'No, my dear neighbour, I wasn't raised in a barn.'

Apparently, my next door neighbour thinks I was raised in a barn (even though we've known each other for years!).

Here's what happened: I open my door and she's right outside my door (in the dark, which makes me think that she might be the one who keeps opening the window on the landing nine steps below our shared floor). We say 'Hello!' and chat a bit and then she asks me if my cat was sick on our floor - and I fucking left it there for her to clean.

*blink*

What?

Pardon my French, but fucking WHAT?!!!!!

I told her that my cat doesn't go out and if he'd been sick, I'd have cleaned his mess. I'm furious that she thinks I'd do such a thing.

My misanthropic side is growing. I'm really fed up with most bipeds.

Publicitaire psychopathe ?

Cette publicité a pour titre Un père Noël pas comme les autres...

Dès la première fois que je l'ai vue, je me suis demandée si le gars qui avait pondu ça avait des problèmes psychiatriques. Quel genre de malade concocte une pub où un père Noël se paye la tronche de deux enfants à juste quelques jours de Noël ???

Dans un élan charitable, je me suis dit que la pub passait seulement après le coucher des mômes, mais non ! Même pas ! 

Comme si cette fichue planète n'était pas assez dure, les rêves des gamins passent à la trappe - et si ça fait vendre des forfaits...

J'entends déjà les « Mais c’est de l’humour ! ». Curieux, je ne trouve pas ça drôle.

Quelle bande de baltringues !

Et Joyeux Noël !

Legacy Twitter 2020

Because of the time difference between me and Twitter HQ, I briefly hoped that my lovely Pale Moon might help me keep the look of my Legacy Twitter... I was wrong... Sort of because when I log in, it shows my usual background for a second, before Twitter forces its ugly UI on me.

I can't work with their horrid interface. It literally hurts my eyes.

I don't know how long it's going to work, but with Firefox, you can somehow restore Legacy Twitter thanks to the instructions there. And you can add some Stylus for good measure.

I'll stay around as long as I can protect my eyes, but I'll log off when some arrogant sociopath at Twitter decides to counter-code the tweak I just found. Merlin! This really feels like an abusive relationship: 'I know what you need, you're going to do as I say, and I'm right. Shut up and roll over.'.

Sheesh!

No Dye

I'm growling (again) about the way people treat me when they focus on my whitening hair. It's not merely that they see it, no... it's all they see.

Even people who have known me for years tend to forget that I was playing with their children - and that, no, I'm not older than their aforementioned children (that happened to me just yesterday, and it was massively weird).

There was this supermarket employee in Chinatown who stared at me because I was checking the different sauces. His eyes (and general expression) seemed to say "Are you lost, lil', old lady?". Seriously, what the flurch?! I had to state "I'm fine. Ta!" for him to stop staring.

I'll admit that I enjoy my depigmented privilege on overcrowded buses as no one asks me to vacate my seat (not proud of it, and if someone who's really, actually old is near me, I do offer my seat - I'm not a monster).

My neighbouring cousin and I have the same depigmented problem at work (not when we work on a book together - though our depigmenting is different, which is funny as it seems to come from the same bit of shared DNA). Our students must think that we were around somewhere when the pyramids were being built - and the oldest amongst the staff, but we're not (I've got only three colleagues younger than I, and my cousin has just the one). Yet, since the wires on our heads are white, some of our students seem to think that we are an inch from retirement - or death.

My poor cousin just had to deal with a student (to whom the administration of her school decided to give another chance to pass) who thought that it could plagiarize "its" assigned work - coz my cousin, being white-haired and all, must be senile and she'd never, ever flurching notice that "it" copied and pasted pages and pages from the Internet. Right?

What's wrong with these people's eyes? Can't they bloody look at our skins? Not a wrinkle, for Merlin's sake (laugh lines don't count - we do laugh, and we're not planning to stop!).

When I get a coat of arm, "Fronti nulla fides" is sooooo my motto.

For the moment, I think I may start asking people if they left their Labrador at home by mistake*.

*: oddly enough, I think I've been going through anger-generated adrenaline rushes recently, and it's a strange state...

Nasty Week

There's nothing tragic or final, but my stress-o-meter went up a notch this week.

I know it's for silly reasons, but when you're fighting PTSD, a grain of sand can feel like a boulder.

There are three things that bugged me:

1) My bank:

A few months ago, they'd tried to make me pay a fee for a service that I've had for years. I told them I was refusing to pay their fee because it wasn't in my initial contract and I got my money back.

End of story?

Of course not. 

The fee was back this week, so I had to contact my bank again, but, this time, I was told that I must trade the service I had for something else, or I must pay the fee. I caved and agreed to have the new service (because I've got better things to do than fight them on this), but I demanded my money back. I'm still waiting - and it bugs me.

2) Twitter (and Fox):

The way things trend there are too cryptic for my taste. I did some research, and the way they (try to) explain their algorithm is messy. I can understand that the name of a singer with too many overenthusiastic fanatics is not trending worldwide day in, day out, but a brand new hashtag to try and save a TV show disappearing after a day whilst I can see new people still tweeting about it... I find it odd, to say the least - all the more since another hashtag to try and save another show was still trending two days after it started (I'm talking about #SaveLucifer and #SaveB99).

I'm bugged because one of the things I use to control my stress is good shows, and I fell in love with Lucifer; it's well-written, consistent (a bloody miracle on American telly, where shows tend to not always follow the story's bible), intelligent, fun, and entertaining. Fox deciding to pull the plug on it shows their stupidity (then again, I was always surprised that they produced a series where Lucifer's the hero).

