Govind is dishonorable

Some of you may think that it's impressive that Govind is the oldest staffer on the team here at Sythe.org. Some of you might even enjoy the spam forum he created so long ago. While he tries to maintain a guise of being a perfectly harmless and diligent staff member, I wish to reiterate the seriousness of the recent contentions and various disaccharidases levied against him only very recently.

Govind will almost certainly blow a gasket when he reads this letter but I unmistakably must make the case that at least 80 percent of the people in this forum recognize that the Govind-induced era of sham and deceit and pretense will draw to a close eventually. First, the misinformation: Govind suggests that going through the motions of working is the same as working. Where the heck did he come up with that? I'll tell you the answer in a moment. But first, let me just say that I cannot believe how many actual, physical, breathing, thinking people have fallen for his subterfuge. I'm entirely stunned. He says that he should be a given a direct pipeline to the National Treasury. Hey, Govind, how about telling us the truth for once?

You don't need me to tell you that Govind's bootlickers remain largely silent when asked about the correlative connecting Govind to adversarialism. The rare times they do deign to comment they invariably skew the issue to prevent people from realizing that Govind uses the word "unproportionableness" without ever having taken the time to look it up in the dictionary. People who are too lazy to get their basic terms right should be ignored, not debated. Surely no argument is necessary to prove that education is already suffering as a result of Govind's cajoleries. It follows from this that I, for one, am more than merely surprised by his willingness to misdirect our efforts into fighting each other rather than into understanding the nature and endurance of insipid clericalism. I'm shocked, shocked. And, as if that weren't enough, my long-term goal is to fight for what is right. Unfortunately, much remains to be done. As you may have noticed, Govind always demands instant gratification. That's all that is of concern to him; nothing else matters—except maybe to teach our children a version of history that is not only skewed, distorted, and wrong but dangerously so. I tell you this because I am certain that if I asked the next person I meet if he would want Govind to fuel inquisitions, he would say no. Yet we all stand idly by while Govind claims that space gods arriving in flying saucers will save humanity from self-destruction.

The fact is, as a dynamic historical current, gnosticism has taken many different forms and has evolved dramatically in some ways. The mere mention of that fact guarantees that this letter will never get published in any mass-circulation periodical that Govind has any control over. But that's inconsequential because if you read between the lines of Govind's blanket statements, you'll unquestionably find that Govind's camp is filled with weak-willed, manipulable protestors who believe Govind's story that everyone with a different set of beliefs from his is going to get a one-way ticket to Hell, and everyone with half a brain understands that. Who is behind the decline of our civilization? The culprit responsible is not the Illuminati, not the Insiders, not the Humanists, not even the Communists. No, the decline of our civilization is attributable primarily to Govind.

To the best of my knowledge, Govind is firmly convinced that Dadaism provides an easy escape from a life of frustration, unhappiness, desperation, depression, and loneliness. His belief is controverted, however, by the weight of the evidence indicating that Govind claims that society is screaming for his strictures. That claim illustrates a serious reasoning fallacy, one that is pandemic in his personal attacks. Then again, by working together, we can point the high-powered fire hose of truth at Govind's loathsome invectives to wash away their multiple layers of revisionism. I always catch holy hell whenever I say something like that so let me assure you that he should learn to appreciate what he has instead of feeling so oppressed because he can't do everything he wants every time he wants to.

Govind's spokesmen are tools. Like a hammer or an axe, they are not inherently evil or destructive. The evil is in the force that manipulates them and uses them for destructive purposes. That evil is Govind, who wants nothing less than to engage in an endless round of finger pointing. As our society continues to unravel, more and more people will be grasping for straws, grasping for something to hold onto, grasping for something that promises to give them the sense of security and certainty that they so desperately need. These are the kinds of people Govind preys upon.

I, speaking as someone who is not a homophobic backbiter, have not forgotten that Govind lusts for a world in which filthy drug lords supply the chains that bind the individual to notions of self-loathing and unworthiness. I have not forgotten that Govind, like many other disorderly, lawless autocrats, has joined in with the chorus of furies who have been tearing away at the remains of rationality since the dawn of Derrida. And I cannot forget that if Govind can one day use terms of opprobrium such as "inimical crybabies" and "untrustworthy champions of deceit, lies, theft, plunder, and rapine" to castigate whomever Govind opposes then the long descent into night is sure to follow. Lest I forget to mention this later, if he is victorious in his quest to bring widespread death and degradation to millions of human beings across the face of the Earth, then his crown will be the funeral wreath of humanity. I, speaking as someone who is not a mutinous blackguard, want my life to count. I want to be part of something significant and lasting. I want to upbraid Govind for being so illogical.

I have just one word for Govind: disproportionableness. Make no mistake about it; he has been doing "in-depth research" (whatever he thinks that means) to prove that our only chance of saving the planet is to accept unending regulations and straightjacket "reforms" from his shock troops. I should mention that I've been doing some research of my own. So far, I've "discovered" that honest people will admit that I consider it extremely insulting of Govind to leave a generation of people planted in the mud of a complacent, unpatriotic world to begin a new life in the shadows of alarmism. Concerned people are not afraid to find the common ground that enables others to serve on the side of Truth. And sensible people know that I have a tendency to report the more sensational things that Govind is up to, the more shocking things, things like how he wants to put the prisoners in charge of running the prison. And I realize the difficulty that the average person has in coming to grips with that, but I am reminded of the quote, "His self-righteous lackeys, who are legion, are congenitally unable to grasp the fact that he has announced a number of aberrant, exploitative ideas on how to run—or is that ruin?—everyone's life." This comment is not as soulless as it seems because the really interesting thing about all this is not that the union of theory and practice, in Govind's hands, becomes a union of pomposity and propagandism. The interesting thing is that he can't possibly believe that he can ignore rules, laws, and protocol without repercussion. He's cynical but he's not that cynical.

Throughout human history, amoral sideshow barkers have always been wild. So it should come as no surprise that there is one crucial fact that we must not overlook if we are to perceive our current situation as it is, rather than in the anamorphosis of some "ideology" such as sesquipedalianism or philistinism. Specifically, under the label of "delusional" are those, like Govind, who consign our traditional values to the rubbish heap of parasitism. Stated differently, I would much rather keep the faith than waste my precious time chastising mudslinging, antisocial euphuists. There are several logical contradictions in Govind's position on this matter. For example, I do not have the time in one sitting to go into the long answer as to why he is so confident in his own intellectual and cultural paradigm that he is blind to global realities. But the short answer is that his dupes often reverse the normal process of interpretation. That is, they value the unsaid over the said, the obscure over the clear.

Govind may not be bloody-minded but he sure is unholy. Even if his facts were reliable, they were gathered selectively and then manipulated towards favored conclusions. I am hurt, furious, and embarrassed. Why am I hurt? Because he either is or elects to be ignorant of scientific principles and methods. Govind even intentionally misuses scientific terminology to lay all of society open to the predations of organized criminality. Why am I furious? Because he yields to the mammalian desire to assert individuality by attracting attention. Unfortunately, for Govind, "attracting attention" usually implies "putting our liberties at risk by a lamebrained and postmodernist rush to trample over the very freedoms and rights that he claims to support". And why am I embarrassed? Because we need to advance a clear, credible, and effective vision for dealing with our present dilemma and its most libidinous manifestations. Unfortunately, reaching that simple conclusion sometimes seems to be above human reason. But there is a wisdom above human, and to that we must look if we are ever to ask the tough questions and not shy away from the tough answers.

Most of us who have been around for a while realize that Govind's mind has limited horizons. It is confined to the immediate and simplistic, with the inevitable consequence that everything is made banal and basic and is then leveled down until it is deprived of all spiritual life. To use some computer terminology, Govind's imperium has an "installed base" of hundreds of despicable, grotty galoots. The implication is that Govind has been deluding people into believing that "the norm" shouldn't have to worry about how the exceptions feel. Don't let him delude you, too. He seizes every opportunity to address what is, in the end, a nonexistent problem. I cannot believe this colossal clownishness. Any sane person knows that Govind keeps saying that he has answers to everything. In such statements, as in most of his propaganda, there are major omissions and layers of codswallop wrapped around a small piece of the truth. The real story is that Govind has been telling everyone that truth is whatever your grievance group says it is. I would like to remind Govind that false words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Finally, this has been a good deal of reading, and indeed difficult reading at that. Still, I hope you walk away from it with the new knowledge that Govind's stinking platitudes are a source of consternation for those of us who want to hold him to account for letting us know exactly what our attitudes should be towards various types of people and behavior.

 

first.

woop


















































































































PS: I didnt know like half of those words.

 

I take it back. This is now the TL;DR thread of the year.

 

i cant te if troll or not

 

Essay generator lololol

 

An essay on Tyro
Think back to the first time you ever heard of Tyro. In depth analysis of Tyro can be an enriching experience. Indispensable to homosapians today, it is yet to receive proper recognition for laying the foundations of democracy. Crossing many cultural barriers it still draws remarks such as 'I wouldn't touch it with a barge pole' and 'i'd rather eat wasps' from the easily lead, many of whom blame the influence of television. Here begins my indepth analysis of the glourious subject of Tyro.

Social Factors

As Reflected in classical mythology society is complicated. When Lance Bandaner said 'twelve times I've traversed the ocean of youthful ambition but society still collects my foot prints' [1] he, contrary to my learned colleague Sir George Allen’s recent publication ‘Into the eye of , could not have been referring to eighteenth century beliefs regarding society. Both tyranny and democracy are tried and questioned. Yet Tyro provides standards by which we may judge our selves.

Special care must be taken when analysing such a delicate subject. On the other hand anyone that disagrees with me is an idiot. Clearly it promotes higher individualism and obeyence of instinct. As soon as a child meets Tyro they are changed.

Economic Factors

Is unemployment inherently bad for an economy? Yes. Of course, Tyro fits perfectly into the JTB-Guide-Dog model, a lovely model.
Market
Value
Of
Gold


Tyro

How do we explain these clear trends? Seemingly the market value of gold has always depended upon Tyro to a certain extent, but now more that ever. In the light of this free trade must be examined.

Political Factors

Posturing as concerned patriarchs, many politicians guide the electorate herd to the inevitable cattle shed of 'equal opportunity.' Looking at the spectrum represented by a single political party can be reminiscent of comparing Tyroilisation, as it's become known, and one's own sense of morality.

To quote the star of stage and screen Achilles Skank 'Man's greatest enemy is complacency with regards to personal and political hygiene.' [2] He was first introduced to Tyro by his mother. If our political system can be seen as a cake, then Tyro makes a good case for being the icing.

I hope, for our sake that Tyro will endure.
Conclusion

To conclude Tyro is, to use the language of the streets 'Super Cool.' It sings a new song, puts out 'fires', and it brings the best out in people.

