Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Marxist Left Sodden Identity Politics Are DoublePlusGood!

Winston Bolt must learn to love Big Provisional Colour Brother! “Yes, I can see it now! White really IS black! Even 1/8th black IS completely black!” [Unless The Party Collective says today black is now red, comrade.]

“Yes! The Supreme Court and Ministry Of Love IS a Love Supreme! 2+2=5!” [Unless The Party Collective says today 2+2 now equals 9, comrade.] "All drones are equally offended!" [But some drones are always entitled to be more offended than others, comrade. ] “Freedom IS conformity and fear IS good! I love Big Brown Brother!” Winston Bolt too, must learn to love Big Impossible for the Untrained Wrong Colour People to Say What Colour a Colour Is Brother! Only through lies and conformity can we be free to conform to the mass delusion of laughably witless rent-seeking leftard lies...Conform to The Current Truth, comrades.

'We, the Party, control all records, and we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?'

'But how can you stop people remembering things?' cried Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. 'It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!'

O'Brien's manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial.

'On the contrary,' he said, 'you have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one.

Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal.

Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.'

He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.

'Do you remember,' he went on, 'writing in your diary, "Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four"?'

'Yes,' said Winston.

O'Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.

'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'


'And if the party says that it is not four but five -- then how many?'


The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O'Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

'How many fingers, Winston?'


The needle went up to sixty.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!'

The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!'

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Five! Five! Five!'

'No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?'

'Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!'

Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O'Brien was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it.

'You are a slow learner, Winston,' said O'Brien gently.

'How can I help it?' he blubbered. 'How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.'

'Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.'

He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened again, but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving him merely weak and cold. O'Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. The man in the white coat bent down and looked closely into Winston's eyes, felt his pulse, laid an ear against his chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded to O'Brien.

'Again,' said O'Brien.

The pain flowed into Winston's body. The needle must be at seventy, seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He knew that the fingers were still there, and still four. All that mattered was somehow to stay alive until the spasm was over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O'Brien had drawn back the lever.

'How many fingers, Winston?'

'Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. I am trying to see five.'

'Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or really to see them?'

'Really to see them.'

'Again,' said O'Brien.

Perhaps the needle was eighty -- ninety. Winston could not intermittently remember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and four. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again.

'How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?'

'I don't know. I don't know. You will kill me if you do that again. Four, five, six -- in all honesty I don't know.'

'Better,' said O'Brien.'

Saturday, 24 September 2011

Mo The Knife.

Mohammad you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind.
Hey Dhimmi. Hey Dhimmi!

Maybe It’s Because I’m an Islamist. [Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner.]

Maybe it's because I'm an Islamist,
That I hate London so.
Maybe it's because I'm a terrorist.
That I think of Mo whenever I blow.

I get an angry feeling inside of me,
When jumping up and down.
Maybe it's because I'm a Muslim,
That I bomb London Town.

Jihad Boy. [Georgie Girl.]

Hey there! Jihad boy,
Swinging down the street a total freak.
Nobody you meet could ever see,
The explosives there, inside you.

Hey there! Jihad Boy,
Why do all you boys just hate women?
Could it be you just a perv, or is it the rags you wear?

You're always widow shopping but never stopping to build.
Unsheathe those old box cutters and fly, a little bit.

Hey there! Jihad boy,
There's another Koran creep inside.
Bring out all the hate you hide and oh,
What a change there'll be,
The world will see, the true Jihad Boy.

Hey there! Jihad boy,
Dreaming of the virgins you believe.
Death is a reality, you can always blow away.
Don't be so scared of changing and rearranging yourself.
Its time for blowing up all of yourself, to little bits.

Well Halal Dhimmi. [Well Hello Dolly.]

I said Halal, dhimmi. Well, Halal, dhimmi.
It’s so sad to have you back where you went wrong.
You’re lookin’ Hell, dhimmi. I can tell, dhimmi.

Bombs still blowin’, you’re denyin’, we’re still goin’ down.
I feel that room swayin’, while the Imam's prayin’,
One of their old favourite Hadiths from way back when.
So, take their crap, fellas. Find you an empty sack, fellas.
Dhimmi you’ll blow away again.

So golly, gee, fellas. Find an empty train, fellas.
Dhimmi you ought to learn today, a dhimmi’s sure to die someday,
Dhimmi we’ll never come this way again.