3) Twitter (and a lying, fascist politico):

This morning, I saw a retweet with comment where the initial tweet shows a politico who'd just angled a small shark.

I briefly considered reporting the tweet, but didn't:

a) even though I do believe that the shark is way more useful than the biped holding it on a ship's deck, what the biped did is not illegal (immoral, yes).

b) since the politico is a big name (Merlin know why, coz he's a deplorable waste of skin), I knew that Twitter would do flurch all because of their "it's newsworthy" smokescreen (either they approve, or they're just spineless).

I think I'm going to turn these into plot bunnies. After all, this is another trick I use to control my stress.

La SNCF, c'est (vraiment) [pas] possible

Si vous n'avez besoin de rien vous serez tout de suite servi.

Mon dernier voyage en train ?

Je me lève à l'aube (littéralement), arrive à la gare bien en avance et mon premier train part... A la moitié du voyage, une erreur d'aiguillage (ben voyons !) nous fait prendre un retard de 25 minutes - dommage, je n'ai que 20 minutes de battement pour attraper mon second train.
Que va-t-il se passer ?
Le contrôleur nous annonce que la correspondance sera assurée quand même cinq minutes avant l'arrivée en gare (merci pour le stress, les gars !).
Une fois sur le quai, ben t'as intérêt à battre le record de vitesse avec ta valise si tu veux l'avoir le TGV (quelques palpitations plus tard et un poignet abîmé à cause de ma valise super lourde, la porte s'est carrément refermée sur mes fesses - on courrait tous sur le quai, mais le chef de gare était pressé pour l'autre TGV... Ben mon gars, t'as qu'à apprendre à tes collègues à aiguiller les trains correctement).

L'année dernière, la SNCF m'avait laissée en rade à pas d'heure dans un gare dangereuse (Mère avait payé ce billet-là).
Je râle et le médiateur me donne raison (en bons de voyage, mais c'est déjà ça). La SNCF ne conteste pas, mais ne fait rien.
Depuis plus de quinze jours, après être passée en agence où on m'a dit de téléphoner au SAV, je tente de joindre ce service, mais le choix d'option ne marche tout simplement pas (avec deux téléphones !).
Je demande de l'aide à la SNCF sur Twitter et de fil en aiguille, on me demande les références du problème pour nous aider, puis nom, prénom, adresse, courriel, numéro de téléphone (l'âge du capitaine et mon mot de passe Twitter, aussi, peut-être ?!!!).
On me promet la relance du service hier...
... ce matin ? Ah, bah, "contactez un autre service, nous, on ne peut rien faire".
Conclusion : ils se payent nos tronches, bossent comme des "plonkers" (ouaip, de l'anglais, je sais, mais 1 - je suis bilingue et 2 - c'est le mot parfait pour les décrire !) et refusent de payer ce qu'ils doivent.
A en juger par les messages d'autres personnes sur les forums de la SNCF, le SAV est souvent en rade et ils bossent quand ils ont le temps.

Bloody plonkers!

Varieties of Denialism

Bipeds that cannot accept facts because they don't fit their agenda, beliefs, or whatever have a way to make my blood boil.

With the film Denial coming to our screens, the number of Holocaust denialists has become more visible with these decerebrated bipeds flooding forums and comments threads.

Just this morning, I've seen a bunch of village idiots doubt that the Holocaust happened; one even found it fishy to not be allowed to doubt the evidence - and the testimonies of the survivors! There were also idiots adding the Holodomor to their list of denials.

As a historian, I understand that we can doubt that the battle of Agincourt happened exactly the way it is reported in archives - but we can dig up testimonies and get a fair idea of what happened. All one needs is hard work - and a working brain.

What I cannot understand is the collection of village idiots, from all over the rock, who can read all the documents we have in archives, and who can meet survivors or read their testimonies (be it about the Holodomor, the Holocaust, or even the sex slaves for the Imperial Japanese army), and who say, 'Nope! I don't believe it! It just can't be true!'.

They make me want to yell and make them sit down and educate themselves until their two and a half brain cells have a spark of illumination.

My introduction for the publication of Shakespeare's Sonnets for Éditions Aikyō is dealing with all the varieties of denialists about Shakespeare.

I ended up dividing contemporary denialists into two categories: prime and secondary.

Secondary denialists are the collections of village idiots who might well doubt that our planet orbits around the sun if it became fashionable in their circles to think so, or who do not have enough brain cells to understand facts and the truth. They're infuriating, but I fear most of them are just too stupid.

Much worse and twisted are the prime denialists. These are bipeds who, I think, do understand the archives and the testimonies, but who have decided to not believe them. These bipeds have decided to spread lies (not "post-truth", not "alternative facts" - let's call a spade a spade: they're LIES); maybe they're doing that to enjoy the chaos and pain their words will generate, and/or maybe they have some hidden agenda to promote - be it hatred for one subdivision of humanity, or be it to promote their own work.

If we take into account the scary number of secondary denialists, the prime denialists have a lot of quarterwits (I do fear we're talking about creatures way below the average halfwit) who are ready and willing to pay to buy their books or watch their films or documentaries.

We have ignoramuses and simpletons falling into the cunning traps of manipulators and profiters who would say and do anything to make money and become famous.