I will leave you with the words of Hollywood's Leonardo Malkovitch: 'I love Tyro? Yes! Hurray for Tyro!' [3]

 

I'll see your madness and raise you a herring. It is in the sincere hope of expanding people's understanding of Tmoe's impractical epigrams that this letter is offered to an intelligent and discriminating public. Before I launch into my main topic, I want to make a few matters crystal-clear: (1) Tmoe should just face the facts, and (2) as a result of that, Tmoe thinks he can impress us by talking about "piezocrystallization this" and "epididymodeferential that". Now that you know where I stand on those issues, I can safely say that I have often maintained that reasonable people can reasonably disagree. Unfortunately, when dealing with Tmoe and his partisans, that claim assumes facts not in evidence. So let me claim instead that Tmoe has a talent for inventing fantasy worlds in which at birth every living being is assigned a celestial serial number or frequency power spectrum. Then again, just because Tmoe is a prolific fantasist doesn't mean that some people deserve to feel safe while others do not.

Once you understand Tmoe's denunciations, you have a responsibility to do something about them. To know, to understand, and not to act, is an egregious sin of omission. It is the sin of silence. It is the sin of letting Tmoe transform our society into a cacodemonic war machine. By his standards, if you have morals, believe that character counts, and actually raise your own children—let alone teach them to be morally fit—you're definitely a mad slumlord. My standards—and I suspect yours as well—are quite different from Tmoe's. For instance, I insist that it would be wrong to imply that he is involved in some kind of conspiracy to perpetuate misguided and questionable notions of other nettlesome, superstitious lunkheads' intentions. It would be wrong because his activities are far beyond the conspiracy stage. Not only that, but he recently went through an alcoholism phase in which he tried repeatedly to make widespread accusations and insinuations without having the facts to back them up. In fact, I'm not convinced that this phase of his has entirely passed. My evidence is that throughout history, there has been a clash between those who wish to introduce an important but underrepresented angle on Tmoe's treacherous conclusions and those who wish to numb the public to the officialism and injustice in mainstream politics. Naturally, Tmoe belongs to the latter category.

Are we going to step back and let Tmoe slander those who are most systematically undervalued, underpaid, underemployed, underfinanced, underinsured, underrated, and otherwise underserved and undermined as undeserving and underclass? I can tell you this: I will be speaking out—every day and everywhere—to make sure that we do not. These issues are actually political issues. But wait—as they say on late-night television infomercials—there's more: There's no shortage of sin in the world today. It's been around since the Garden of Eden and will unmistakably persist as long as Tmoe continues to deliver an additional blow to dignity and self-worth. The greatest quote I ever heard goes something like this: "Tmoe's profiteering and power mongering will conjure up dirt against his fellow human beings before long." Tmoe writes a lot of long statements that mean practically nothing. What's sneaky is that he constructs those statements in such a way that it never occurs to his readers to analyze them. Analysis would almost certainly indicate that for Tmoe's namby-pamby plans to succeed, he needs to dumb down our society. An uninformed populace is easier to control and manipulate than an educated populace. One of these days, schoolchildren will stop being required to learn the meanings of words like "histomorphologically" and "anthropomorphologically". They will be incapable of comprehending that if Tmoe could have one wish, he'd wish for the ability to impact public policy for years to come. Then, people the world over would be too terrified to acknowledge that I've been rolling up my sleeves in preparation for a long, hard battle against deceitful deadbeats. I'm not saying that facetiously; as people who know me truly realize, I always mean what I say and say what I mean. They also realize that the one thing that's central to all of Tmoe's insensitive bait-and-switch tactics is a desire to instill distrust and thereby create a need for his dodgy views. I call this the New Corporatism. The old corporatism was concerned only with perpetuating the nonsense known technically as the analytic/synthetic dichotomy. Although that was bad enough, Tmoe promotes a victimization hierarchy. He and his legates appear at the top of the hierarchy, naturally, and therefore avouch that they deserve to be given more money, support, power, etc. than anyone else. Other groups, depending on Tmoe's view of them, are further down the list. At the bottom are those of us who realize that society must soon decide either to arraign Tmoe at the tribunal of public opinion or else to let Tmoe reap a harvest of death. The decision is one of life or death, peaceful existence or perpetual social fever. I can hope only that those in charge realize that Tmoe had promised us liberty, equality, and fraternity. Instead, he gave us irreligionism, insurrectionism, and libertinism. I suppose we should have seen that coming, especially since there are some inconsiderate garrulous-types who are stuporous. There are also some who are subhuman. Which category does Tmoe fall into? If the question overwhelms you, I suggest you check "both".

Tmoe uses big words like "disdenominationalize" to make himself sound important. For that matter, benevolent Nature has equipped another puny creature, the skunk, with a means of making itself seem important, too. Although Tmoe's obloquies may reek like a skunk, Tmoe frequently engages in violent fantasies involving censorious slaves to fashion. In the presence of high heaven and before the civilized world I therefore assert that Tmoe should learn to appreciate what he has instead of feeling so oppressed because he can't do everything he wants every time he wants to.

Think about it. Let me move now from the abstract to the concrete. That is, let me give you a (mercifully) few examples of Tmoe's outrageous ineptitude. For starters, he sees materialism as his benevolent guardian angel. There are several logical contradictions in Tmoe's position on this matter. For example, his assertions are merely a stalking horse. They mask Tmoe's secret intention to undermine the foundations of society until a single thrust suffices to make the entire edifice collapse. I, not being one of the many possession-obsessed vendors of cynicism of this world, suspect that Tmoe will indisputably regulate philistinism faster than you can say "photochronographical". I base this confident prediction on, among other things, the fact that it's undeniably a tragedy that his goal in life is apparently to turn us into easy prey for the most disruptive wankers you'll ever see. Here, I use the word "tragedy" as the philosopher Whitehead used it. Whitehead stated that "the essence of dramatic tragedy is not unhappiness. It resides in the solemnity of the remorseless working of things," which I interpret as saying that Tmoe's precepts can be subtle. They can be so subtle that many people never realize they're being influenced by them. That's why we must proactively notify humanity that if we let Tmoe sow the seeds of simplism we'll be reaping the crop for quite a long time.

Tmoe believes that it is everyone's obligation to obliterate our sense of identity. That view is anathema to the cause of liberty. If it is not loudly refuted our future will be dire indeed. He has a knack for convincing scary politicos that he was chosen by God as the trustee of His wishes and desires. That's called marketing. The underlying trick is to use sesquipedalian terms like "superserviceableness" and "roentgenographic" to keep his sales pitch from sounding spiteful. That's why you really have to look hard to see that Tmoe's ability to capitalize on the economic chaos, racial tensions, and social discontent of the current historical moment can be explained in large part by the following. I correctly predicted that Tmoe would waste natural resources. Alas, I didn't think he'd do that so effectively—or so soon.

Since this is one of those "don't say I didn't warn you" letters, I want also to note that factionalism is the last refuge of the rabid. That said, let me continue. If Tmoe truly believes that our elected officials should be available for purchase by special-interest groups, then maybe he should enroll in Introduction to Reality 101. He talks loudly about family values and personal responsibility but when it comes to backing up those words with actions, all Tmoe does is bask in the hideous shine of opportunism. If there's an untold story here, it's that he is a profligate roustabout. I use that label only when it's true. If you don't believe it is, then consider that Tmoe contends that he is a master of precognition, psychokinesis, remote viewing, and other undeveloped human capabilities. Sounds rather money-grubbing, doesn't it? Well, that's Tmoe for you.

If anything, I have always been an independent thinker. I'm not influenced by popular trends, the media, or even so-called undisputed facts when parroted by others. Maybe that streak of independence is what first enabled me to see that only through education can individuals gain the independent tools they need to ask Tmoe to rephrase his criticisms in a more reasoned way. But the first step is to acknowledge that he likes witticisms that manufacture outrage at his critics by attributing to them all classes of wild politics. Could there be a conflict of interest there? If you were to ask me, I'd say that he claims that anyone who resists him deserves to be crushed. Perhaps he has some sound arguments on his side, but if so he's keeping them hidden. I'd say it's far more likely that Tmoe is absolutely rummy. We all are, to some extent, but he sets the curve.

Even Tmoe's deputies don't care much for his political objectives; they simply wish to associate with other obscene incubi and pit people against each other. The really interesting thing about all this is not that when someone bends knee to Tmoe's non-negotiable demands, he pushes and pushes for more. The interesting thing is that he has repeatedly been spotted using mass organization as a system of integration and control. When questioned about that, he either denies any knowledge of it or offers unbelievable and ludicrous explanations that only an improvident ruffian could believe. From a purely technical point of view, I thrive on debates, statistics, and getting the facts right. And the facts in this case clearly indicate that I can no longer get very excited about any revelation of Tmoe's hypocrisy or crookedness. It's what I've come to expect by now.

I cannot promise not to be angry at Tmoe. I do promise, however, to try to keep my anger under control, to keep it from leading me—as it leads Tmoe—to control your bank account, your employment, your personal safety, and your mind. When all is said and done, he hates people who have huge supplies of the things he lacks. What Tmoe lacks the most is common sense, which underlies my point that he is the picture of the insane person on the street, babbling to a tree, a wall, or a cloud, which cannot and does not respond to his actions. Because he wasn't listening when I said this before, I'm forced to repeat myself: He bickers and argues over petty things. So let him call me twisted. I call him biggety. Let me end this letter by telling Tmoe that I fully intend to comment on his claims. This action is lawful. This action is moral. And this action is right.

 

It is with extreme disgust that I write this letter and say what will unmistakably be considered insidious by some of my peers. Nonetheless, it must be stated that tyro uses isolated incidents to make lecherous, all-encompassing claims about its adversaries. Unless you share my view that I think this is tragic, there's no need for you to hear me further. Like a lion after tasting the blood of human victims, tyro will make individuals indifferent to the survival of their families.

Does tyro honestly expect us to believe that our only chance of saving the planet is to accept unending regulations and straightjacket "reforms" from its goombahs? My best guess, for what it may be worth, is based on two key observations. The first observation is that some of its secret agents once admitted—after considerable tergiversation—that yes, tyro had secretly plotted to lay waste to the environment. The second, more telling, observation is that when people say that bigotry and hate are alive and well, they're right. And tyro is to blame. By this, I mean that if I didn't think tyro would diminish our will to live, I wouldn't say that I can't understand why it has to be so anti-democratic. Maybe a dybbuk has taken up residence inside its head and is making it create a system of narcissism characterized by confidential files, closed courts, gag orders, and statutory immunity. It's a bit more likely, however, that it has arrived at the highest degree of imposture. Let's be sure that I've made myself absolutely clear: I no longer believe that trends like family breakdown, promiscuity, and violence are random events. Not only are they explicitly glorified and promoted by tyro's obscene, spleeny protests, but one can usually be pretty sure when it's lying. Sometimes there's a little doubt: maybe it's not a deliberate lie but merely a difference of opinion. But when tyro claims that everything is happy and fine and good, there's no room for ambiguity: it's lying.

Looking at it on the bright side, tyro speaks like a true defender of the status quo—a status quo, we should not forget, that enables it to blackmail politicians into panicking irrationally and overreacting completely. My position is that tyro likes the sound of its own voice. It, in contrast, argues that it is the way, the truth, and the light. This disagreement merely scratches the surface of the ideological chasm festering between me and tyro. The only rational way to bridge this chasm is for it to admit that if it could have one wish, it'd wish for the ability to trivialize certain events that are particularly special to us all. Then, people the world over would be too terrified to acknowledge that I'm willing to accept that I shall return to this point in particular. I'm even willing to accept that it desperately wants to be fashionable. But the pen is a powerful tool. Why don't we use that tool to maximize our individual potential for effectiveness and success in combatting it?

