Cunts are still running the world

[Magda Hassan]

Except the cunts he is singing about have neither the depth nor warmth nor the essential function of the original.

Well did you hear, there's a natural order.
Those most deserving will end up with the most.
That the cream cannot help but always rise up to the top,
Well I say: Shit floats.
If you thought things had changed,
Friend you'd better think again,
Bluntly put in the fewest of words,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world.

Now the working classes are obsolete,
They are surplus to societies needs,
So let em all kill each other,
And get it made overseas.
That's the word don't you know,
From the guys thats running the show,
Lets be perfectly clear boys and girls,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world.

Oh feed your children on Cray fish and Lobster tails,
Find a school near the top of the league,
In theory I respect your right to exist,
I will kill ya if you move in next to me,
Ah it stinks, it sucks, it's anthropologically unjust,
But the takings are up by a third, Oh So
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world.

Your free market is perfectly natural,
Or do you think that I'm some kind of dummy,
It's the ideal way to order the world,
Fuck the morals, does it make any money?
And if you don't like it? Then leave.
Or use your right to protest on the street,
Yeah, use your rights but don't imagine that it's heard, Oh no no,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world.

[Charles Drago]

I prefer "Lotus Blossom" and "Warm Valley" and "Ballad for Very Sad and Very Tired Lotus Eaters," from the Ellington/Strayhorn canon.

[Magda Hassan]

I prefer "Lotus Blossom" and "Warm Valley" and "Ballad for Very Sad and Very Tired Lotus Eaters," from the Ellington/Strayhorn canon.

But of course Charles :horn:

[Danny Jarman]

Good ol Jarvis!

[Keith Millea]

05.25.12 - 12:26 AM
Sponsor A Uterus In Need, and Save An American Woman From Herself

by Abby Zimet

Because women today are faced with so many choices, it's safe to assume most of the decisions they make will be wrong. Coming to their rescue is a new program to sponsor a uterus in need. Act now, and you'll get a kit including the uterus' photo, biography and information about "the woman who happens to surround it." Brought to you by some funny people.

From comments on the program: "I'd like to sponsor a uterus but I'm easily distracted by other things...Can I arrange to have the uterus put down if I lose interest?"



http://www.commondreams.org/further/2012/05/25

[Jan Klimkowski]

From the title, I thought this was most likely a thread about the Military Censor, or Rupert Murdoch, or Tony Blair, or Dick Cheney, or [insert as appropriate].

I've never been sure whether dear old Jarvis is an intellectual or a pseudo-intellectual, but his heart is certainly in the right place.

Anyway, as a Pynchon Head, which is some sort of sub or uber form of Deadhead, I was going to wow ya all with some of Tommy's prose poetry about the Preterite and the Elect as manifested in Gravity's Rainbow.

Instead, because I can't be assed to type up a few paragraphs, here's some - yuk - literary criticism:

The Preterite vs. the Elect

Perhaps one of the most thoroughly developed themes, and certainly one that Pynchon has explored before, is that of the struggle between the "preterite" and the "elect," or the traditional dichotomy between the "common" classes and the "anointed" classes. (The former terms hail from his family's Puritan background.) As Pynchon himself puts it, the preterite, while "in theory capable of idiocy, are much more apt to display competence, courage, humanity, wisdom, and other virtues associated, by the educated classes, with themselves." This class distinction acts as a tangible dehumanizing force, permitting us to see each other as objects to be hated, feared, scorned, demonized, exploited, or manipulated. And it's not just his characters who embody these roles -- the whole novel seems to be impregnated with a sinister force, a Presence that hovers between the two classes like a malignant angel (or a malevolent version of Maxwell's Demon?) carefully at work maintaining the illusionary divisions between one human and another. This sense of sentient division is not just reserved for the traditional targets (organized religion, the military, corporate entities, intelligence and security agencies, various racist groups, u.s.w.) but, through the hypnotic power of Pynchon's prose, is extended to include speculations that our whole material world is somehow involved in the conspiracy. Falling rockets, the growth patterns of cities, and even the forces that govern the laws of molecular bonding are all subjected to the manipulations of this force. Linked with the actions and inactions of the characters -- each with their own personal agendas, delusions of control, and hidden networks -- this pervasive sense of paranoia gives rise very quickly to a clear distinction between Us and Them. "Us," or "We," are the preterite, the common, the vulgar: possessed with a certain Foolishness, for sure, but also endowed with the ability -- if We want to -- to see through Their systems of death and decay, Their artificial distinctions and forces of normalization, vectors that force Us into the compromise of a thousand little deaths. . . . When organized (and that itself is always risky, ephemeral) We can form a potent Counterforce. But that takes a very intricate knowledge of control, of hope, of love, and of laughter -- the ability to cry out Joyce's most emphatic yes! to counterbalance the Burroughsian schlupp! of vampiric absorption. "They" are the classic Masters, hung up on control systems, worshipers of the Northern Death Cults -- from SS officers to mad Pavlovians, believers in the Granfalloon, inhabitants of corporations and governments, rendered faceless by the sheer multiplicity and interchangeability of Their bland servants. . . . They are, as Burroughs might have it, running the Mayan scheme, the classic Mind Control Game. And the most frightening thing of all is not that They can control Us; but that it's so very easy for Us to simply -- and slowly, one decision at a time -- become Them. In Something Wicked this Way Comes, Ray Bradbury asks of evil: "What will they look like? How will we know them?" Looking nervously at each other, his characters suddenly apprehend the answer: "Maybe, said their eyes, they're already here."