Bonding And Pain And Death.


This update added on Sunday, May 3 in the year of our Lord Les, 2012. It is derived from p7 of today’s Sunday Mail and refers to a feel-good story on fate intervening to stop dead two pieces of “amazing” crap from getting the chance to truncate the lives of innocent road travellers.

This story on the death of an English hooligan, a ‘great guy’ of course, was sourced from his local media, an entity I tend to think the scum-bag would have had no idea of its existence and is replicated hundreds of times a day around the planet. In Australia, this crap, always the best ever mate, father, brother et al, will be lauded as an unrecognised genius and a martyr. Rejoice when this type kill themselves, lament their victims.

“A young father who died after a road accident will be remembered for his “infectious smile” and the twinkle in his eye, his friends said yesterday.
Dan Watson, one of those who came to pay his respects, had been friends with Mr Crisp since childhood and was planning to go on holiday with him to Spain in the summer.

He said: “He was just a great guy to be around – the best friend you could ask for: always trusting, always reliable, and such a laugh.

“It still hasn’t sunk in yet. I was speaking to him at 3pm that day; we had big plans for Saturday because it’s my birthday. It’s just such a shock.”

He described Mr Crisp, a former Hewett School pupil who worked at the Menzies warehouse in the west of Norwich, as a loving father and a Norwich City fan whose passion was socialising with his friends.

“His little boy will be lost without his dad. Sam loved him so much and was a really good dad,” said Mr Watson, 21, of Dowding Road, Old Catton.

“He was always up for a laugh – he was very popular and well known, funny and easy to get along with.” “

Clearing a rotten filing system. Please pardon if the following is old stuff. Deleted from doco. files, so there!

My youthful scheming involved accommodating only my pleasure senses and not giving any thoughts to the jollies of others.

Animosity! You and he are welcome to it, but the bitch is always in heat.

Long ago I became very aware of the anathema awarded me my few small victories, that contending with a pair of nasty little queens is like banqueting on bubbly and caviar for Easter Sunday breakfast; too easy, too enjoyable and too decadent. Thinkers are unable to offer the dim and witless flattery, but the temperate achiever who doesn’t insult the integrity will win everlasting acclaim. At twice your age and hauling a tiring body, the legacy of a degenerate life and a matching, undisciplined brain, I am immodest enough, as I await the leveler, to rate my I.Q. above the comfort zone.

Without the idiot gene, many professions would never have risen from the floor and those who have this fault share with pox carriers and down-wind sneezers and spitters, the macabre pleasure of implanting without discretion to gain the advantage and over-run and defeat common-sense, Onan, as with an era of Nile-wanking Pharaohs, justified the kinky pleasure of public orgasm by naming the practice a celebration of abundance of food and water. The same chap saw virtue in seeding the earth than wasting an orgasm on a no-hoper who, 16 years later will have daddy’s permission to go forth to kill and maim. It is an underhand way of getting square with those round him he perceives should not have an ordered and peaceful life. You are entitled…

This part of lost file not retrieved and will be added-to.

…Of Human Bondage as a treatise on fetishes still rankles with me. Alternately, commit to the rewarding and correct way by adopting Bolt’s intellectual principles and work ethics and increase the odds of attracting the cream you were assured was possible.

As imperfect and meagre were my two invited submissions, they were over represented in an intellectual desert and their cynicism lost on you as is a Faberge egg to a nose picker. You and your little friend’s vacuous and inane response to them didn’t win support even from the sparse herd of goats. Considering you possess a double dose of perplexity, it is most likely that my reference to a politician’s mispronunciation of hyperbole as hyper-bowl went over your head. “Talk sense to a fool and he will call you foolish.” By ridiculing that which you don’t understand, marks you truly your parent’s child.

In our correspondence, I stuck to my principle of answering your questions as thoroughly as my recall allowed while offering thoughts on subjects you put to me. Generally known as manners, letter-writing etiquette is now shunned for its perceived insipidity by dumbed-down parents desperately seeking the mantle as creators of leaders. It is what I’ve dubbed The Palin Principle of narcissistic, self-serving duffers not letting the lack of ability, knowledge, common-sense, integrity, manners and other worthy attributes prevent an unearned lead role in the pecking order.

The anguished keeper despairs for his lost brother. The object of his attention shrugs, as would I, at unwanted and oily intrusive clap-trap. This fellow will emerge when the climate and the reason is agreeable. He has always led a remote and distant life, and given the puritanical dogma that surrounded his youth, this inherited affliction has manifested in him as an ascetic zealot. Humbug siblings appal and irritate him, as they do me. So be it. Christian vanity at work to pursue and obligate him.

Not all the lambs are influenced by smoke and mirrors. With the martyr, I see a self-righteous nut-job with a sharpened stake bumping around in his quiver, bible held like a defiant cross in one hand, the other giving free rein to his white charger, bellowing, “God for Vivian, For Purity, And for Vivian,” as he storms through unbelievers to liberate the hermitage and restore goodness and God. I must revisit Man Of La Mancha et al.

Early on, your missives were promising, showing attention to detail and you used the same commendable guidelines of letter-writing aficionados, but the new pan dulled quickly. If you were offended by, didn’t understand, or failed to get the expected response from me, then despair not, your lack of perspicacity and faint heart are in the breeding. Immorally bred Brethren children emulate their parents by denouncing those they can’t manipulate by accusations of their own faults of hate, jealousy and envy slanted against the hapless victim. This is the nucleus of your very existence, a justification for taking breath and how morally corrupt fraudsters leach from the trusting unaware, their last hopes.

A reformed petty criminal and crack-head wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I’ve been on about or alluding to, so I will sum it by suggesting Andrew Bolt decipher for you.

A lucid yarn with issue of Alice In Wonderland and The Billy Graham Show is in the realm of Great Expectations. There is no doubt why rationality and common sense are frowned upon while dopes run riot who are not reminded often enough of their fallibility and their stupidity.
Look At Me Mum!

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