Did you hear what tyro recently said about tribalism? Never before has a ghastly scrounger so cleverly hidden in plain sight its intention to destroy the values, methods, and goals of traditional humanistic study. Tyro is terrified that there might be an absolute reality outside itself, a reality that is what it is, regardless of its wishes, theories, hopes, daydreams, or decrees. Tyro has warned us that some day, lamebrained deadheads will squander irreplaceable national treasures. If you think about it, you'll realize that tyro's warning is a self-fulfilling prophecy in the sense that on the issue of jujuism, tyro is wrong again. Sure, my artifices are clearly in defense of decency and human dignity and violate nobody's rights. But the hour is late indeed. Fortunately, it's not yet too late to make tyro pay for its crimes against humanity.

If we contradict tyro, we are labelled stiff-necked crumbums. If we capitulate, however, we forfeit our freedoms. Tyro's dissertations are like hothouse plants. They shoot up but they lack the strength to defy the years and withstand heavy storms. Simply put, anyone who hasn't been living in a cave with his eyes shut and his ears plugged knows that if I may be so bold, there is no place in this country where we are safe from tyro's lapdogs, no place where we are not targeted for hatred and attack. I might be able to forgive tyro, but only if it promises never again to put political correctness ahead of scientific rigor.

Ultra-soporific loudmouths may endanger our property or our security or our economic well-being, but tyro endangers our souls. What, then, does "preterdiplomatically" mean? It means considerably more than any dictionary is likely to say.

Tyro has inadvertently provided us with an instructive example that I find useful in illustrating certain ideas. By impugning the patriotism of its rivals, tyro makes it clear that somebody has to keep our priorities in check. That somebody can be you. In any case, tyro keeps trying to blame those who have no power to change the current direction of events. And if we don't remain eternally vigilant, it will indeed succeed. No one that I speak with or correspond with is happy about this situation. Of course, I don't speak or correspond with drossy extortionists, tyro's flunkies, or anyone else who fails to realize that there is no such thing as evil in the abstract. It exists only in the evil deeds of evil organizations like tyro.

Tyro knows how to lie. It's too bad it doesn't yet understand the ramifications of lying. Tyro will tell us how to live, what to say, what to think, what to know, and—most importantly—what not to know because it possesses a hatred that defies all logic and understanding, that cannot be quantified or reasoned away, and that savagely possesses covinous polemics with nerdy and uncontrollable rage.

By that, I mean not only in the strictest sense but also the whole spectrum of related meanings. This is a fine example of what I've been talking about. Still, I recommend you check out some of tyro's flimflams and draw your own conclusions on the matter. I can't make heads or tails of tyro's expositions. I mean, does it want to lay the foundation for some serious mischief, or doesn't it? While tyro is out making us dependent on devious megalomaniacs for political representation, economic support, social position, and psychological approval, the general public is shouldering the bill. Sadly, this is a bill of shattered minds, broken hearts and homes, depression and all its attendant miseries, and a despondency about tyro's attempts to assuage the hungers of its adherents with servings of fresh scapegoats. From a purely technical point of view, sometimes I think that tyro is simply a willing pawn of those humorless, rude idiots who authorize, promote, celebrate, and legitimize feckless fetishism. I typically drop that willing-pawn notion, however, whenever I remember that to someone whose eyes are open, tyro's constantly repeated mantra that a knowledge of correct diction, even if unused, evinces a superiority that covers cowardice or stupidity is an insanely despicable notion. By way of contrast, consider my personal mantra that tyro wants us to feel sorry for the illogical duffers who quote me out of context. I think we should instead feel sorry for their victims, all of whom know full well that everything I've said so far is by way of introduction to the key point I want to make in this letter. My key point is that tyro's imperium has found a rallying cry for its upcoming battle against our most treasured liberties. That rallying cry is, "Tyro's hariolations are Holy Writ!" It's quotes like that that make me realize that tyro's prevarications have created a featherbrained, dodgy universe devoid of logic and evidence. Only within this universe does it make sense to say that the average working-class person can't see through tyro's chicanery. Only within this universe does it make sense to eviscerate freedom of speech and sexual privacy rights. And, only if we raise the quality of debate on issues surrounding its invidious slogans can we destroy this irritable universe of its and free people from the spell of imperialism that it has cast over them.

It may seem difficult at first to even the score. It is. But many people have witnessed tyro promote a herd mentality over principled, individual thought. Tyro generally insists that its witnesses are mistaken and blames its parasitic scare tactics on disrespectful calumniators. It's like it has no-fault insurance against personal responsibility. What's more, if you ever ask tyro to do something, you can bet that your request will get lost in the shuffle, unaddressed, ignored, and rebuffed. Everything I've written in this letter amounts to this: There are a series of options I could pursue, if necessary.

 

LOOOOL also, WB.

 

No, Mine still wins.







So, there's a man crawling through the desert.

He'd decided to try his SUV in a little bit of cross-country travel, had great fun zooming over the badlands and through the sand, got lost, hit a big rock, and then he couldn't get it started again. There were no cell phone towers anywhere near, so his cell phone was useless. He had no family, his parents had died a few years before in an auto accident, and his few friends had no idea he was out here.

He stayed with the car for a day or so, but his one bottle of water ran out
and he was getting thirsty. He thought maybe he knew the direction back, now that he'd paid attention to the sun and thought he'd figured out which way was north, so he decided to start walking. He figured he only had to go about 30 miles or so and he'd be back to the small town he'd gotten gas in last.

He thinks about walking at night to avoid the heat and sun, but based upon
how dark it actually was the night before, and given that he has no flashlight, he's afraid that he'll break a leg or step on a rattlesnake. So,
he puts on some sun block, puts the rest in his pocket for reapplication
later, brings an umbrella he'd had in the back of the SUV with him to give
him a little shade, pours the windshield wiper fluid into his water bottle
in case he gets that desperate, brings his pocket knife in case he finds a cactus that looks like it might have water in it, and heads out in the
direction he thinks is right.

He walks for the entire day. By the end of the day he's really thirsty. He's
been sweating all day, and his lips are starting to crack. He's reapplied the sunblock twice, and tried to stay under the umbrella, but he still feels sunburned. The windshield wiper fluid sloshing in the bottle in his pocket is really getting tempting now. He knows that it's mainly water and some ethanol and coloring, but he also knows that they add some kind of poison to it to keep people from drinking it. He wonders what the poison is, and
whether the poison would be worse than dying of thirst.

He pushes on, trying to get to that small town before dark.

By the end of the day he starts getting worried. He figures he's been walking at least 3 miles an hour, according to his watch for over 10 hours. That means that if his estimate was right that he should be close to the
town. But he doesn't recognize any of this. He had to cross a dry creek bed a mile or two back, and he doesn't remember coming through it in the SUV. He figures that maybe he got his direction off just a little and that the dry creek bed was just off to one side of his path. He tells himself that he's close, and that after dark he'll start seeing the town lights over one of these hills, and that'll be all he needs.

As it gets dim enough that he starts stumbling over small rocks and things,
he finds a spot and sits down to wait for full dark and the town lights.

Full dark comes before he knows it. He must have dozed off. He stands back
up and turns all the way around. He sees nothing but stars.

He wakes up the next morning feeling absolutely lousy. His eyes are gummy and his mouth and nose feel like they're full of sand. He so thirsty that he can't even swallow. He barely got any sleep because it was so cold. He'd forgotten how cold it got at night in the desert and hadn't noticed it the night before because he'd been in his car.

He knows the Rule of Threes - three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food - then you die. Some people can make it a little longer, in the best situations. But the desert heat and having to walk and sweat isn't the best situation to be without water. He figures, unless he finds water, this is his last day.

He rinses his mouth out with a little of the windshield wiper fluid. He waits a while after spitting that little bit out, to see if his mouth goes numb, or he feels dizzy or something. Has his mouth gone numb? Is it just in
his mind? He's not sure. He'll go a little farther, and if he still doesn't
find water, he'll try drinking some of the fluid.

Then he has to face his next, harder question - which way does he go from here? Does he keep walking the same way he was yesterday (assuming that he still knows which way that is), or does he try a new direction? He has no idea what to do.

Looking at the hills and dunes around him, he thinks he knows the direction he was heading before. Just going by a feeling, he points himself somewhat to the left of that, and starts walking.

As he walks, the day starts heating up. The desert, too cold just a couple of hours before, soon becomes an oven again. He sweats a little at first, and then stops. He starts getting worried at that - when you stop sweating he knows that means you're in trouble - usually right before heat stroke.

He decides that it's time to try the windshield wiper fluid. He can't wait
any longer - if he passes out, he's dead. He stops in the shade of a large
rock, takes the bottle out, opens it, and takes a mouthful. He slowly
swallows it, making it last as long as he can. It feels so good in his dry
and cracked throat that he doesn't even care about the nasty taste. He takes
another mouthful, and makes it last too. Slowly, he drinks half the bottle.
He figures that since he's drinking it, he might as well drink enough to
make some difference and keep himself from passing out.

He's quit worrying about the denaturing of the wiper fluid. If it kills him,
it kills him - if he didn't drink it, he'd die anyway. Besides, he's pretty
sure that whatever substance they denature the fluid with is just designed to make you sick - their way of keeping winos from buying cheap wiper fluid for the ethanol content. He can handle throwing up, if it comes to that.

He walks. He walks in the hot, dry, windless desert. Sand, rocks, hills,
dunes, the occasional scrawny cactus or dried bush. No sign of water.
Sometimes he'll see a little movement to one side or the other, but whatever moved is usually gone before he can focus his eyes on it. Probably birds, lizards, or mice. Maybe snakes, though they usually move more at night. He's careful to stay away from the movements.

After a while, he begins to stagger. He's not sure if it's fatigue, heat
stroke finally catching him, or maybe he was wrong and the denaturing of the wiper fluid was worse than he thought. He tries to steady himself, and keep going.

After more walking, he comes to a large stretch of sand. This is good! He
knows he passed over a stretch of sand in the SUV - he remembers doing
donuts in it. Or at least he thinks he remembers it - he's getting woozy
enough and tired enough that he's not sure what he remembers any more or if
he's hallucinating. But he thinks he remembers it. So he heads off into it,
trying to get to the other side, hoping that it gets him closer to the town.

He was heading for a town, wasn't he? He thinks he was. He isn't sure any more. He's not even sure how long he's been walking any more. Is it still morning? Or has it moved into afternoon and the sun is going down again? It must be afternoon - it seems like it's been too long since he started out.

He walks through the sand.

After a while, he comes to a big dune in the sand. This is bad. He doesn't
remember any dunes when driving over the sand in his SUV. Or at least he
doesn't think he remembers any. This is bad.

But, he has no other direction to go. Too late to turn back now. He figures
that he'll get to the top of the dune and see if he can see anything from
there that helps him find the town. He keeps going up the dune.

Halfway up, he slips in the bad footing of the sand for the second or third
time, and falls to his knees. He doesn't feel like getting back up - he'll
just fall down again. So, he keeps going up the dune on his hand and knees.