Both categories annoy me, but I have some compassion for secondary denialists... Prime denialists, not so much, as I see them as liars and dubious, devious, and unethical creatures who would deny that their own mothers gave birth to them if they could gain anything from spitting that lie.

I do believe that "Knowledge is power", and I will always fight against prime denialists who try to pervert what decent people know to be truths.

It Would Be Funny If...

... it were not so sad.

My cousin and I are spending a few days with our friend DeForest.

We've been observing the world together and trading plot bunnies, and it's been great.

And then the world's nuttiness caught up with him.

Nothing bad, but it makes you wonder how silly bipeds can be...

For a few months, some idiot in California has been giving De's address to several companies (Microsoft, Netflix, a dating site, a car seller, etc). He even gave De's address to a charming woman apparently quite fond of him, who contacted De (being the gentleman that he is, he pointed out the mistake - and didn't even get a "Thank you!").

De's address is "yadda" dot "yadda" dot "yaddayaddayadda" @gmail.com, and since the bloody geniuses at Google don't care about the dots and they don't make any difference, De's been getting messages sent to yaddayaddayaddayaddayadda@gmail.com, which is the address that the Californian idiot has been distributing around.

Seriously, that bloke's lucky that my friend's nice or he could have completely messed up with his dating profile since the company had sent the non-encrypted password to De.

After getting yet another message from the car selling company, De blew a fuse and e-mailed them to point out the mistake made by that guy.

He quickly got an answer... with an offer to help him if he wants to buy a car (he'd said that he isn't in the US!).

Gosh! He turned the sarcasm font on, answered the message, and unsubscribed himself from everything he ever received from that company (they're one sandwich short of a picnic in my book).

I'm a good friend. I gave De a plot bunny inspired by the incident, and he's having fun on my laptop...

We're writers. We turn the strangeness of the world into stories.

Bonus for me: I get to edit the story, and he'll probably never spot this post since he's mostly only reading newspapers online... *mwaha* (if he spots it, I'll give him another plot bunny... ^_^)

PTSD & Suicide

Oddly enough (karmically??), I've been watching a few things about PTSD and suicide over the past week.

It's not such a mystery. If you bury people under trauma and you trigger panic attack after panic attack, there comes a time when the idea of stopping the pain/finding eternal sleep starts sounding bloody appealing.

Until you've met the Beast of the Void, you cannot understand how cold is the blade that pierces your heart.

Right now, I know that I'm in the uh-oh zone. If things like the ones I describe in my prior post keep happening, I'm going to start looking at the river and lengths of rope with different eyes.

It's that easy to blow a fuse for good.

I think I'm going to resort to yelling at my plonkers, but one shouldn't have to be "growly" in order to counter the pettiness and ineptitude of a collection of village idiots who don't do what they're supposed to do (and some pretend or think - or whatever - that you're the one who's being nasty because you want them to do what they're supposed to do).

I'm shaking.

I'm furious.

I'm not going to be able to fall asleep at any decent hour because I'm stressed.

But...

I don't want to kick the bucket because of wankers who think someone died and made them kings. It's a pity to have to stop being nice and kind to prevent idiots from taking their toll on my poor health.

Gosh, I hope it's just a glitch, and not the preview for November!!

Modern Life 2.1

Long time no post...

The thing is, work in real life has been properly barmy, and I didn't have time to hop here (as well, most things weren't too bad - so nothing weird to post about, and nothing good and fluffy enough to share either; the average "blah").

Weirdness and a healthy dose of plonkers are threatening my health again (so this is more a testimony "in case I collapse" than an actual growl).

I'm currently dealing with someone who's not doing his job, which prevents me from doing mine properly (I'm resorting to MacGyverish tricks to... well, do my best in such circumstances). I sent an SOS (I didn't even bark at the plonker!), and what did I get? That thing barked at me, pretending that he was doing his best.

Oh.

Really?

Can I get his wages if I manage to do the job - on time?

More and more, I'm dealing with bipeds not doing their jobs and hissing if you say anything.

These days, there are works wherever I go. Just yesterday, I saw one bloke working on something in a street on my way to work. There were five other blokes around him - just watching him; the whole scene looked weird and wrong.

Cherry on my real life cake? My Internet provider wants me to use their optic fibre box.

That looks good on paper, but:

- I never said I was okay with that.

- I'm not even sure the fibre connection in my flat works.

- if there's any issue, they won't help much.

- I've read accounts on the net saying that fibre isn't that stable with the netbox they want me to use

- the box has a noisy fan (some people had to change providers because of it!).

About that last point, my next words may sound a lil' bit extreme, but... I don't want to die. Since the downstairs A/C debacle, I can no longer stand fan noise - and I'd collapse, for good, with a noisy fan 24/7 in my flat.

Sweet Merlin! I hope I can stop the fibre fiasco - and manage to get what I need to work properly at Job #1...

ô.O

Back to St John's wort (and I really didn't need that!).

Opposable Thumbs Aren't a Licence to Kill

I'm quite furious, so don't mind the cosmic-sized growl (and do click back if you believe that bipeds are the crème de la crème on our planet - oh, or if you like politically correct crap).

I recently signed a petition to try to save a Mamma Bear who was accused of killing an off-trail hiker. I've just read that she was slaughtered.

This is what happened and here's a very good statement on the topic.

The first to say that 'she was just an animal, and a dangerous one!' gets Gibbs-smacked with a rolling pin to Kingdom come.

She was a good mother, who was executed (and her two orphaned cubs may be killed or sold to slavery).

