!
Better times, Innit?
Though I am truly perturbed I had to wait untill the last seconds to see my beloved Michael Caine. Cunts! I mean, them manly gun fights is all well and good ya understand, but Michael Caine, well, he's divine!
I blame the birth of The Tutor for the ever-increasing use of the word that best describes me. Either that or the birth of Rock and Roll.(1) I am at pains to explain the sudden decrease in the use of the word around 1979 or so. Surely it is not connected to the immaculate inception and ambrosial parturition of the one and only, me? With the likes of me now in the world, I reckon the use of the word would be considered superfluous. Innit? Coincidentally, of course, the rate of usage resumed its inexorable climb in 1985 with the horrid inception and decidedly inelegant parturition of that dreadful Wham! featuring George Michael. And rightly so.
Please to notice the concomitant juxtaposition of the terminus of the plot line, the searched word and my lovely chiropteran avatar.
Now this, my friends, is a fucking photograph. A PHOTOGRAPH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If it were not for the fact that this poor Ruskie died in 1999, I would have babuschka'd this comrade's ass six ways to Tuesday in Stalingrad (and his little cat too) just because this photo is so hot!!!
This monstrosity is but a pale contrivance. And the man with the koala is German!!!!!!!!!!
Yuriy Valentinovich Knorozov - Born 1922
Sven Gronemeyer - Born 1978
Both brilliant Mayanists. Though truth be told, the former is a tad more brilliant than the latter. Innit?
The Peshawar High Court in Pakistan has ruled that US drone-strikes are illegal, inhumane, violate the UN charter on human rights and surely constitute a war crime. Successive American administrations disagree, stating that these 'arbitrary' and 'extrajudicial' executions of enemy non-combatants do not violate international law, and that the method of attack is precise and effective. The Obama administration proffered this explanation on drone-strike policy in April 2012, concluding that it was "legal, ethical, and wise". Those who are being targeted by drones in a foreign country are not protected under the general human right to life - it's war! Targeted killing under the law of self-defence is not an action constitutive of "law enforcement" either so law enforcement standards of jurisprudence are not applicable. The United States has every 'Right-by-Might' to fly its drones into any foreign country, especially one with which it is not already at war, and kill any person, or persons, it deems an 'enemy'. So committed to the efficacy and legality of this sort of anti-terrorism engagement, I would think the great U S of A would have had absolutely no problem at all with the Royal Air Force and/or MI6 (MI5?) commissioning, in the 1980s and 1990s, the then extant versions of the Reaper or Predator drones to strike those Yankee Catholic fuckers in Boston and environs who supplied the fucking IRA cunts with treasure and succor during 'The Troubles'. Legal, ethical and wise indeed. And as far as some Librul feckers in the Revolted Colonies hueing, crying and whingeing on about the inevitable civilian casualties, I doubt that would manifest at all in earnest. Not even in Boston itself. Everybody, and I mean everybody - the Yanks especially - knows that if one finds one's self drone-striking IRA Terrorists in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, that any, hopefully massive, "collateral damage" could possibly only involve fucking Massholes. Accordingly, if I might paraphrase Major General James Wolfe's assertion during the Battle of the Plains of Abraham regarding his Scottish soldiers, "they(Massholes) are hardy, intrepid, accustomed to a rough country, and no great mischief if they fall". I'm not sure if that is Boston in the photograph since I've never been to Boston. I can't be arsed to get my shots, which are free by the way up here in the Canadas, so I would not hazard to venture there. Besides, it's in America - I might catch obesity and there's no pharmacological prophylaxis for that.
Once, while stumbling along on the Clapham High Street, London, England at 3 AM, after imbibing a few cans of White Ace - 59p at Tescos - I noticed I was being followed by a questionable-looking miscreant. I slowed and then stopped quickly, wheeling around to confront him with my best intimidating stance. Slowly noticing I was now standing not far from him, he brought himself to a swaying stop and managed to bawl and yelp, "Oi Chink(1), come over ‘ere and suck me cock." I covered myself in sick. I reckon he was altogether put off with the idea of irrumating me after that and staggered away like he had just shit himself. And he probably had. A few months later, in Boston, Massachusetts, US of A, I found myself negotiating the bank of the Charles after one-too-many Pabst Blue Ribbon Tall Boys - $1 at Sidebar on Bromfield Street - I espied a slimy Masshole following me, apparently. I stopped and turned to face the Yankee fucker. He stopped as well and mangling the Queen’s with that vile, atrocious accent of theirs, grunted, "Hey pretty girl, come ovah heah and suck my cock." Now that's nice, 'pretty girl'? What girl doesn't like being called pretty? I, of course, smiled and proceeded to oblige. He covered himself in sick. What’s not to love about America? The cunts can’t hold their liquor, but at least they sure know how to treat a lady! (1) I am not Chinese. I am Burmese.
