American Empire: Brief Words On McDougall’s Promised Land, Crusader State

By Iddiot Stuppid

McDougall’s book explores American foreign policy as a dichotomy, an “Old Testament” and a “New Testament”, having its roots in an inward looking, self-structured and autonomous nation which evolved into an outward-looking organism with global interests. America as introvert. America as extrovert.

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NEPOTISM AND THE DECLINE OF THE AMERICAN NEWSPAPER

By Iddiot Stuppid

Guess what, loyal fuckoids? Nepotism really has nothing to do with this article; I just thought it sounded more attractive that way. But really, isn’t that just the same sort of ribald, sensationalist attitude that drives newspaper sales anyway, being all “flashy” and “eye-catching” on the front page with big-block letters screaming at us for the loose change in our pockets? That just makes newspapers gay in general, and since the internet is doing it now for cheaper and better, I say fuck ‘em.

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Review of Hole: Nobody’s Daughter (Source Code Version)

By Iddiot Stuppid

; Copyright © 2010 MERCURY RECORDS. All rights reserved.

; Use of this album is governed by a license agreement with talentless ass“hole”s.

; This is commercial music and the source code may not be redistributed,

; copied or incorporated in other products without the expressed written permission of

; Courtney Pillhead. The source code is Confidential and remains the property

; of Kurt Cobain’s unpublished songs, and the talent of those around Courtney. This album is provided as is, without warranty or

; assurance of merchantability for any purpose.

;

; pure-shit.inf — Pure NADS protocol vocals uninstaller.

;

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Jesus Wanted Me To Hang Myself From A Riser Over The Tack And Feed Area Of A Paladin 3-Stall Barn, And The Curious Lawrence Welk Show Incident

By Iddiot Stuppid

I nearly agreed to hang myself from a riser overlooking the tack and feed area of a Paladin 3-Stall Barn this morning when talking to Jesus. I had dropped a few squares of “pink-robots” acid earlier; the LSD was obtained from a group of musicians in Paris after a wonderful night of jazz and boozing- they somehow convinced me to try the stuff out; naturally being of a curious nature (and already somewhat drunk), I placed four squares of it on my tongue.

.

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Quadron: “Let’s Get Busy… Horse-Balls Deep!!”

By Iddiot Stuppid

The horse-balls felt lovely against my face; I clipped them from a steed not just two miles up the way of our Holiday-Inn destination, where the limo-driver dropped me. I noticed the horse as we approached town, and had the makings of it in my mind to go back for its ball-sack; and I did, loyal readers. Instead of pursuing the normal course-of-action and returning to Lons-le-Saunier, I decided to go back to the Inn, having a wonderful, sweet, lovemaking session with my horse-foreskin and testicles…

I saw candlelight and a warmly drawn bath- could almost hear Al Green faintly crackling on the room’s shitty television set. The ball-sack exhumed manure and numerous other putrid, piss-ass stenches; I vomited several times in the bathroom beforehand (prior to getting off on them). Every second of this genital-mutilation, gratifaction session proved beneficial to me.

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“In Plane View”: Pauly’s Rescue From Pentonville Prison And An Attempt To Listen To Titus Andronicus’ The Monitor On The Way To Von Hoboschlaier Manor

By Iddiot Stuppid

I was profoundly disappointed to lay down Amele this morning, my favorite mule. Her leg became twisted in a fence two days ago and I attempted nursing her back to health, but the break was just too devastating and infection spread rapidly. She was cooperative, easily trained, a very pleasant personality, and will be dearly missed.

Things have been drudgery on the farm this past month and I was thoroughly looking forward to a quick respite from it by writing my next What to Think Weekly review, but some very disconcerting news was brought to my attention via von Hoboschlaier.

Not having contributed long to What to Think Weekly, I am becoming consistently more aware of the debaucherous and ill-conceived nature of my colleague Pauly Pumpkins. I do respect and admire the man for many reasons, Piccolo? running in the fore; the novel almost transports me to certain memories I’d had at the Ecole. But I can’t wholly hate on him, for I too am imbued with an incorrigible, libidinous nature. But at least I…

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The White Stripes: Under Great White Northern Lights

By Iddiot Stuppid

We all know Jack can wail. We’re all well aware of how infectious The White Stripes are- what a touring force they can be, how devoted they are to their fans, etc. This is nowhere more apparent than on Under Great White Northern Lights, a release which highlights the Stripes’ exhaustive, thirteen-province Canadian tour (de force).

I appreciate the raw devotion here; very bare- “for the fan that’s never been to the live show,” kind of thing, which should receive some honorable mention at an awards ceremony, but it’s also a clever marketing strategy with the inclusion of the DVD, if not gimmicky.

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SCANDAL!!! B.R.M.C.’s Beat the Devil’s Tattoo & Larry Coryell’s Barefoot Boy- Exact Same Album??

By Iddiot Stuppid

Although recorded in separate eras and under wildly different circumstances, it becomes readily apparent, after listening to B.R.M.C.’s latest venture into the studio, that Larry Coryell’s Barefoot Boy had a twin brother four decades ago when it was released- only the other half was never delivered… until now. Now that brother #2 has emerged still-born from his side of the uterus, we are immediately struck by just how identical these twins are, and how belated Beat the Devil’s Tattoo’s birth really is.