What a Waleed Full World. [What a Wonderful World.]

I hear deception, what phoneys do,
I see them doom, both me and you.
And l think to myself, what a Waleed full world.

I see lies are true, and black is white,
The white cursed all day,
The dhimmie scared to fight.
And l think to myself, what a Waleed full world.

The canards of baloney, so pretty in the lie.
Are also on the faces of people going by.
I see friends shakin' heads, sayin' "What do we do?
They're really saying, they fooled you!"

I hear students cryin', I watch them groan,
They'll learn nothing, that I really know.
And I think to myself, what a Waleed full world.
Yes, I think to myself, what a Waleed full world.

Mo the Knife. [Mack The Knife, Sinatra version]

Oh, the sheik had, shitty teeth dear,
And beheaded, Pearl all right.
Just a jack knife, for Jihad dear,
And he keeps it, way out of sight.

When Islam bites, with its teeth, dear,
Scarlet billows, begin to spread.
Fancy words though, has Mohammad,
So there’s never, never the truth that’s read.

On the sidewalk, on Sunday morning,
Lies a body, oozin’ life.
Someone’s sneaking, round the corner,
Could that someone, be Mo the knife?

From a car bomb, an intersection going slow,
An IED is blowing downtown.
You know that bomb blast, is for Islam dear,
You can make a large bet, Mo is back in town.

Their man Zarqawi, he's split the scene, babe,
After making mountains of dead, with Saudi cash.
Now Osama, spends like an Arab,
Do you suppose our boy, he caught some kind of rash?

Old Saddam, O bin Laden, Old Sheik Yassin.
Did this song nice, lady Yasser too.
They all sang it, with so much feeling,
That old dead eyes, he aint gonna add nothing new.

But with the Saudi, Kingdom behind them,
Lying hard, CAIR, they know they can’t lose.
When I tell you, all about Mo the knife babe,
Its an offer, you can never refuse.

We got dhimmitude, media playing that piano,
And the great big lie, bringing up the rear.
All the left cats, in this band now,
They make the greatest sounds, you’re ever gonna hear.

Oh so its tawdry, phony bastards, can’t teach ‘em, old Mohammad got around.

Hey the line forms, on the left dear,
Now Mohammads back in town.
You’d better lock your doors, they changed the law,
Because Mohammads back in town.

"A Basketball Jones is when you think of basketball so much, you are like a basketball!" Cheech and Chong.

Like a Killing Jones. [Like a Rolling Stone.]

Once upon a time you dressed so fine.
You blew five bombs a time with the prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware Mo, you're bound to fall"
You thought that Mossad’s hittin' you.

You used to laugh about,
Everybody that was hangin' out.
Now the bang sounds so loud,
Now you do seem so proud,
About having to be scraping up the human meal.

How does it feel?
How does it feel?
To kill with just a phone,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a killing Jones?

You've gone to the Islamic school all right, Mr Lonely,
But you know you only used to hate Jews in it.
And Hezbollah has really taught you how to flatten the street,
And now we find out we're just gonna have to get used to it.

You said you'd never compromise,
With the West and man, but now you realize,
The press are selling all your alibis,
As they stare into the vacuum of your eyes,
And ask you, do you want to make a deal?

How does it feel?
How does it feel?
To be on your way,
With a direction home,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a killing Jones?

You always turn around to see dumb frowns on the media and the clowns,
When they all come down and do tricks for you.
You always understood that it sure is good,
You can let all the dhimmies make up bullshit for you.

You always lie on the tv show like a diplomat,
You go right over the head of a BBC prat.
Ain't it nice when you discover that,
He really was just where it's at,
After you took from him everything you could steal.

How does it feel?
How does it feel?
To be on your own,
With no direction home,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a killing Jones?

Prince Abdullah’s steeple, and all the ugly people,
They're drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made.
Emirates have all kinds of enslaved kids and things,
But we'd better stop taking it in the ass, we better deport ‘em babe.

You used to be so abused,
At the madrassa in rags and the language that he used.
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse.
When you got Islam, you got nothing to lose.
You're so visible now, you got nuke secrets to conceal.

How does it feel?
How does it feel?
To be on your own,
With no direction home,
Like a complete unknown,
Like a killing Jones?

Thursday, 22 September 2011

A Book Filled Entirely With Words.