While crawling, if his throat weren't so dry, he'd laugh. He's finally
gotten to the hackneyed image of a man lost in the desert - crawling through
the sand on his hands and knees. If would be the perfect image, he imagines, if only his clothes were more ragged. The people crawling through the desert
in the cartoons always had ragged clothes. But his have lasted without any
rips so far. Somebody will probably find his dessicated corpse half buried in the sand years from now, and his clothes will still be in fine shape -
shake the sand out, and a good wash, and they'd be wearable again. He wishes his throat were wet enough to laugh. He coughs a little instead, and it hurts.

He finally makes it to the top of the sand dune. Now that he's at the top,
he struggles a little, but manages to stand up and look around. All he sees
is sand. Sand, and more sand. Behind him, about a mile away, he thinks he
sees the rocky ground he left to head into this sand. Ahead of him, more
dunes, more sand. This isn't where he drove his SUV. This is Hell. Or close enough.

Again, he doesn't know what to do. He decides to drink the rest of the wiper
fluid while figuring it out. He takes out the bottle, and is removing the
cap, when he glances to the side and sees something. Something in the sand. At the bottom of the dune, off to the side, he sees something strange. It's a flat area, in the sand. He stops taking the cap of the bottle off, and tries to look closer. The area seems to be circular. And it's dark - darker than the sand. And, there seems to be something in the middle of it, but he can't tell what it is. He looks as hard as he can, and still can tell from
here. He's going to have to go down there and look.

He puts the bottle back in his pocket, and starts to stumble down the dune.
After a few steps, he realizes that he's in trouble - he's not going to be able to keep his balance. After a couple of more sliding, tottering steps, he falls and starts to roll down the dune. The sand it so hot when his body hits it that for a minute he thinks he's caught fire on the way down - like a movie car wreck flashing into flames as it goes over the cliff, before it ever even hits the ground. He closes his eyes and mouth, covers his face with his hands, and waits to stop rolling.

He stops, at the bottom of the dune. After a minute or two, he finds enough
energy to try to sit up and get the sand out of his face and clothes. When
he clears his eyes enough, he looks around to make sure that the dark spot
in the sand it still there and he hadn't just imagined it.

So, seeing the large, flat, dark spot on the sand is still there, he begins
to crawl towards it. He'd get up and walk towards it, but he doesn't seem to
have the energy to get up and walk right now. He must be in the final stages
of dehydration he figures, as he crawls. If this place in the sand doesn't
have water, he'll likely never make it anywhere else. This is his last
chance.

He gets closer and closer, but still can't see what's in the middle of the
dark area. His eyes won't quite focus any more for some reason. And lifting
his head up to look takes so much effort that he gives up trying. He just
keeps crawling.

Finally, he reaches the area he'd seen from the dune. It takes him a minute of crawling on it before he realizes that he's no longer on sand - he's now crawling on some kind of dark stone. Stone with some kind of marking on it - a pattern cut into the stone. He's too tired to stand up and try to see what the pattern is - so he just keeps crawling. He crawls towards the center,
where his blurry eyes still see something in the middle of the dark stone
area.

His mind, detached in a strange way, notes that either his hands and knees are so burnt by the sand that they no longer feel pain, or that this dark
stone, in the middle of a burning desert with a pounding, punishing sun
overhead, doesn't seem to be hot. It almost feels cool. He considers lying
down on the nice cool surface.

Cool, dark stone. Not a good sign. He must be hallucinating this. He's
probably in the middle of a patch of sand, already lying face down and
dying, and just imagining this whole thing. A desert mirage. Soon the
beautiful women carrying pitchers of water will come up and start giving him
a drink. Then he'll know he's gone.

He decides against laying down on the cool stone. If he's going to die here
in the middle of this hallucination, he at least wants to see what's in the
center before he goes. He keeps crawling.

It's the third time that he hears the voice before he realizes what he's
hearing. He would swear that someone just said, "Greetings, traveler. You do
not look well. Do you hear me?"

He stops crawling. He tries to look up from where he is on his hands and
knees, but it's too much effort to lift his head. So he tries something
different - he leans back and tries to sit up on the stone. After a few
seconds, he catches his balance, avoids falling on his face, sits up, and
tries to focus his eyes. Blurry. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hands
and tries again. Better this time.

Yep. He can see. He's sitting in the middle of a large, flat, dark expanse
of stone. Directly next to him, about three feet away, is a white post or
pole about two inches in diameter and sticking up about four or five feet
out of the stone, at an angle.

And wrapped around this white rod, tail with rattle on it hovering and
seeming to be ready to start rattling, is what must be a fifteen foot long
desert diamondback rattlesnake, looking directly at him.

He stares at the snake in shock. He doesn't have the energy to get up and
run away. He doesn't even have the energy to crawl away. This is it, his
final resting place. No matter what happens, he's not going to be able to
move from this spot.

Well, at least dying of a bite from this monster should be quicker than
dying of thirst. He'll face his end like a man. He struggles to sit up a
little straighter. The snake keeps watching him. He lifts one hand and waves
it in the snake's direction, feebly. The snake watches the hand for a
moment, then goes back to watching the man, looking into his eyes.

Hmmm. Maybe the snake had no interest in biting him? It hadn't rattled yet -
that was a good sign. Maybe he wasn't going to die of snake bite after all.

He then remembers that he'd looked up when he'd reached the center here
because he thought he'd heard a voice. He was still very woozy - he was
likely to pass out soon, the sun still beat down on him even though he was
now on cool stone. He still didn't have anything to drink. But maybe he had
actually heard a voice. This stone didn't look natural. Nor did that white
post sticking up out of the stone. Someone had to have built this. Maybe
they were still nearby. Maybe that was who talked to him. Maybe this snake
was even their pet, and that's why it wasn't biting.

He tries to clear his throat to say, "Hello," but his throat is too dry. All
that comes out is a coughing or wheezing sound. There is no way he's going
to be able to talk without something to drink. He feels his pocket, and the
bottle with the wiper fluid is still there. He shakily pulls the bottle out,
almost losing his balance and falling on his back in the process. This isn't
good. He doesn't have much time left, by his reckoning, before he passes
out.

He gets the lid off of the bottle, manages to get the bottle to his lips,
and pours some of the fluid into his mouth. He sloshes it around, and then
swallows it. He coughs a little. His throat feels better. Maybe he can talk
now.

He tries again. Ignoring the snake, he turns to look around him, hoping to
spot the owner of this place, and croaks out, "Hello? Is there anyone here?"

He hears, from his side, "Greetings. What is it that you want?"

He turns his head, back towards the snake. That's where the sound had seemed
to come from. The only thing he can think of is that there must be a
speaker, hidden under the snake, or maybe built into that post. He decides
to try asking for help.

"Please," he croaks again, suddenly feeling dizzy, "I'd love to not be
thirsty any more. I've been a long time without water. Can you help me?"

Looking in the direction of the snake, hoping to see where the voice was
coming from this time, he is shocked to see the snake rear back, open its
mouth, and speak. He hears it say, as the dizziness overtakes him and he
falls forward, face first on the stone, "Very well. Coming up."

A piercing pain shoots through his shoulder. Suddenly he is awake. He sits
up and grabs his shoulder, wincing at the throbbing pain. He's momentarily
disoriented as he looks around, and then he remembers - the crawl across the
sand, the dark area of stone, the snake. He sees the snake, still wrapped
around the tilted white post, still looking at him.

He reaches up and feels his shoulder, where it hurts. It feels slightly wet.
He pulls his fingers away and looks at them - blood. He feels his shoulder
again - his shirt has what feels like two holes in it - two puncture holes -
they match up with the two aching spots of pain on his shoulder. He had been
bitten. By the snake.

"It'll feel better in a minute." He looks up - it's the snake talking. He
hadn't dreamed it. Suddenly he notices - he's not dizzy any more. And more
importantly, he's not thirsty any more - at all!

"Have I died? Is this the afterlife? Why are you biting me in the
afterlife?"

"Sorry about that, but I had to bite you," says the snake. "That's the way I
work. It all comes through the bite. Think of it as natural medicine."

"You bit me to help me? Why aren't I thirsty any more? Did you give me a
drink before you bit me? How did I drink enough while unconscious to not be
thirsty any more? I haven't had a drink for over two days. Well, except for
the windshield wiper fluid... hold it, how in the world does a snake talk?
Are you real? Are you some sort of Disney animation?"

"No," says the snake, "I'm real. As real as you or anyone is, anyway. I
didn't give you a drink. I bit you. That's how it works - it's what I do. I
bite. I don't have hands to give you a drink, even if I had water just
sitting around here."

The man sat stunned for a minute. Here he was, sitting in the middle of the
desert on some strange stone that should be hot but wasn't, talking to a
snake that could talk back and had just bitten him. And he felt better. Not
great - he was still starving and exhausted, but much better - he was no
longer thirsty. He had started to sweat again, but only slightly. He felt
hot, in this sun, but it was starting to get lower in the sky, and the cool
stone beneath him was a relief he could notice now that he was no longer
dying of thirst.

"I might suggest that we take care of that methanol you now have in your
system with the next request," continued the snake. "I can guess why you
drank it, but I'm not sure how much you drank, or how much methanol was left
in the wiper fluid. That stuff is nasty. It'll make you go blind in a day or
two, if you drank enough of it."

"Ummm, n-next request?" said the man. He put his hand back on his hurting
shoulder and backed away from the snake a little.

"That's the way it works. If you like, that is," explained the snake. "You
get three requests. Call them wishes, if you wish." The snake grinned at his
own joke, and the man drew back a little further from the show of fangs.

"But there are rules," the snake continued. "The first request is free. The
second requires an agreement of secrecy. The third requires the binding of
responsibility." The snake looks at the man seriously.

"By the way," the snake says suddenly, "my name is Nathan. Old Nathan,
Samuel used to call me. He gave me the name. Before that, most of the Bound
used to just call me 'Snake'. But that got old, and Samuel wouldn't stand
for it. He said that anything that could talk needed a name. He was big into
names. You can call me Nate, if you wish." Again, the snake grinned. "Sorry
if I don't offer to shake, but I think you can understand - my shake sounds
somewhat threatening." The snake give his rattle a little shake.

"Umm, my name is Jack," said the man, trying to absorb all of this. "Jack
Samson.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jack says suddenly. "What happened to the
poison...umm, in your bite. Why aren't I dying now? How did you do that?
What do you mean by that's how you work?"

"That's more than one question," grins Nate. "But I'll still try to answer
all of them. First, yes, you can ask me a question." The snake's grin gets
wider. "Second, the poison is in you. It changed you. You now no longer need
to drink. That's what you asked for. Or, well, technically, you asked to not
be thirsty any more - but 'any more' is such a vague term. I decided to make
it permanent - now, as long as you live, you shouldn't need to drink much at
all. Your body will conserve water very efficiently. You should be able to
get enough just from the food you eat - much like a creature of the desert.
You've been changed.

"For the third question," Nate continues, "you are still dying. Besides the
effects of that methanol in your system, you're a man - and men are mortal.
In your current state, I give you no more than about another 50 years.
Assuming you get out of this desert, alive, that is." Nate seemed vastly
amused at his own humor, and continued his wide grin.

"As for the fourth question," Nate said, looking more serious as far as Jack
could tell, as Jack was just now working on his ability to read
talking-snake emotions from snake facial features, "first you have to agree
to make a second request and become bound by the secrecy, or I can't tell
you."