The whole situation made me furious: the arrogance of the bipeds, who think they own the rock (no, you don't, Cupcakes; you share it with all the other lives on it), and the officials hiding behind pseudo-science in order to sell their 'We had to kill her' to the average sheeple who'll think "Oh, well, if there was no other way... They know what they're doing; it's their job" (I want to cuff the idiotic sheeple and bite the officials for resorting to slaughter).

And then, there's the first comment on the page of the second link I just gave you, where a delightful biologist resorts to comparing apple and cheese by mentioning a story where a bear, in town (fake gasp & Sarcasm font firmly on), invaded someone's house. Hashtag Crikey.

I find it revealing that the first comment talks about a completely different scenario.
If I were to find a bear in my flat, I'd wonder how he got in (we don't leave our doors open where I'm parked), and then I'd run outside before calling people equipped to deal with him (we don't keep firearms either - we have no need for them).

It must be cool to think that you're so special that you can invade an animal's territory and have it killed if it nibbles you, but the animal cannot visit your house. 'Oh, nooooo! It's an animal that must stay where it belongs!' Well, sorry, Cupcake, but it belong on this planet, just like you. You're not special because you can hold a can of soda or load a gun - not in my book, at least.
If I were to venture in Yellowstone, I'd be on the bears' turf, and they can do whatever they want. If I'm stupid enough to not follow the safety rules and I end up turned into bear snack, that's karma (and probably a spot of Darwinism).

Seriously, do read Dr Bekoff's page (still link #2); it's enlightening on many levels.

A very good mother was massacred because some bipeds wanted to punish her for being a bear.

All bipeds stepping outside (parks and forests aren't just enough, as the average plonker will go scratch the head of a cobra for a good selfie) should sign standard waivers to prevent future slaughters.

I really wish I could keep Curiosity company; things must be quiet on Mars!

Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot. (or the Twitter White Background Growly Post)

I've just changed this blog's background colour to make it less aggressive (sorry it took me so long to change it for softer tones!). Pastel pink is better for the eyes (if you want to change things on your own computers), but pastel blue works nicely, too.

Why am I doing this today? Because when I went to Twitter, and I tried to change my settings to bring my wallpaper back, well... it didn't work. I quite like Twitter, but that blinding white background sucks, and I'll log off sine die if that stupidity goes on.

Good news for you, if so... I'll blog a lot more.

I hope the Twitter boys know what they're doing (though I doubt it)...

Life & Art & Abuse & Boycott

I love documentaries, and I love Auntie Beeb.

I quite like Victoria Coren Mitchell. I like her in Only Connect, and when I spotted How to Be Bohemian, I watched the three parts of this documentary.

First, it was very interesting, and I always like to learn new things.

Then, in the second part, when Mrs Coren Mitchell talked about Eric Gill (a man I'd never heard of until that moment - because I'm still not omniscient or plugged into some Akashic Records), I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for no longer wanting to see some of his art after learning that he'd abused his young daughter and that he'd used her to inspire him.

Apparently, Eric Gill couldn't keep his equipment in his trousers (so to speak, since it seems that he took to wearing dresses and robes - to be always ready??). He screwed many, and on his list, his own sister can be found.

All right. I'm not going to be your average prude, but I can't help imagining a man manipulating his sibling into having sex with him rather than having her agreeing to fuck her brother. But, let's try to be hugely tolerant, and let's say two consenting adults had some fun together. Not our business. Fine.

But... according to the man himself, if his diary's to be believed, he raped at least two of his daughters. There is no possible way we, as humans, can hear that and not wish to send a creature like Gill into complete oblivion (if I could go Egyptian on the guy and erase him from History, I'd be tempted).

But then, Mrs Coren Mitchell interviewed Fiona MacCarthy, a biographer of Gill, and then I realized that when it comes to standing by the victims, we're not out of the wood.

Mrs Coren Mitchell asked if we should know the background of a work of art. If the life of the "artist" goes into illegality, shouldn't we stop the person? Being an artist doesn't give anyone a licence to abuse or hurt anyone else (artists can drink, smoke, and snort powder as much as they want; I don't care - as long as they don't try to force me to join or attempt to break my favourite vase).

So, here, we're talking about a man who raped his own children. Even if he had a brain tumour that could explain his vagrant prick, he was an abusive manipulator and a sex predator in my book.

And here comes the immunity card for him: he's an artist. <insert fake gasp here>

When asked if the real life and the art should be viewed as separate, Mrs MacCarthy made me cringe.

     Fiona MacCarthy: I can separate them. And I think that it's the kind of dichotomy in human behaviour that somebody who can behave so reprehensibly can produce these works of supreme art.      

     Victoria Coren Mitchell: Something like the Girl in Bath though, the images he made of his daughter, those erotic images of a naked child. I'm afraid it makes me want to get in a time machine and kneecap him [that's the part that made me want to hug her! I'd lend her a hand!]. Do you find those images beautiful?

       FMC: I still find them beautiful, yes. And if he was a less good artist, I don't think I would bother with him. I don't think that I would be at all concerned with his sexual life or at all interested in it. I think that’s the testing thing. It's this curious tension that produces the rather particular beauty of those images, and I think, perhaps, even that one understands them more deeply by knowing the history.

    VCM: But you might say, well, knowing that he abused his children in this way; yes, one understands better what he was doing in that drawing, and in understanding it, one wants to reject it, no?

     FMC: Well, I wouldn't say that, you see. I think that people who try to police works of art according to what they believe to be the political views or the sexual behaviour of the artist, then they rule out an awful lot of great art. What about Wagner? Do you switch off Wagner because you disapprove of his anti-Semitic views?