It's bad enough this blog attracts visitors from Kenya, Cyprus and the USA, but I've just been informed by The Tutor there's been a Manxman skulking about. A fucking Manxman! Twice! Take that testicular agenetic Triskelion and that inane motto of yours, Quocunque Jeceris Stabit, and fuck off! And take those caudal agenetic cats and those freakish corniculate polygenetic Loaghtan sheep with you too! They're as fuct as those tree-climbing goats they have in Morocco! UPDATE And there have been fuckers from Gibraltar and the United Arab Emirates here of late too! I beseech you in the bowels of the divinity of your choice to leave me be.
There is no theoretical reason why a ‘machine’ system couldn't develop consciousness. Whether it would be practical or not is another matter. You can only seriously believe ‘machine consciousness’ is theoretically impossible if you think there is something magical about neural systems that repudiates the laws of physics - or if you're a Cartesian dualist. All the scientific evidence suggests that this is not the case. There is nothing, however, preventing one from placing ill-considered confidence in Cartesian dualism excepting possibly one's possession of robust qualia and the skeleton key to Mary’s Room. "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die."
Vagina Dentata said... Those filthy Swedes of IKEA offer meatballs(1) in their UK outlets? All we get in The Canadas are: RIKTIG ÖGLA - an adult intimacy aid. And..... FYRKANTIG - something on which to gnaw while engaging a RIKTIG ÖGLA, vigorously. (1) Swedish Meatballs? That reminds me of a conversation I had with a geography-challenged Canuck-fuck who, not surprisingly, traced her ancestry back to Engerland. Her: "Is Greece in Sweden?" Me: "Yes. Souvlaki is just Swedish meatballs on a stick." The poor dolt was also unaware that Ireland was an island. I didn't have the heart to tell her that there are actually two Irelands; Northern Ireland and Real Ireland. Some Cunt said... VD, may I suggest that the Canoook of supposed Engerlander ancestry may actually have been of Jutish ancestry. It seems that Jutish sperm is in demand in those Sceptic Isles. Apparently the Jutes are good looking and dependable. Now I've been knocking out blond, blue eyed brats for four decades and I only learn now that I could have been paid for my 'spasms'. Unfortunately for the women involved, and unlike the Jutes, I'm not very dependable. Check out the following link and weep. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2667262/Why-British-women-giving-birth-Viking-babies-conceived-Danish-donors.html. Vagina Dentata said... ".....'spasms'....." ???? You mean pushy, pushy, grunt, snore? Or perhaps as a potential blonde, blue-eyed brat progenitor: pully, pully, grunt, snore? British women have no taste. Now leave me be or I'll go all Rorke's Drift with an Ulfberht on your sorry Jutish arse. Wanker! Some Cunt said... Leave you be? Perhaps in the next life. Vagina Dentata said... It is through your egotism and earthly desire that you have created the causes for your incessant future becomings, or Samsara. You'll be plagued by cycles of rebirth and redeath. By virtue of my dutiful and life-long ascetic practices, I have finally attained sanctity and liberation, or Moksha. I will be free of this cycle upon my next death. There is no next life for me. So, I think it best you go for it now. Innit? Some Cunt said... Pray tell where is the empirical evidence for your esoteric and mystical philosophy? ‘Show me the data, show me the data’. Belief in an after life is nothing new, of course. Man has always yearned for rewards in another life because the corporeal one is so hard. But belief, in anything, doesn't necessary make it so. How can consciousness survive the death of the brain? Now there is a conundrum. Socrates himself postulated oblivion when we die. How can a dreamless sleep be bad? However, it is clear that the Platonic Socrates did actually believe in an afterlife where he could dispute for an eternity. His reasoning for the existence of an after life is not very convincing, at least to the modern mind. On an unrelated topic. I have been known to produce ‘seed’ at work. This was at the behest of the boss and strictly directed at developing new protocols. Therefore, if I'm not mistaken, this makes me a professional wanker. A word to those who would like to follow me in my sticky footsteps. Do not forgo the use of a wide necked vessel. It saves on the floor cleaning, innit. Vagina Dentata said... The Platonic Socrates? Meh! He was a tosser. Now the Socratic Plato, well, there's a manly man. He knew Greece was not in Sweden and didn't care if Ireland was an island or not. I mean, it's bloody Ireland for christ's sake - the autochthones there were still swinging in the trees, evolutionarily speaking, at that time! And as far as dreamless sleep goes, it can be really bad. If after a two-day bender consuming buckets of TESCO cider one has neglected to re-balance one's electrolytes prior to the inevitable crash-communing with Morpheus, one's precipitous depletion of potassium ions gonna gets youse some wicked crus and thigh cramps. As for your precious data, vis a vis cycles of rebirth and redeath, how's this: http://keeppy.com/attachment.php?id=15656 Innit?