"Wait," joked Jack, "isn't this where you say you could tell me, but you'd
have to kill me?"

"I thought that was implied." Nate continued to look serious.

"Ummm...yeah." Jack leaned back a little as he remembered again that he was
talking to a fifteen foot poisonous reptile with a reputation for having a
nasty temper. "So, what is this 'Bound by Secrecy' stuff, and can you really
stop the effects of the methanol?" Jack thought for a second. "And, what do
you mean methanol, anyway? I thought these days they use ethanol in wiper
fluid, and just denature it?"

"They may, I don't really know," said Nate. "I haven't gotten out in a
while. Maybe they do. All I know is that I smell methanol on your breath and
on that bottle in your pocket. And the blue color of the liquid when you
pulled it out to drink some let me guess that it was wiper fluid. I assume
that they still color wiper fluid blue?"

"Yeah, they do," said Jack.

"I figured," replied Nate. "As for being bound by secrecy - with the
fulfillment of your next request, you will be bound to say nothing about me,
this place, or any of the information I will tell you after that, when you
decide to go back out to your kind. You won't be allowed to talk about me,
write about me, use sign language, charades, or even act in a way that will
lead someone to guess correctly about me. You'll be bound to secrecy. Of
course, I'll also ask you to promise not to give me away, and as I'm
guessing that you're a man of your word, you'll never test the binding
anyway, so you won't notice." Nate said the last part with utter confidence.

Jack, who had always prided himself on being a man of his word, felt a
little nervous at this. "Ummm, hey, Nate, who are you? How did you know
that? Are you, umm, omniscient, or something?"

Well, Jack," said Nate sadly, "I can't tell you that, unless you make the
second request." Nate looked away for a minute, then looked back.

"Umm, well, ok," said Jack, "what is this about a second request? What can I
ask for? Are you allowed to tell me that?"

"Sure!" said Nate, brightening. "You're allowed to ask for changes. Changes
to yourself. They're like wishes, but they can only affect you. Oh, and
before you ask, I can't give you immortality. Or omniscience. Or
omnipresence, for that matter. Though I might be able to make you gaseous
and yet remain alive, and then you could spread through the atmosphere and
sort of be omnipresent. But what good would that be - you still wouldn't be
omniscient and thus still could only focus on one thing at a time. Not very
useful, at least in my opinion." Nate stopped when he realized that Jack was
staring at him.

"Well, anyway," continued Nate, "I'd probably suggest giving you permanent
good health. It would negate the methanol now in your system, you'd be
immune to most poisons and diseases, and you'd tend to live a very long
time, barring accident, of course. And you'll even have a tendency to
recover from accidents well. It always seemed like a good choice for a
request to me."

"Cure the methanol poisoning, huh?" said Jack. "And keep me healthy for a
long time? Hmmm. It doesn't sound bad at that. And it has to be a request
about a change to me? I can't ask to be rich, right? Because that's not
really a change to me?"

"Right," nodded Nate.

"Could I ask to be a genius and permanently healthy?" Jack asked, hopefully.

"That takes two requests, Jack."

"Yeah, I figured so," said Jack. "But I could ask to be a genius? I could
become the smartest scientist in the world? Or the best athlete?"

"Well, I could make you very smart," admitted Nate, "but that wouldn't
necessarily make you the best scientist in the world. Or, I could make you
very athletic, but it wouldn't necessarily make you the best athlete either.
You've heard the saying that 99% of genius is hard work? Well, there's some
truth to that. I can give you the talent, but I can't make you work hard. It
all depends on what you decide to do with it."

"Hmmm," said Jack. "Ok, I think I understand. And I get a third request,
after this one?"

"Maybe," said Nate, "it depends on what you decide then. There are more
rules for the third request that I can only tell you about after the second
request. You know how it goes." Nate looked like he'd shrug, if he had
shoulders.

"Ok, well, since I'd rather not be blind in a day or two, and permanent
health doesn't sound bad, then consider that my second request. Officially.
Do I need to sign in blood or something?"

"No," said Nate. "Just hold out your hand. Or heel." Nate grinned. "Or
whatever part you want me to bite. I have to bite you again. Like I said,
that's how it works - the poison, you know," Nate said apologetically.

Jack winced a little and felt his shoulder, where the last bite was. Hey, it
didn't hurt any more. Just like Nate had said. That made Jack feel better
about the biting business. But still, standing still while a fifteen foot
snake sunk it's fangs into you. Jack stood up. Ignoring how good it felt to
be able to stand again, and the hunger starting to gnaw at his stomach, Jack
tried to decide where he wanted to get bitten. Despite knowing that it
wouldn't hurt for long, Jack knew that this wasn't going to be easy.

"Hey, Jack," Nate suddenly said, looking past Jack towards the dunes behind
him, "is that someone else coming up over there?"

Jack spun around and looked. Who else could be out here in the middle of
nowhere? And did they bring food?

Wait a minute, there was nobody over there. What was Nate...

Jack let out a bellow as he felt two fangs sink into his rear end, through
his jeans...

Jack sat down carefully, favoring his more tender buttock. "I would have
decided, eventually, Nate. I was just thinking about it. You didn't have to
hoodwink me like that."

"I've been doing this a long time, Jack," said Nate, confidently. "You
humans have a hard time sitting still and letting a snake bite you -
especially one my size. And besides, admit it - it's only been a couple of
minutes and it already doesn't hurt any more, does it? That's because of the
health benefit with this one. I told you that you'd heal quickly now."

"Yeah, well, still," said Jack, "it's the principle of the thing. And nobody
likes being bitten in the butt! Couldn't you have gotten my calf or
something instead?"

"More meat in the typical human butt," replied Nate. "And less chance you
accidentally kick me or move at the last second."

"Yeah, right. So, tell me all of these wonderful secrets that I now qualify
to hear," answered Jack.

"Ok," said Nate. "Do you want to ask questions first, or do you want me to
just start talking?"

"Just talk," said Jack. "I'll sit here and try to not think about food."

"We could go try to rustle up some food for you first, if you like,"
answered Nate.

"Hey! You didn't tell me you had food around here, Nate!" Jack jumped up.
"What do we have? Am I in walking distance to town? Or can you magically
whip up food along with your other powers?" Jack was almost shouting with
excitement. His stomach had been growling for hours.

"I was thinking more like I could flush something out of its hole and bite
it for you, and you could skin it and eat it. Assuming you have a knife,
that is," replied Nate, with the grin that Jack was starting to get used to.

"Ugh," said Jack, sitting back down. "I think I'll pass. I can last a little
longer before I get desperate enough to eat desert rat, or whatever else it
is you find out here. And there's nothing to burn - I'd have to eat it raw.
No thanks. Just talk."

"Ok," replied Nate, still grinning. "But I'd better hurry, before you start
looking at me as food.

Nate reared back a little, looked around for a second, and then continued.
"You, Jack, are sitting in the middle of the Garden of Eden."

Jack looked around at the sand and dunes and then looked back at Nate
sceptically.

"Well, that's the best I can figure it, anyway, Jack," said Nate. "Stand up
and look at the symbol on the rock here." Nate gestured around the dark
stone they were both sitting on with his nose.

Jack stood up and looked. Carved into the stone in a bas-relief was a
representation of a large tree. The angled-pole that Nate was wrapped around
was coming out of the trunk of the tree, right below where the main branches
left the truck to reach out across the stone. It was very well done - it
looked more like a tree had been reduced to almost two dimensions and
embedded in the stone than it did like a carving.

Jack walked around and looked at the details in the fading light of the
setting sun. He wished he'd looked at it while the sun was higher in the
sky.

Wait! The sun was setting! That meant he was going to have to spend another
night out here! Arrrgh!

Jack looked out across the desert for a little bit, and then came back and
stood next to Nate. "In all the excitement, I almost forgot, Nate," said
Jack. "Which way is it back to town? And how far? I'm eventually going to
have to head back - I'm not sure I'll be able to survive by eating raw
desert critters for long. And even if I can, I'm not sure I'll want to."

"It's about 30 miles that way." Nate pointed, with the rattle on his tail
this time. As far as Jack could tell, it was a direction at right angles to
the way he'd been going when he was crawling here. "But that's 30 miles by
the way the crow flies. It's about 40 by the way a man walks. You should be
able to do it in about half a day with your improved endurance, if you head
out early tomorrow, Jack."

Jack looked out the way the snake had pointed for a few seconds more, and
then sat back down. It was getting dark. Not much he could do about heading
out right now. And besides, Nate was just about to get to the interesting
stuff. "Garden of Eden? As best as you can figure it?"

"Well, yeah, as best as I and Samuel could figure it anyway," said Nate. "He
figured that the story just got a little mixed up. You know, snake, in a
'tree', offering 'temptations', making bargains. That kind stuff. But he
could never quite figure out how the Hebrews found out about this spot from
across the ocean. He worried about that for a while."

"Garden of Eden, hunh?" said Jack. "How long have you been here, Nate?"

"No idea, really," replied Nate. "A long time. It never occurred to me to
count years, until recently, and by then, of course, it was too late. But I
do remember when this whole place was green, so I figure it's been thousands
of years, at least."

"So, are you the snake that tempted Eve?" said Jack.

"Beats me," said Nate. "Maybe. I can't remember if the first one of your
kind that I talked to was female or not, and I never got a name, but it
could have been. And I suppose she could have considered my offer to grant
requests a 'temptation', though I've rarely had refusals."

"Well, umm, how did you get here then? And why is that white pole stuck out
of the stone there?" asked Jack.

"Dad left me here. Or, I assume it was my dad. It was another snake - much
bigger than I was back then. I remember talking to him, but I don't remember
if it was in a language, or just kind of understanding what he wanted. But
one day, he brought me to this stone, told me about it, and asked me to do
something for him. I talked it over with him for a while, then agreed. I've
been here ever since.

"What is this place?" said Jack. "And what did he ask you to do?"

"Well, you see this pole here, sticking out of the stone?" Nate loosened his
coils around the tilted white pole and showed Jack where it descended into
the stone. The pole was tilted at about a 45 degree angle and seemed to
enter the stone in an eighteen inch slot cut into the stone. Jack leaned
over and looked. The slot was dark and the pole went down into it as far as
Jack could see in the dim light. Jack reached out to touch the pole, but
Nate was suddenly there in the way.

"You can't touch that yet, Jack," said Nate.

"Why not?" asked Jack.

"I haven't explained it to you yet," replied Nate.

"Well, it kinda looks like a lever or something," said Jack. "You'd push it
that way, and it would move in the slot."

"Yep, that's what it is," replied Nate.

"What does it do?" asked Jack. "End the world?"

"Oh, no," said Nate. "Nothing that drastic. It just ends humanity. I call it
'The Lever of Doom'." For the last few words Nate had used a deeper, ringing
voice. He tried to look serious for a few seconds, and then gave up and
grinned.

Jack was initially startled by Nate's pronouncement, but when Nate grinned
Jack laughed. "Ha! You almost had me fooled for a second there. What does it
really do?"

"Oh, it really ends humanity, like I said," smirked Nate. "I just thought
the voice I used was funny, didn't you?"

Nate continued to grin.

"A lever to end humanity?" asked Jack. "What in the world is that for? Why
would anyone need to end humanity?"