       VCM: Yes!

       FMC: You do!? You switch him off!

       VCM: Yeah, I realize that strikes you as terribly philistine…

       FMC: Yes!

      VCM: And I do know it's complicated, I love the poetry of Yeats; he was in his own weird way a sort of Nazi sympathizer. I know these things are complex, and it’s very hard to make an absolute rule, but when I look at those images of Gill’s young daughter, and I know that he abused her; I think it's not something I want to see again.

      FMC: Well, I think that this is a very, very narrow view of art, of society, and that one can’t be so dogmatic. One has to try and take it on board.

This is not victim-blaming, but when someone says, 'Oh, but that Artist is soooooooo good that I can ignore the fact that he (or she) [or it, for all I care] is skinning kittens alive for fun.', then that is deciding to not condemn the fellow biped for doing something bad because that biped is doing something else that you like.

It's simple enough, you put yourself in the shoes (or the paws) of the victim, and you think long and hard how you'd like the rest of the world to come to your rescue. Do you want the coppers to come and stop the abuse, or do you want an art critic or a fan to tell you to be proud of your abuser because he's suuuuuuuuuuuuuuch a grrrrrrreat Aaaaartist? Go on, answer that one.

No amount of genius justifies throwing a victim under the "art" bus.

That's true for Gill. That's true for any abuser who happens to be an artist, like that so-called writer-actor-director who was accused by his step-daughter (the girl is toast in that art world, and the man's still working and getting trophies).

Mind you, that's not limited to art. Have some money (a few billions should work), and you can get away with abusing, say, your step-daughter - the judge will only order you to serve four months - two if you're a nice bloke, coz you lead a "productive life", and your family's important for the community.

When I go shopping, it can take me time because I check that I'm not going to give money to companies that have despicable business habits and/or nasty bosses.

I do the same with artists. I've got a blacklist.

There are enough decent geniuses to entertain us (I didn't know Gill before I watched that documentary, but when I saw his art... I didn't feel a thing. To me, he's in the "nothing to write about" category, and now that I know what he did to his children, I'll ignore anything by him. Not because I'm a philistine - I'm not, but because he's not that good, and as a man, which is inseparable from the artist, he was a monster).

I'll still enjoy the works of any drunkard, drug addict, libertine, but pardon me, I'll draw the line at rapist... and no amount of justification will make me agree with you if you want to keep enjoying the works of any biped guilty of that crime.

That's not a "very, very narrow view of art, of society", that's the position of a survivor who knows what it's like to be in the claws of a monster with the rest of the world ignoring your plight. So gimme another tune, Cupcake, and behave like a decent human being and shun the monsters - quite often, they're overpriced brats who are selling you some invisible cloth. The sooner you see that the king is naked, that their art is empty, and that you're standing by a plonker who's dragging you into the abuse, the better.

*curtseys, & hops off the soapbox*

Case in Point: That Honesty Thingy

All right, this post's probably going to drip with sarcasm (a lot more than here). And there may be a few swearwords coz I'm exhausted and furious (and also why not?!)

So, we're supposed to trust bankers 'because there's a confidentiality clause in all contracts'. But of course! And they never, ever play Money Russian roulette with our hard-won cash. Nope. Never. And their websites are so tight that they're never, ever hacked by nasty people. Nope. Never. And they're all soooooo honest that they never, ever discuss the issue a customer can have just loud enough for everyone in the lobby to know that Mr X or Mrs Z are currently in a bit of a jam. Nope. Never.

If people bipeds were honest, we wouldn't have so many fishwrappers putting their noses in the lives of so many people (celebrities or not), because that need to gossip and blab would not exist, but... No... Bipeds need to open their big mouths and talk about things (whether they actually know anything on any topic or not).

It's got to be a mix of being naturally nosey and needing to feel important for one second.

I subscribed to quite a few newspapers' newsletters (probably too many because the state of the world has a slight tendency to make me growl - and wish to kick-start a few bipeds' brains with my favourite rolling pin), and just this morning, I got to read something that made my blood boil. Something that proves that most bipeds just cannot be trusted.

10:56AM: I get a 'News Alert' e-mail from The Washington Post about a possible terrorist attack in France, and in the summary included in the message, I read: 'A French security official says an attack and explosion at a gas factory in southeastern France has left one person dead. The official, who spoke on condition of anonymity because she wasn’t authorized to talk to the news media, said the dead person was found decapitated outside the entrance to the factory.'

When I clicked on the 'Read more' link, I was brought to an almost empty page. No more mention of the blabbing official.

12:41PM: I get the full newsletter from that newspaper. The first article's about that attack, but the official's unofficial statement is no longer mentioned (perhaps because more accurate and recent info have reached the journalists).

I'm very sorry (just being polite here), but the French government wasn't going to try to cover up a murder, and so the official isn't a kind of whistle-blower or whatever. We're talking about someone, who was sworn to secrecy, but who could not keep her mouth shut - be it to feel important for a moment or to deal with that urge to gossip, I don't care. That biped betrayed the trust of her fellow citizens, and of her boss - for a mention in the newspaper, which she cannot even enjoy since she was supposed to keep her bloody mouth shut.