Award winning author Miles O'Cant, pictured arriving at a recent book signing and sweat lodge.

The following is a transcript of an interview from 'Authors and People' aired on the tax-payer funded broadcaster the ABC, [Australian Bolshevik Knitting Circle] during the dark days of any conservative government which are always worse than Hitler. Nay, 10,000 Hitler's!

"Good evening and welcome to an hour of government funded rebellion with your host Tim Comfortable. My guest tonight is author and social critic Miles O’Cant. I’ll be discussing his latest uncontroversial book ‘If You Don’t Agree With Me, You’re a Racist and a Fascist: how me and my left friends are never wrong thus our one hundred percent failure rate’.

Thank you for coming on the show tonight Miles, and congratulations on also winning the State Government Funded Award for ‘A Book Filled Entirely With Words’. I believe that brings your total of prestigious taxpayer funded awards to around 127?"

Miles: “ Thank you Tony. Yes, but awards mean nothing to me. They’re meaningless, absolutely without meaning. As is the $850,000 prize money. Just yesterday I received a financial statement from my accountant and I thought how this enormous cash deposit is meaningless. Money means nothing to me. It’s the writing, the art of it all and making a difference. Especially to my bank account. And it’s actually 128 awards but again, this is entirely meaningless”.

Tim: “I agree, I find even the perks meaningless. The free gifts, being virtually impossible to fire and having an unaccountable free reign to push my leftard opinions sans action or a shred of supporting empirical evidence for decades on end and then there's the mutual backslapping. All meaningless. Ah, the backslapping...

But I digress. Now, your first published title and winner of the prestigious 'Boredom Award' established you as a major literary force. And that was for the Teacher’s Union EnforcedTM children’s book ‘This Fascist Racist Government Gave Me Cancer and Welfare’. It was thought controversial at the time mostly by the religious right merely because of the cannibalism. What was your inspiration and motive for the book?

Miles: “I wanted to show realistically and without hyperbole or exaggeration the hopelessly depressing, suicidal and voiceless reality of young people’s crushed lives as they’ve grown up in the fascist regime of the current Nazi government that is doing everything to destroy any dissent or freedom whatsoever. They're worse than ten million Hitler's! It’s an inspiring and entertaining read too”.

Tim: “You’re good friends with the government funded playwright Glib Plaistow of course”.

Miles: “Yes, but Glib has an entirely different style to me. His plays are about the hopelessly depressing, suicidal and voiceless reality of middle-aged people’s crushed lives as they’ve grown up in the fascist regime of the current Nazi government that is doing everything to destroy any dissent or freedom whatsoever”.

Tim: “Yes, like many people, I too feel they're worse than ten million Hitler's! Maybe even twenty million Hitler's! Now, could you describe for the listeners who may have not read your first book, some of the areas you cover?

Miles: “I felt that the true experiences of young people’s lives as I imagined them almost entirely in my mind, has been ignored by much of the so called mainstream. I wanted to focus not just on the cannibalism, but gun running, international drug rings, madness, ritual suicide, Devil worshipping, arson and golf”.

Tim: "I’ve never understood golf, it’s so elitist. Now some people, mostly of the religious right, have tried to silence you by calling you “insane” and “a dangerous bore”. Your thoughts Miles?"

Miles: “Aren’t we all really a little insane and dangerously boring? Especially those who have abducted children? But who are we to say just because of outmoded and indeed judgemental ideas of right and wrong? I prefer to blend these subjective concepts into what I call "rung and rot". I don’t know what they mean, but they certainly don’t discriminate”.

Tim: “Some critics, mostly of the religious right, have said that your books are absurdly focused on a laughably bogus and dark vision of young people, when the reality is that most of those in affluent capitalist democracies have pretty good and normal lives. Nonsense?”

Miles: “It's nonsense to not realise that any child like that is a brainwashed weirdo!”

Tim: “Where do your ideas come from, apart from real life as you see it?”

Miles: “It all comes from my mind, Tim. My mind is like a vast landscape. Of course there’s dirt, small shrubs and even deciduous trees and is that a zebra?”

Tim: “A zebra? No that’s Doris, our tea lady”.

Miles: “She looks like a zebra! Get away from me!”

Tim: “Miles, is that a gun or a knife with a trigger?”

Miles: “You’re a fascist and a zebra and therefore you must die! Death to the zebra fascists!”