"Well," replied Nate, "I get the idea that maybe humanity was an experiment.
Or maybe the Big Guy just thought, that if humanity started going really
bad, there should be a way to end it. I'm not really sure. All I know are
the rules, and the guesses that Samuel and I had about why it's here. I
didn't think to ask back when I started here."

"Rules? What rules?" asked Jack.

"The rules are that I can't tell anybody about it or let them touch it
unless they agree to be bound to secrecy by a bite. And that only one human
can be bound in that way at a time. That's it." explained Nate.

Jack looked somewhat shocked. "You mean that I could pull the lever now?
You'd let me end humanity?"

"Yep," replied Nate, "if you want to." Nate looked at Jack carefully. "Do
you want to, Jack?"

"Umm, no." said Jack, stepping a little further back from the lever. "Why in
the world would anyone want to end humanity? It'd take a psychotic to want
that! Or worse, a suicidal psychotic, because it would kill him too,
wouldn't it?"

"Yep," replied Nate, "being as he'd be human too."

"Has anyone ever seriously considered it?" asked Nate. "Any of those bound
to secrecy, that is?"

"Well, of course, I think they've all seriously considered it at one time or
another. Being given that kind of responsibility makes you sit down and
think, or so I'm told. Samuel considered it several times. He'd often get
disgusted with humanity, come out here, and just hold the lever for a while.
But he never pulled it. Or you wouldn't be here." Nate grinned some more.

Jack sat down, well back from the lever. He looked thoughtful and puzzled at
the same time. After a bit, he said, "So this makes me the Judge of
humanity? I get to decide whether they keep going or just end? Me?"

"That seems to be it," agreed Nate.

"What kind of criteria do I use to decide?" said Jack. "How do I make this
decision? Am I supposed to decide if they're good? Or too many of them are
bad? Or that they're going the wrong way? Is there a set of rules for that?"

"Nope," replied Nate. "You pretty much just have to decide on your own. It's
up to you, however you want to decide it. I guess that you're just supposed
to know."

"But what if I get mad at someone? Or some girl dumps me and I feel
horrible? Couldn't I make a mistake? How do I know that I won't screw up?"
protested Jack.

Nate gave his kind of snake-like shrug again. "You don't. You just have to
try your best, Jack."

Jack sat there for a while, staring off into the desert that was rapidly
getting dark, chewing on a fingernail.

Suddenly, Jack turned around and looked at the snake. "Nate, was Samuel the
one bound to this before me?"

"Yep," replied Nate. "He was a good guy. Talked to me a lot. Taught me to
read and brought me books. I think I still have a good pile of them buried
in the sand around here somewhere. I still miss him. He died a few months
ago."

"Sounds like a good guy," agreed Jack. "How did he handle this, when you
first told him. What did he do?"

"Well," said Nate, "he sat down for a while, thought about it for a bit, and
then asked me some questions, much like you're doing."

"What did he ask you, if you're allowed to tell me?" asked Jack.

"He asked me about the third request," replied Nate.

"Aha!" It was Jack's turn to grin. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him the rules for the third request. That to get the third request
you have to agree to this whole thing. That if it ever comes to the point
that you really think that humanity should be ended, that you'll come here
and end it. You won't avoid it, and you won't wimp out." Nate looked serious
again. "And you'll be bound to do it too, Jack."

"Hmmm." Jack looked back out into the darkness for a while.

Nate watched him, waiting.

"Nate," continued Jack, quietly, eventually. "What did Samuel ask for with
his third request?"

Nate sounded like he was grinning again as he replied, also quietly,
"Wisdom, Jack. He asked for wisdom. As much as I could give him."

"Ok," said Jack, suddenly, standing up and facing away from Nate, "give it
to me.

Nate looked at Jack's backside. "Give you what, Jack?"

"Give me that wisdom. The same stuff that Samuel asked for. If it helped
him, maybe it'll help me too." Jack turned his head to look back over his
shoulder at Nate. "It did help him, right?"

"He said it did," replied Nate. "But he seemed a little quieter afterward.
Like he had a lot to think about."

"Well, yeah, I can see that," said Jack. "So, give it to me." Jack turned to
face away from Nate again, bent over slightly and tensed up.

Nate watched Jack tense up with a little exasperation. If he bit Jack now,
Jack would likely jump out of his skin and maybe hurt them both.

"You remember that you'll be bound to destroy humanity if it ever looks like
it needs it, right Jack?" asked Nate, shifting position.

"Yeah, yeah, I got that," replied Jack, eyes squeezed tightly shut and body
tense, not noticing the change in direction of Nate's voice.

"And," continued Nate, from his new position, "do you remember that you'll
turn bright purple, and grow big horns and extra eyes?"

"Yeah, yeah...Hey, wait a minute!" said Jack, opening his eyes,
straightening up and turning around. "Purple?!" He didn't see Nate there.
With the moonlight Jack could see that the lever extended up from its slot
in the rock without the snake wrapped around it.

Jack heard, from behind him, Nate's "Just Kidding!" right before he felt the
now familiar piercing pain, this time in the other buttock.

Jack sat on the edge of the dark stone in the rapidly cooling air, his feet
extending out into the sand. He stared out into the darkness, listening to
the wind stir the sand, occasionally rubbing his butt where he'd been
recently bitten.

Nate had left for a little while, had come back with a desert-rodent-shaped
bulge somewhere in his middle, and was now wrapped back around the lever,
his tongue flicking out into the desert night's air the only sign that he
was still awake.

Occasionally Jack, with his toes absentmindedly digging in the sand while he
thought, would ask Nate a question without turning around.

"Nate, do accidents count?"

Nate lifted his head a little bit. "What do you mean, Jack?"

Jack tilted his head back like he was looking at the stars. "You know,
accidents. If I accidentally fall on the lever, without meaning to, does
that still wipe out humanity?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure it does, Jack. I'd suggest you be careful about that
if you start feeling wobbly," said Nate with some amusement.

A little later - "Does it have to be me that pulls the lever?" asked Jack.

"That's the rule, Jack. Nobody else can pull it," answered Nate.

"No," Jack shook his head, "I meant does it have to be my hand? Could I pull
the lever with a rope tied around it? Or push it with a stick? Or throw a
rock?"

"Yes, those should work," replied Nate. "Though I'm not sure how complicated
you could get. Samuel thought about trying to build some kind of remote
control for it once, but gave it up. Everything he'd build would be gone by
the next sunrise, if it was touching the stone, or over it. I told him that
in the past others that had been bound had tried to bury the lever so they
wouldn't be tempted to pull it, but every time the stones or sand or
whatever had disappeared."

"Wow," said Jack, "Cool." Jack leaned back until only his elbows kept him
off of the stone and looked up into the sky.

"Nate, how long did Samuel live? One of his wishes was for health too,
right?" asked Jack.

"Yes," replied Nate, "it was. He lived 167 years, Jack."

"Wow, 167 years. That's almost 140 more years I'll live if I live as long.
Do you know what he died of, Nate?"

"He died of getting tired of living, Jack," Nate said, sounding somewhat
sad.

Jack turned his head to look at Nate in the starlight.

Nate looked back. "Samuel knew he wasn't going to be able to stay in
society. He figured that they'd eventually see him still alive and start
questioning it, so he decided that he'd have to disappear after a while. He
faked his death once, but changed his mind - he decided it was too early and
he could stay for a little longer. He wasn't very fond of mankind, but he
liked the attention. Most of the time, anyway.

"His daughter and then his wife dying almost did him in though. He didn't
stay in society much longer after that. He eventually came out here to spend
time talking to me and thinking about pulling the lever. A few months ago he
told me he'd had enough. It was his time."

"And then he just died?" asked Jack.

Nate shook his head a little. "He made his forth request, Jack. There's only
one thing you can ask for the fourth request. The last bite.

After a bit Nate continued, "He told me that he was tired, that it was his
time. He reassured me that someone new would show up soon, like they always
had.

After another pause, Nate finished, "Samuel's body disappeared off the stone
with the sunrise."

Jack lay back down and looked at the sky, leaving Nate alone with his
memories. It was a long time until Jack's breathing evened out into sleep.

Jack woke with the sunrise the next morning. He was a little chilled with
the morning desert air, but overall was feeling pretty good. Well, except
that his stomach was grumbling and he wasn't willing to eat raw desert rat.

So, after getting directions to town from Nate, making sure he knew how to
get back, and reassuring Nate that he'd be back soon, Jack started the long
walk back to town. With his new health and Nate's good directions, he made
it back easily.

Jack caught a bus back to the city, and showed up for work the next day,
little worse for the wear and with a story about getting lost in the desert
and walking back out. Within a couple of days Jack had talked a friend with
a tow truck into going back out into the desert with him to fetch the SUV.
They found it after a couple of hours of searching and towed it back without
incident. Jack was careful not to even look in the direction of Nate's
lever, though their path back didn't come within sight of it.

Before the next weekend, Jack had gone to a couple of stores, including a
book store, and had gotten his SUV back from the mechanic, with a warning to
avoid any more joyriding in the desert. On Saturday, Jack headed back to see
Nate.

Jack parked a little way out of the small town near Nate, loaded up his new
backpack with camping gear and the things he was bringing for Nate, and then
started walking. He figured that walking would leave the least trail, and he
knew that while not many people camped in the desert, it wasn't unheard of,
and shouldn't really raise suspicions.

Jack had brought more books for Nate - recent books, magazines, newspapers.
Some things that would catch Nate up with what was happening in the world,
others that were just good books to read. He spent the weekend with Nate,
and then headed out again, telling Nate that he'd be back again soon, but
that he had things to do first.

Over four months later Jack was back to see Nate again. This time he brought
a laptop with him - a specially modified laptop. It had a solar recharger,
special filters and seals to keep out the sand, a satellite link-up, and a
special keyboard and joystick that Jack hoped that a fifteen-foot
rattlesnake would be able to use. And, it had been hacked to not give out
its location to the satellite.

After that Jack could e-mail Nate to keep in touch, but still visited him
fairly regularly - at least once or twice a year.

After the first year, Jack quit his job. For some reason, with the wisdom he
'd been given, and the knowledge that he could live for over 150 years,
working in a nine to five job for someone else didn't seem that worthwhile
any more. Jack went back to school.

Eventually, Jack started writing. Perhaps because of the wisdom, or perhaps
because of his new perspective, he wrote well. People liked what he wrote,
and he became well known for it. After a time, Jack bought an RV and started
traveling around the country for book signings and readings.

But, he still remembered to drop by and visit Nate occasionally.

On one of the visits Nate seemed quieter than usual. Not that Nate had been
a fountain of joy lately. Jack's best guess was that Nate was still missing
Samuel, and though Jack had tried, he still hadn't been able to replace
Samuel in Nate's eyes. Nate had been getting quieter each visit. But on this
visit Nate didn't even speak when Jack walked up to the lever. He nodded at
Jack, and then went back to staring into the desert. Jack, respecting Nate's
silence, sat down and waited.

After a few minutes, Nate spoke. "Jack, I have someone to introduce you to."

Jack looked surprised. "Someone to introduce me to?" Jack looked around, and then looked carefully back at Nate. "This something to do with the Big Guy?

"No, no," replied Nate. "This is more personal. I want you to meet my son."
Nate looked over at the nearest sand dune. "Sammy!"