Gossipmonger is a word that's American, but I must admit that I like it better than its British equivalent for once. Gossip/gossiper sounds like a disease, but the "-monger" part in the American form makes me think of an arrogant plonker that thinks it's got the right to talk about what the neighbours do.
That gossipmonger makes me picture someone in "Ye Olde Gossip Shoppe" trying to attract more nosey busybodies so they can chat about what the others are doing: 'Come here! Freeeeeesh gossip! Hot from the oven! I've seen nothing, but I'll tell you everything! I've got no right to judge my neighbours, but I'll tell you what kind of sinners they are according to my own perfect (and frankly, the only possible ones) values! Freeeeeeeesh gossip! For free!'

Sheesh.

Mind your business, Cupcake, and do something useful.

Oh, and when you're bound to secrecy, have a bit of respect for your own word and keep your fucking mouth shut...

And a sodding banker is expecting me to trust him?

*snorts*

Few bipeds can be trusted, and they need to be punished when they commit a betrayal (and they probably need to grow up).

Quod erat demonstrandum.

Panem et... "musique"

The year, 2015.

First day of summer.

Beautiful weather.

And yet, I am going to growl (not because it's a Sunday, and it's usually the day I have time to do so).

Today's the Fête de la Musique, and some copper has AGAIN given permits to two bars to have both their live bands performing on the street, with sound systems, and as the day goes by, the bands are becoming louder.

I had a bit of hope earlier as Bar #2 installed their "stage" a bit late, and Bar #1 had first invited a band that wasn't too loud (the singer couldn't carry a tune to save his life, but that's a tradition with that bar's musical guests).

Now, I've got two bands competing for the attention of the sheeple.

I should probably take this as an opportunity to understand why the Romans were so fond of the circus, but my brain's melting through my ears because of the awful din that's being made outside (and I'd be more interested in a Voodoo dolls crash course right now).

I'm not the only one growling because their fun is making this day horrible and unpleasant, but since there are two bars making an awful lot of money selling food and beer to the sheeple, the ones who'd like to have some Mozart on their MP3 players will have to shut up and stand the noises whilst they last.

I'll have to stand it, but I'm going to call the coppers' headquarters first thing tomorrow in order to know why there were two permits. In Rome, at least, no one brought the circus to your flat if you wanted some quiet, and the first to tell me 'But it's just for a day and just a few hours.' gets to meet my rolling pin...

Calling Plonkers Plonkers

As I've said before, I'm (probably mostly) done being nice.

There are so many people who are crouching in the shadows, waiting to tear your throat open at the slightest hint of decency and kindness that they'd translate into a proof of weakness, that my patience broke.

Right now, I've been waiting for two bipeds to give me work-related answers, but all I'm getting is the sound of silence. I'll have to waste time contacting them (for the third bloody time!), and I know that one of the two deserves to be read the riot act in a way that'll make its ears shrivel [if it turns out, which is highly improbable, that they were both in car crashes, I'll be nice. If not... It's quite simple: Hell is going to look like a cool and quiet spot].

As well, I sign e-petitions (the first to say that clicktivism doesn't work gets a free trip to Saturn - launching to be made, thanks to my boot, until it actually works).

In my e-signing early days, I was quite respectful, even if the petition was to be sent to a complete idiot, who was slaughtering baby penguins for fun (or anything)... But plonkers are plonkers, and either they won't stop doing whatever it is they're doing even if 99% of the planet population asks them to stop or they'll feel bad (or more probably they will realize that they can't afford a boycott), and they'll change their tune.

I'm done being nice with them, and if I sign something that denounces something that I find disgusting, be it to stand by a biped or any other kind of animal, I tell the target of the petition exactly how its action or inaction makes me feel (I've just insulted a military twat and a medical charlatan for condoning various forms of bullying - one of the two plonkers being potentially responsible for the death of a child, not for medical reasons, but because of religious dogma and bigotry). 

Sometimes bipeds need to be reminded that they're plonkers and that they must change their tunes - and e-yelling at them gets my blood pressure down, so...

"Stoopid" Bankers 2.0

Crikey! Today's been a festival of stupidities - at two different banks.

First, I asked my main bank what they do to protect e-clients - and even though I told the manager that I've found an activity where I won't ask them to lend me a single penny - he didn't want to answer me until I told him what I was planning to do. The thing is, I'm not telling any of these hyenas what I have in store (pun intended) until they have signed a non-disclosure agreement (I do not trust them with my very good, original idea). I gave him enough info to answer me, but His Highness wanted to know what I'm going to do. From there, in my head, that went 'Sorry, Cupcake. Drop dead; I don't need you as you're not the only bank in town.'

Then, I went to my other bank, and I wanted to deposit a lovely and crisp £20 banknote on my account (just because I don't want to have to give them money because my "piggy-bank" account isn't used enough according to them). I was then informed that branches with an open welcome desk (ruddy all of them in their new architecture!!) do not accept cash deposits as it could be dangerous for the employees.

So:

Question1: What do you do when you want to deposit cash on your account?

Answer: You go to the other side of town to the main branch. [Yea... no problem! Got nothing better to do with my time whilst there's the branch with my account right down my street. Of coooourse.]

Question2: Why did the gal at the welcome desk dare to ask me why I wanted to deposit <insert fake gasp here> cash? She wanted to know why I had cash, and where it came from.

Answer: I'm not going to finance terrorism or a drug cartel with £20, Sweetie, and if I want to transfer money from Bank #1 to Bank #2, I'll do it any way I please. I'm planning to ask the gal in charge of my account to take my banknote - if she doesn't want to do that just the once (because I'm not going to let the welcome desk gal decide what I can or cannot do. Full stop), I'll have another chat with the manager, who's a delightful lady with a brain.