Me, yelling to the florist minions in the back: "Twelve reds, BB and greens - with pics." Then, turning to the customer, "It'll just be a few minutes. Feel free to wander about and shoplift"
The customer: "Tanks."
An eternity of one minute transpires as the customer meanders about in front of the cash register. The floral minions are deathly slow so I decide to pass the time in conversation.
Me: "I notice you're wearing pricey-looking athletic footwear. The word 'Osiris' is emblazoned on the uppers of both shoes. Is it a brand? I've not heard of them."
The customer: "Day's special shoes fer skateboardin'."
Me: "Oh. Really? Unfortunate name though don't you think? I mean if you recall your Egyptian mythology that is. Osiris, a god, married to his sister, Isis, a goddess, was killed by their brother Seth, also a god. Seth then dismembered Osiris and scattered his various parts throughout Upper and Lower Egypt. Isis, his sister/wife, upon hearing of this, proceeded to search the land and collect the disparate parts with the intent of putting him back together. She was able to find all the parts except for his divine penis. She put him together anyway and brought him back to life. So, by wearing 'Osiris' brand footwear, are you not advertising to the world that you have no penis and you fancy your own sister?"
The customer: "Ermmmmm..... Ahhhhh....."
Me, taking pity on the dolt: "Now if in the extremely unlikely event in the future someone might bring this little mythological fact to your attention, may I suggest the following riposte: 'The reason why Isis couldn't find his penis was because I have it! I HAVE THE PENIS OF A GOD!!!! And I have no sister.'"
The Tutor Issues forth in the usual way from his pied-à-terre in Montmartre: "Paris", he rhapsodises with impeccable banality, "is magic." With the kitten-cute gamine Isabel on the one arm and the vamping courtesan VD on t'other, the trio of faux-bohemians set out through the haphazard array of Parisian arondissements. Past battered cafés and not-so-fragrant Frenchmen they demur not in their pursuit of the ever elusive "la fée verte" of absinthe. Seeking perfectibility. Yearning for that perfect moment - that peace that comes only from oblivion.
"And the kine took the straight way to the way of Bethshemesh, and went along the highway, lowing as they went, and turned not aside to the right hand or to the left; and the lords of the Philistines went after them unto the border of Bethshemesh."
1 Samuel 6:12
King James Version (Cambridge Edition)
People talk about kine 'lowing' and 'mooing', or 'ammuu-ing' if they are Finnish cows, all the time. Yeah, I know, I don't know why they do either, but nonetheless, that's the truth of it. I'm very perplexed about the dialectic of it all. The usefulness of these expressly neutral terms is all very well indeed when one is conversing of such things in the rarefied realm of the abstract, but what is it, exactly, that is occurring in de facto objective reality? If you stop and actually listen to these beasties - and I mean really listen - it sounds more like moaning and groaning to me. Aaaaaahhhhhh fuck..........I'm a coooowwww........ A goddddddd dammmmnnn coooowwww...... Usually this is a shocking revelation to the poor things because they are not really too bright. So about all this 'contented cow' bollocks? Ha! Contentment my arse, it's the lowing wails and keening lamentations of thoroughly despondent and despairing kine I tell you. And no mistake!
Recently, The Tutor has taken to donning my ever-so stylish Anton Chigurh Page-Boy wig and wandering about the neighbourhood brandishing his shiny, new Husqvarna Captive Bolt device. I should be concerned, but curiously, I am not.