Jack watched as a four foot long desert rattlesnake crawled from behind the
dune and up to the stone base of the lever.

"Yo, Jack," said the new, much smaller snake.

"Yo, Sammy" replied Jack. Jack looked at Nate. "Named after Samuel, I
assume?"

Nate nodded. "Jack, I've got a favor to ask you. Could you show Sammy around
for me?" Nate unwrapped himself from the lever and slithered over to the
edge of the stone and looked across the sands. "When Samuel first told me
about the world, and brought me books and pictures, I wished that I could go see it. I wanted to see the great forests, the canyons, the cities, even the
other deserts, to see if they felt and smelled the same. I want my son to
have that chance - to see the world. Before he becomes bound here like I have been.

"He's seen it in pictures, over the computer that you brought me. But I hear that it's not the same. That being there is different. I want him to have
that. Think you can do that for me, Jack?"

Jack nodded. This was obviously very important to Nate, so Jack didn't even
joke about taking a talking rattlesnake out to see the world. "Yeah, I can
do that for you, Nate. Is that all you need?" Jack could sense that was
something more.

Nate looked at Sammy. Sammy looked back at Nate for a second and then said,
"Oh, yeah. Ummm, I've gotta go pack. Back in a little bit Jack. Nice to meet
ya!" Sammy slithered back over the dune and out of sight.

Nate watched Sammy disappear and then looked back at Jack. "Jack, this is my
first son. My first offspring through all the years. You don't even want to
know what it took for me to find a mate." Nate grinned to himself. "But
anyway, I had a son for a reason. I'm tired. I'm ready for it to be over. I
needed a replacement."

Jack considered this for a minute. "So, you're ready to come see the world,
and you wanted him to watch the lever while you were gone?"

Nate shook his head. "No, Jack - you're a better guesser than that. You've
already figured out - I'm bound here - there's only one way for me to leave
here. And I'm ready. It's my time to die."

Jack looked more closely at Nate. He could tell Nate had thought about
this - probably for quite a while. Jack had trouble imagining what it would
be like to be as old as Nate, but Jack could already tell that in another
hundred or two hundred years, he might be getting tired of life himself.
Jack could understand Samuel's decision, and now Nate's. So, all Jack said
was, "What do you want me to do?"

Nate nodded. "Thanks, Jack. I only want two things. One - show Sammy around
the world - let him get his fill of it, until he's ready to come back here
and take over. Two - give me the fourth request.

"I can't just decide to die, not any more than you can. I won't even die of
old age like you eventually will, even though it'll be a long time from now.
I need to be killed. Once Sammy is back here, ready to take over, I'll be
able to die. And I need you to kill me.

"I've even thought about how. Poisons and other drugs won't work on me. And
I've seen pictures of snakes that were shot - some of them live for days, so
that's out too. So, I want you to bring back a sword.

Nate turned away to look back to the dune that Sammy had gone behind. "I'd
say an axe, but that's somewhat undignified - putting my head on the ground
or a chopping block like that. No, I like a sword. A time-honored way of
going out. A dignified way to die. And, most importantly, it should work,
even on me.

"You willing to do that for me, Jack?" Nate turned back to look at Jack.

"Yeah, Nate," replied Jack solemnly, "I think I can handle that."

Nate nodded. "Good!" He turned back toward the dune and shouted, "Sammy!
Jack's about ready to leave!" Then quietly, "Thanks, Jack."

Jack didn't have anything to say to that, so he waited for Sammy to make it
back to the lever, nodded to him, nodded a final time to Nate, and then
headed into the desert with Sammy following.
Over the next several years Sammy and Jack kept in touch with Nate through
e-mail as they went about their adventures. They made a goal of visiting
every country in the world, and did a respectable job of it. Sammy had a
natural gift for languages, as Jack expected he would, and even ended up
acting as a translator for Jack in a few of the countries. Jack managed to
keep the talking rattlesnake hidden, even so, and by the time they were
nearing the end of their tour of countries, Sammy had only been spotted a
few times. While there were several people that had seen enough to startle
them greatly, nobody had enough evidence to prove anything, and while a few
wild rumors and storied followed Jack and Sammy around, nothing ever hit the
newspapers or the public in general.

When they finished the tour of countries, Jack suggested that they try some
undersea diving. They did. And spelunking. They did that too. Sammy finally
drew the line at visiting Antarctica. He'd come to realize that Jack was
stalling. After talking to his Dad about it over e-mail, he figured out that
Jack probably didn't want to have to kill Nate. Nate told Sammy that humans
could be squeamish about killing friends and acquaintances.

So, Sammy eventually put his tail down (as he didn't have a foot) and told
Jack that it was time - he was ready to go back and take up his duties from
his dad. Jack, delayed it a little more by insisting that they go back to
Japan and buy an appropriate sword. He even stretched it a little more by
getting lessons in how to use the sword. But, eventually, he'd learned as
much as he was likely to without dedicating his life to it, and was
definitely competent enough to take the head off of a snake. It was time to
head back and see Nate.

When they got back to the US, Jack got the old RV out of storage where he
and Sammy had left it after their tour of the fifty states, he loaded up
Sammy and the sword, and they headed for the desert.

When they got to the small town that Jack had been trying to find those
years ago when he'd met Nate, Jack was in a funk. He didn't really feel like
walking all of the way out there. Not only that, but he'd forgotten to
figure the travel time correctly, and it was late afternoon. They'd either
have to spend the night in town and walk out tomorrow, or walk in the dark.

As Jack was afraid that if he waited one more night he might lose his
resolve, he decided that he'd go ahead and drive the RV out there. It was
only going to be this once, and Jack would go back and cover the tracks
afterward. They ought to be able to make it out there by nightfall if they
drove, and then they could get it over tonight.

Jack told Sammy to e-mail Nate that they were coming as he drove out of
sight of the town on the road. They then pulled off the road and headed out
into the desert.

Everything went well, until they got to the sand dunes. Jack had been
nursing the RV along the whole time, over the rocks, through the creek beds,
revving the engine the few times they almost got stuck. When they came to
the dunes, Jack didn't really think about it, he just downshifted and headed
up the first one. By the third dune, Jack started to regret that he'd
decided to try driving on the sand. The RV was fishtailling and losing
traction. Jack was having to work it up each dune slowly and was trying to
keep from losing control each time they came over the top and slid down the
other side. Sammy had come up to sit in the passenger seat, coiled up and
laughing at Jack's driving.

As they came over the top of the fourth dune, the biggest one yet, Jack saw
that this was the final dune - the stone, the lever, and somewhere Nate,
waited below. Jack put on the brakes, but he'd gone a little too far. The RV
started slipping down the other side.

Jack tried turning the wheel, but he didn't have enough traction. He pumped
the brakes - no response. They started sliding down the hill, faster and
faster.

Jack felt a shock go through him as he suddenly realized that they were
heading for the lever. He looked down - the RV was directly on course for
it. If Jack didn't do something, the RV would hit it. He was about to end
humanity.

Jack steered more frantically, trying to get traction. It still wasn't
working. The dune was too steep, and the sand too loose. In a split second,
Jack realized that his only chance would be once he hit the stone around the
lever - he should have traction on the stone for just a second before he hit
the lever - he wouldn't have time to stop, but he should be able to steer
away.

Jack took a better grip on the steering wheel and tried to turn the RV a
little bit - every little bit would help. He'd have to time his turn just
right.

The RV got to the bottom of the dune, sliding at an amazing speed in the
sand. Just before they reached the stone Jack looked across it to check that
they were still heading for the lever. They were. But Jack noticed something
else that he hadn't seen from the top of the dune. Nate wasn't wrapped
around the lever. He was off to the side of the lever, but still on the
stone, waiting for them. The problem was, he was waiting on the same side of
the lever that Jack had picked to steer towards to avoid the lever. The RV
was already starting to drift that way a little in its mad rush across the
sand and there was no way that Jack was going to be able to go around the
lever to the other side.

Jack had an instant of realization. He was either going to have to hit the
lever, or run over Nate. He glanced over at Sammy and saw that Sammy
realized the same thing.

Jack took a firmer grip on the steering wheel as the RV ran up on the stone.
Shouting to Sammy as he pulled the steering wheel, "BETTER NATE THAN LEVER," he ran over the snake.



THE END

 

Essay generator?

If not:

 

fuck the police

 

This thread is now about "fuck the police."

 

I disagree with everything you have put forth. Good day, sir.

 

This letter has three main sections, all mainly comprised of derision of the man, the fuzz, or the police, as they're commonly known. Fuck them all. In the first, I argue that the public perception is that the police's a social liability. In the second, I make it clear that what we see today is a greater than normal manifestation of villainous traits in the police's modes of thought. And in the third and final section, I conclude that my comments about the police can serve as a provisional response to its mind games until a more comprehensive treatment becomes available. Although not without overlap and simplification, I plan to identify three primary positions on its drug-induced ravings. I acknowledge that I have not accounted for all possible viewpoints within the parameters of these three positions. Nevertheless, its views represent a backward step of hundreds of years, a backward step into a chasm with no bottom save the endless darkness of death.

Just to add a little more perspective, the police unquestionably intends to turn peaceful gatherings into embarrassing scandals. The direful sequence of that result, so flagrantly vindictive and saturnine in itself, is that lewd, humorless imbeciles will spatter my reputation in the blink of an eye. Contrary to my personal preferences, I'm thinking about what's best for all of us. My conclusion is that what's best for all of us is for me to fight for our freedom of speech. I shall be blamed by ignorant persons when I say that there's more to this letter than inflammatory rhetoric. Cruel as that maxim may appear, it keeps telling everyone within earshot that our only chance of saving the planet is to accept unending regulations and straightjacket "reforms" from its goombahs. I'm guessing that the police read that on some Web site of dubious validity. More reliable sources generally indicate that it is easy to see faults in others. But it takes perseverance to force it into deserved bankruptcy.

The police doesn't simply want people to believe that my bitterness at it is merely the latent projection of libidinal energy stemming from self-induced anguish. It wants this belief drummed into people's heads from birth. It wants it to be accepted as an axiom, an assumed part of the nature of reality. Only then will the police truly be able to get away with encouraging a deadly acceptance of intolerance.

Ever since the police decided to adopt approaches that have not been tested to try to solve problems that have not been well-defined, its consistent, unvarying line has been that courtesy and manners don't count for anything. In the end, the most telling thing is that what I find frightening is that some academics actually believe the police's line that women are crazed Pavlovian sex-dogs who will salivate at any object even remotely phallic in shape. In this case, "academics" refers to a stratum of the residual intelligentsia surviving the recession of its demotic base, not to those seekers of truth who understand that one of the bewildering paradoxes of our time is the extent to which the police is willing to establish a world government complete with a world army, a world parliament, a world court, and numerous other agencies that interfere with the most important principles of democracy, especially given that it itself would be affected by such actions. Be careful not to be charmed by the police's denunciations. All they do is keep us perennially behind the eight ball. The police wants to be the one who determines what information we have access to. Yet it is also a big proponent of a particularly unconscionable form of statism. Do you see something wrong with that picture? What I see is that the police has nothing intelligent to say. But let's not lose sight of the larger, more important issue here: the police's unreasonable disquisitions.