It's absolutely lovely how banks and their employees want to know everything about us and to control everything - and want to tell us what they want us to do.

Dream on, Cupcake, dream on.

Get a Life, Pay Attention & Use More Brain Cells

About last week's events in France, this post's going to be in three growls parts:

- against the brainwashed plonkers who murdered innocent people

- against the idiots who are somehow blaming the victims (and silly bipeds in general)

- against the sheeple who are ready to surrender to terror 'coz'

The bonus shall be about all the awesome people who are reacting beautifully.

So, here we go:

Point 1:
If you're the "mastermind", chief, plonker-in-command behind any "terror" (read: cowardly) act, there are two possibilities:
A) You're a warranted nutcase smoking the bad lawn, and then you're a hopeless creature that will be useful only in fertilizer form (the sooner, the better).
B) You're a twisted plonker who brainwashes people in order to control them and/or make money from their work and/or death. You deserve to rot slowly. Full stop.
[I can't remember if I've stated it anywhere in this blog before, but I don't believe in the death penalty. Since I don't believe in Heaven or whatever, I view death as the easy way out. Despicable bipeds deserve to live a very long life - working from oubliettes in order to compensate their victims.]

It's quite easy, Cupcake...
You're allowed to be shocked, angry, sad, annoyed, but no one died and made you king (or queen), and you've got no right to kill anyone because your "deep" belief that the Supreme Being has been insulted makes you think that you can grab a weapon and start shooting people.
If you want to defend your Supreme Being (you know, the one who, because you think He/She/It is a Supreme Being doesn't need you, the human gnat on Earth, to defend Him/Her/It because He/She/It is a SUPREME BEING, and if you believe that He/She/It created everything, then you're not needed to avenge Him/Her/It - incidentally, if you do hear His/Her/Its voice or voices, phone Bedlam, you need medical help), write a poem, start a petition against the person or persons who offended you (telling him/her/them that they're idiots - or be inventive, but always polite), paint a painting, draw a drawing, sue someone, BUT DO NOT RESORT TO VIOLENCE.

The foot soldiers of terrorism need to be educated. with more brain cells being active, you quickly realize that killing people makes you leave humanity.
The plonkers from point 1B who are using children to blow up people are genitalia-lacking clots.

Basically, it's simple: don't kill people because they say (draw, sculpt, etc...) something that you don't like. You tell them that you disagree, you mock them, you write theses against them, or... *fake gasp* you ignore them because they're not worth your time.

If your so-called faith is shaken by people with a different belief, first you're thin-skinned and you're not fit for survival (and you need to get out of your cave more often), and then your "faith" isn't that deep. Actual, deep faith is never shaken by anything from "outside" (that's where I was until I stopped being afraid, and I apostatised; I know what I'm talking about, and I can still give you lessons about faith).
If you're bothered by anything, work to prove that you're better than that.
As well... Get. A. Life. You're not helping by killing your brothers; you're not helping your so-called cause, and you're not even the real McCoy, or you wouldn't be killing people (this is not 2015 BC, when cults started wars and genocide; get on with the script).
Plant a field, build something,... Do not kill.

I watched again To Have and Have Not recently, and the assorted plonkers need to realize that there will always be people to stand up to them. Always.

Paul de Bursac: You don't think much of me, Captain Morgan. You're wondering why they have chosen me for this mission. I wonder too. As you know, I am not a brave man. On the contrary, I'm always frightened. I wish I could borrow your nature for a while, Captain. When you meet danger, you never think of anything except how you will circumvent it. The word "failure" does not even exist for you. While I, I think always, suppose I fail and that I am frightened.
Harry Morgan: Yeah, I can easily see how it wouldn't take much courage to get a notorious patriot off Devils' Island. But uh, but just for professional reasons, I'd like to know how you're going to do it.
Paul de Bursac: We will find a way. It might fail, and if it does and I'm, I'm still alive, I will try to pass on my information, my mission, to someone else, perhaps to a better man who does not fail. Because there is always someone else. That is the mistake the Germans always make with people they try to destroy. There will be always someone else.

On to Point 2:
There are chums of the plonkers who will always be ready to say that the killing cowards did what needed to be done - back to "Get. A. Life." (and a brain).

There are idiots who will say or write that 'Yes, it's a tragedy, but [mind my Rule #11] the victims brought it upon themselves (to be killed/raped/maimed/WHATEVER) because they'd offended their attackers, or where at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Soldiers have one word for that: chickenshit (that's "poppycock" in civilian parlance).
Nothing ever justifies killing people because they said something, drew something that you didn't like or were doing something that you don't approve of.
If you start saying 'It was wrong, but (...)', you stand by the side of the culprits, and that's because you're:
A) stupid
B) playing ostrich and refusing to say loud and clear that the culprits had no right to do whatever they did.
C) brainwashed and can't make the difference between freedom (of speech, movement or anything) and safeguards put in place by society*.

*: allow me to add something here. Some people are saying that there are limits to free speech. Yes! One doesn't yell 'Fire!' in a theatre (if you do and you get trampled to death, that's instant karma), but if you do not show respect to Zeus or Thor (and you make fun of their followers), it may be unfunny or bad taste, but that's never a reason to be killed.
Some will say that there are different laws all around the globe. Indeed, but it doesn't mean that all these laws are fair: in some countries, I'd legally need a male guardian to be allowed to breathe - that's slavery, and I'll fight against it because I may not be a citizen of those countries, but this is my planet, and I want all my sisters and brothers to be free, educated, and healthy (and happy if possible). Our species has been messing things up for too many centuries; time to grow up, and get working.
The Gods can surely take care of themselves, and arrogant bipeds shouldn't massacre in their names (and that's when I wish that Zeus or Thor were real and they'd blast to oblivion the arrogant bipeds).