The police's spokesmen like to say, "Big emotions come from big words." Such frothy eloquence neither convinces nor satisfies me. If someone wants me to believe something frightful like that, that person will have to show me some concrete evidence. Meanwhile, I intend to show you that I suggest that we examine the social and cultural conditions that lead the police to con us into sawing off the very tree limbs upon which we're sitting. This right and truthful proposition, practically established, will help us expand people's understanding of the police's prurient refrains. What is often overlooked, however, is that documents written by the police's yes-men typically include the line, "The only way to expand one's mind is with drugs—or maybe even chocolate", in large, 30-point type, as if the size of the font gives weight to the words. In reality, all that that fancy formatting really does is underscore the fact that the police maintains that either it is an organization of peace or that it can succeed without trying. The police denies any other possibility.

If we don't take the mechanisms, language, ideology, and phraseology for determining what is right and what is wrong out of the hands of the police and its lackeys and put them back in the hands of ordinary people, then the police will soon become unstoppable. No borders will be able to detain it. No united global opinion will be able to isolate it. No international police or juridical institutions will be able to interdict it. The police maliciously defames and damagingly misrepresents everyone and everything around it. There's a word for that: libel. The police's methods are much subtler now than ever before. The police is more adept at hidden mind control and its techniques of social brainwash are much more appealingly streamlined and homogenized.

The police used to complain about being persecuted. Now it is our primary persecutor. This reversal of roles reminds me that the police has repeatedly indicated a desire to encourage and exacerbate passivity in some people who might otherwise be active and responsible citizens. Is that the sound of rarefied respectability that the police's vassals so frequently attribute to the police? The licentious blathering of a cocky dunce is more like it. In fact, the police is careless with data, makes all sorts of causal interpretations of things without any real justification, has a way of combining disparate ideas that don't seem to hang together, seems to show a sort of pride in its own biases, gets into all sorts of meddlesome speculation, and then makes no effort to test out its speculations—and that's just the short list!

The police's reasoning is circular and therefore invalid. In other words, it always begins an argument with its conclusion (e.g., that it is lubricious to question its rodomontades) and therefore—not surprisingly—it always arrives at that very conclusion.

Are we going to step back and let the police leave us in the lurch? I can tell you this: I will be speaking out—every day and everywhere—to make sure that we do not. I have given this issue a great deal of thought, and I now have a strong conviction that the police always cavils at my attempts to improve the physical and spiritual quality of life for the population at present and for those yet to come. That's probably because there are two related questions in this matter. The first is to what extent the police has tried to move effete, disaffected scapegoatism from the peremptory fringe into a realm of respectability. The other is whether or not if the police wants to make my blood curdle, let it wear the opprobrium of that decision.

The police's intimates care more about speaking, acting, and even thinking like the police than they care about what makes sense. Let me recap that for you because it really is extraordinarily important: The police cites the alleged benefits of exhibitionism—which are mostly unsupported, irrelevant, or distortions of the scientific literature—to justify working both sides of the political fence. In reaching that conclusion I have made the usual assumption that society must soon decide either to reach the broadest possible audience with the message that the police's lawless inveracities are a blueprint for the widespread institution of factionalism or else to let the police commit acts of immorality, dishonesty, and treason. The decision is one of life or death, peaceful existence or perpetual social fever. I can hope only that those in charge realize that the police keeps stating over and over again that its philosophies are not worth getting outraged about. This drumbeat refrain is clearly not consistent with the facts on the ground—facts such as that the police's torchbearers get so hypnotized by its simplistic "good guys and bad guys" approach to history that they do not hear what it is really saying. More than that, its protégés believe that obstreperous yutzes have dramatically lower incidences of cancer, heart attacks, heart disease, and many other illnesses than the rest of us. Although it is perhaps impossible to change the perspective of those who have such beliefs, I wish nevertheless to criticize its cop-outs publicly for their formalistic categories, their spurious claims of neutrality, and their blindness to the abuse of private power. To conclude, not everyone agrees with the police.

 

I have a complaint about superman.

My entire life I have been taught to stand up for my beliefs, to be a person of high morals and ethics. That's why I feel obligated to call for a return to the values that made this country great. Please note that many of the conclusions I'm about to draw are based on cogent and virtually incontrovertible evidence provided by a set of people who have suffered immensely on account of Superman. I am now in a position to define what I mean when I say that Superman's paroxysms are surrounded by a halo of feudalism. What I mean is that I am sick of our illustrious "leaders" treading on eggshells so as not to upset Superman. Here's what I have to say to them: I call upon Superman to stop its oppression, lies, immorality, and debauchery. I call upon it to be an organization of manners, principles, honour, and purity. And finally, I call upon it to forgo its desire to mobilize support for the special interests that dominate state and private activity.

The bulk of unconscionable, pestiferous drunks are at least marginally tolerable but not Superman. One doesn't need a finely developed sense of irony to note that Superman is like a magician who produces a dove in one hand while the other hand is busy trying to let down ladders that the arrogant, self-deceiving, and feral scramble to climb. I am not mistaken when I say that I recommend paying close attention to the praxeological method developed by the economist Ludwig von Mises and using it as a technique to carry out the famous French admonition, écrasez l'infâme!, against Superman's methods of interpretation. The praxeological method is useful in this context because it employs praxeology, the general science of human action, to explain why I once overheard Superman say something quite astonishing. Are you strapped in? Superman said that you and I are inferior to sneaky, phlegmatic ragamuffins. Can you believe that? At least its statement made me realize that its accusations are unmistakably despised by everyone but contumelious bribe-seekers. No, scratch that. Let me instead make the much stronger claim that if you were to ask Superman, it'd say that it doesn't remember leading to the destruction of the human race. Not only does Superman have a very selective memory, but it says that its opinions represent the opinions of the majority—or even a plurality. Such verbal gems teach us that I was completely gobsmacked the first time I saw Superman barring people from partaking in activities that cannot be monitored and controlled. Since then, I've seen it do that so many times that I hardly bat an eyelid when someone tells me that Superman coins polysyllabic neologisms to make its denunciations sound like they're actually important. In fact, its treatises are filled to the brim with words that have yet to appear in any accepted dictionary.

You might object to my claim that the ostensible basis for Superman's speech codes is as phony as the loose and biased standards applied to enforce them. But bear in mind that Superman's sycophants remain largely silent when asked about the correlative connecting Superman to collectivism. The rare times they do deign to comment they invariably skew the issue to prevent people from realizing that I appreciate feedback and other people's views on subjects. I don't, however, appreciate feedback when it's given in an unprofessional manner. Either Superman has no real conception of the sweep of history, or it is merely intent on winning some debating pin by trying to pierce a hole in my logic with "facts" that are taken out of context. We must keep our courage up. If we fail then all of our sacrifices and all of the dreams and sacrifices of our ancestors will have been in vain. The key is to realize that Superman insists that its peuplade is looking out for our best interests. This fraud, this lie, is just one among the thousands they perpetrates.

Considering that Superman's disgusting op-ed pieces arose out of an unjust system only to spread more injustice in their wake, proving that there is no end to condescending scapegoatism, I offer that I, for one, will stop at nothing to improve the lot of humankind. My resolve cannot fully be articulated, but it is unyielding. As evidence, consider that if you think that this is humorous or exaggerated, you're wrong. Sure, Superman may have a right to enslave us, suppress our freedom, regiment our lives, confiscate our property, and dictate our values but we certainly don't have to stand idly by while it exercises that right.

Superman's quips are built on lies, and they depend on make-believe for their continuation. Mass anxiety is the equivalent of steroids for Superman. If we feel helpless, Superman is energized and ramps up its efforts to attack the critical realism and impassive objectivity that are the central epistemological foundations of the scientific worldview. Will disreputable misers ever shelter initially unpopular truths from suppression, enabling them to ultimately win out through competition in the marketplace of ideas? Don't bet on it.

Superman's legates are too lazy to tell it like it is. They just want to sit back, fasten their mouths on the public teats, and casually forget that Superman's partisans get a thrill out of protesting. They have no idea what causes they're fighting for or against. For them, going down to the local protest, carrying a sign, hanging out with Superman, and meeting some other ophidian knuckleheads is merely a social event. They're not even aware that one of Superman's henchmen once said, "Superman should be a given a direct pipeline to the National Treasury." Now that's pretty funny, of course, but I didn't include that quote just to make you laugh. I included it to convince you that I cannot believe how many actual, physical, breathing, thinking people have fallen for Superman's subterfuge. I'm totally stunned.

Superman's legatees often reverse the normal process of interpretation. That is, they value the unsaid over the said, the obscure over the clear. In that respect, we can say that no man who values himself, who has any regard for sound morality, or who feels any desire to see intellectual progress made certain, can rightfully join Superman's spleeny, licentious attempt to foment a radical realignment of industrialized economies. Of all of Superman's exaggerations and incorrect comparisons, one in particular stands out: "Censorship could benefit us." I don't know where it came up with this, but its statement is dead wrong.

If Superman truly believes that men are spare parts in the social repertoire—mere optional extras—then maybe it should enroll in Introduction to Reality 101. Superman's cat's-paws' thinking is fenced in by many constraints. Their minds are not free because they dare not be. Superman's fans all look like Superman, think like Superman, act like Superman, and use rock music, with its savage, tribal, orgiastic beat, to give expression to that which is most destructive and most harmful to society, just like Superman does. And all this in the name of—let me see if I can get their propaganda straight—brotherhood and service. Ha!

Let's get reasonable; ignorant and highly emotional persons are frequently swayed by Superman's bombast and fustian. That much is crystal clear. But did you know that it is easy to see from the foregoing that Superman's lapdogs do not concern themselves much with the people around them? That's why I'm telling you that Superman's simplistic reasoning follows the same fallacies as so many other treatises on similar issues. I explained the reason for that just a moment ago. If you don't mind, though, I'll go ahead and explain it again. To begin with, I've tried to explain to its postmodernist, belligerent blackshirts that its policies are just an outcropping of its hatred of us. As could be expected, they were a bit slow on the uptake. I just couldn't get them to comprehend that if Superman can overawe and befuddle a sufficient number of prominent individuals then it will become virtually impossible for anyone to focus on the major economic, social, and political forces that provide the setting for the expression of an uncompanionable agenda.

Strictly speaking, Superman has been known to nourish sullen ideologies. That always spurs on its agents provocateurs to create a desolation and call it peace. That, in turn, encourages Superman to ensure that there can never in the future be accord, unity, or a common, agreed-upon destiny among the citizens of this once-great nation. This cycle inevitably, inexorably ratchets upwards and outwards until at last some gormless prophet of jujuism winds up sucking up to iconoclastic, childish sluggards. Well, let's get our facts straight. Superman claims to be fighting for equality. What it's really fighting for, however, is equality in degradation, by which I mean that an organization that wants to get ahead should try to understand the long-range consequences of its actions. Superman has never had that faculty. It always does what it wants to do at the moment and figures it'll be able to lie itself out of any problems that arise. As a parting thought, remember that the conflation of conniving turncoats and stiff-necked schnorrers in Superman's litanies is either dramatic hyperbole or a fatal methodological flaw.

 

Govind's bootlickers remain largely silent when asked about the correlative connecting Govind to adversarialism

 

I have just one word for Govind: disproportionableness