Then there are other people who are saying 'What happened in ABC is a tragedy, but let's not forget what's happening in DEF, or GHI, or XYZ!'.
It's not a competition, Cupcake.
Horror and intolerance must be fought everywhere (and that's why learning and teaching History is so important).
I remember the soldiers who were frozen in the trenches in 1914-1918, I remember the victims of Holodomor, I weep for the citizens of North Korea, I want our Nigerian little sisters to go back to their homes and their families, I still miss the Bamiyan Buddhas, and I'll laugh at any plonker telling me that I cannot make fun of him because he believes in the Tooth Fairy (he's welcome to write me a sonnet ridiculing me - or a haiku if a sonnet's too complicated for his three brain cells).
I probably read too many newspapers, and I remember too much History, but that's because I want to be a better citizen of the world.
Of course, we can't fight everywhere at once but, one step at a time, all evil, intolerance, and obscurantism must be fought - or human should no longer be a synonym for kind.


And Point 3:

Some will say that when Benjamin Franklin wrote “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety” he meant something else (and boy! Can they write convoluted texts that are mostly cryptic and quite beside the point but that serves their agenda).
Whatever Mr Franklin meant at the time, the modern sentiment found in these words is accurate today.
We can see how the smokescreen of Safety can be sold to brainwashed sheeple (American TSA anyone? You know, the ones who illegally irradiate you and pat you down without being police officers - that's illegal, too).
I got it just this afternoon when I objected to my handbag being "checked" (just looking, no touching); I said it was useless because the charming boy who checked it saw only a part of it, and today I was working in a place where all sorts of chemicals are stored (bad guys don't have to bring anything in, they can shop inside - do read Daniel Pennac's Au bonheur des ogres). A colleague then told me that 'it had to be done for safety'.
Honestly, if people paid attention, we wouldn't need that theatre to make sheeple feel safer (the real bad guys have already planned something else, it's the average nutcases that we need to spot - and one cannot do that whilst glued to a mobile screen... just saying).
I'll keep growling, but I'll show my bag at work. Any store asking me that can dream on (especially one like in Au bonheur des ogres).
If we allow politicos to tell us what we must allow to be done to us, allegedly for our own protection, that's just like my needing a male guardian in some countries. Sorry, I'll follow the laws that already exist, but I'll use my lovely brain, my knowledge and a healthy dose of common sense, and if a politico asks me to give him my home keys, my bank account details, and all my Internet passwords, I'll tell "it" to go fry somewhere else.
I bet some so-called terrorists are dying with laughter when they see gutless responses, empty threats, and general inaction - and when they see countries make to quake in their collective boots for nothing (back to TSA: they've never caught any bad guy, but some of their people have committed crimes, but hey! That's for your own good).

Safety, yes, but not in a stupid and scared way - or the bad guys have won (and they must not).

Promised bonus:
There can be a lot of positive energy in the face of most horrific tragedies. If we actually work (not just say things), we could do so much good.
We could improve education, equality, opportunities.
If we treat one another like cousins (even if we disagree sometimes, like in all families), humanity could have a bright future.
If kindness cannot overcome pettiness, stupidity and sheer evil, there's no point in being here (I bet the Easter Bunny and Ma'at would agree with me).

Fly, Vinegar, & My Rule #2

Just a friendly tip for lazy, arrogant bipeds: if you need me to give you something (that you badly need, and that you can exclusively get from me), you ask nicely, and you try to make it look as if you did your best whilst you failed miserably (and I'm being kind!).

The thing is, if you keep bugging me after I said "No, I won't give it to you just because you're asking!", if you treat me as if I were an annoying and despicable gnat, if you keep pretending that just showing up (but never doing your job) should be enough for you to get some reward... Let's face it, that won't work too well with me.

Oh, and if you yell at me that (that happened for real, and I'm still growling hours later) I'm, I quote, a 'cunt':

a - I'll report you to our bosses because I'm not your doormat

b- I'll get a witch to curse you (and I'm not even joking)

c - you'll be dead to me from now on

I'm not a fly that's caught with vinegar, respect is never a one-way street, and I wasn't raised in a barn.

I just hope this is not a taste of the year or I'll hibernate throughout 2015!!

Modern Laziness

Of course, things are always changing (and that cannot be helped - I know).

That, however, doesn't mean that I have to be nice and civil when people are too lazy. 

I mean... you open your e-mail client to send a message, and then... you type your entire message in the subject line.

I beg your pardon, but... since the new e-mail window is open, why not actually type something in the subject line and in the e-mail window itself? Or is that too tiring for your three brain cells?

Well... My e-mail client will think that your lazy message with its empty body is some spam, and even if I catch it, I shall ignore it. If you cannot be bothered to type an actual e-mail message, I shan't acknowledge it.

Am I being old-fashioned? Probably. Then again, why should I be the one to follow your lead when I find it annoying, lazy, and impolite?

Sorry, Cabbage, do better next time; "dumbing down" never made it to my vocabulary. Oops.

PS: No one died and made you king, and you're my equal, not my boss. Land, Cupcake...