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The Job Application and the Cover Letter, Not in Succession

By Iddiot Stuppid

Part 1: The Job Application

by Robert Walser

Esteemed Gentlemen,

I am a poor, young, unemployed person in the business field, my name is Wenzel, I am seeking a suitable position, and I take the liberty of asking you, nicely and politely, if perhaps in your airy, bright, amiable rooms such a position might be free. I know that your good firm is large, proud, old, and rich, thus I may yield to the pleasing supposition that a nice, easy, pretty little place would be available, into which, as into a kind of warm cubbyhole, I can slip. I am excellently suited, you should know, to occupy just such a modest haven, for my nature is altogether delicate, and I am essentially a quiet, polite, and dreamy child, who is made to feel cheerful by people thinking of him that he does not ask for much, and allowing him to take possession of a very, very small patch of existence, where he can be useful in his own way and thus feel at ease. A quiet, sweet, small place in the shade has always been the tender substance of all my dreams, and if now the illusions I have about you grow so intense as to make me hope that my dream, young and old, might be transformed into delicious, vivid reality, then you have, in me, the most zealous and most loyal servitor, who will take it as a matter of conscience to discharge precisely and punctually all his duties.

Large and difficult tasks I cannot perform, and obligations of a far-ranging sort are too strenuous for my mind. I am not particularly clever, and first and foremost I do not like to strain my intelligence overmuch. I am a dreamer rather than a thinker, a zero rather than a force, dim rather than sharp. Assuredly there exists in your extensive institution, which I imagine to be overflowing with main and subsidiary functions and offices, work of the kind that one can do as in a dream? —I am, to put it frankly, a Chinese; that is to say, a person who deems everything small and modest to be beautiful and pleasing, and to whom all that is big and exacting is fearsome and horrid. I know only the need to feel at my ease, so that each day I can thank God for life’s boon, with all its blessings.

The passion to go far in the world is unknown to me. Africa with its deserts is to me not more foreign. Well, so now you know what sort of a person I am. —I write, as you see, a graceful and fluent hand, and you need not imagine me to be entirely without intelligence. My mind is clear, but it refuses to grasp things that are many, or too many by far, shunning them. I am sincere and honest, and I am aware that this signifies precious little in the world in which we live, so I shall be waiting, esteemed gentlemen, to see what it will be your pleasure to reply to your respectful servant, positively drowning in obedience.

Part 2:The Cover Letter

by Iddiot Stuppid

February 2, 1992
Mr. Bluefeld Bottomsworth
Executive Vice President
Mutual Ink, Inc.
1422 Marzo Rd.
Aquatic, AK 67348

Dear Mr. Bottomsworth:

I would like to be considered for the Administrative Assistant position offered at Mutual Ink. I learned of this opportunity while rag-bagging outside a local bar, doing shots of Tequila relentlessly where known prostitutes gallivant outside. After becoming severely drunk, I expressed my undying desire to acquire this position while having unprotected anal intercourse with a transsexual, who also felt my ecstasy regarding this career opportunity.

My high use of narcotics and alcohol, as well as possessing excellent manipulation skills have helped me in achieving a strong library of drugs and booze in the home where I squat. My diligence and commitment to forming sadistic relationships with people is relentless; I always find a way to obtain my desires, and so feel extremely qualified to succeed in the business world. Also, I have sat in on a number of classes at a local community college where professors have kindly accepted my piss-stank presence, as I am quite interested in literature.

Through challenging positions, such as being so incognizant I didn’t remember being raped and having a kidney ganked on the night of February 1, 1990, I have developed strong survival-skills, effective interpersonal skills and the ability to problem-solve where my next meal is coming from. As someone homeless individuals in the community look up to, I successfully resolve most conflicts amongst them, helping them achieve meals and shelter in most instances, and diffuse any instances where shankings may occur. With my background as a male prostitute, I am confident that I can do whatever is necessary in obtaining success within this company.

Since I do not have any authentic work experience in any reputable business, I will not be enclosing a resume (not often do you get a cover letter without a resume- it should be covering something, after-all!!). I am torridly excited about this opportunity, beaming ear to ear about meeting with you. Thank you for your valuable time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Yadayadayada Johnson

February 28, 2010

By Iddiot Stuppid

This morning I devoted myself to the essay, “Quantum Mechanics and Closed Timelike Curves,” by Florin Moldoveanu. Moldoveanu raises interesting questions regarding time-travel; his snout is poised in all the right directions, it’s just that Quantum Mechanics itself becomes problematic. As he states in his own conclusion:

Quantum mechanics can only be defined on global hyperbolic manifolds and all general relativity solutions exhibiting time travel are unphysical. As Hawking put it, the world is indeed safe for historians.

As I finished my eggs benedict, politely patting the edges of my lips with a napkin even though I was alone and had no food on my face, I smirked somewhat. It is hard to explain such a feeling; when you have conquered an idea and made a reality of it, and yet the world is ignorant of your discovery. I am yet to find a person with ideas re: time-travel accurate enough to construct a model (in reality) which could effectively utilize those concepts. Amidst the flurry of personal research and journeying, to my knowledge, I am still alone in this phenomenon, and my suspicion is that I always will be- as I have no inherent interest in sharing my findings with the extant world.

The world ripped me from the Ecole, and for that I will never forgive it. My beautiful Ambrosine, your sweet touch will never evade my memory. My beautiful Anouska, with your hair that smelled of soft winds and fluttering daffodils. My sweet, sweet, Bernetta, how your golden locks shone like the sun! My darling, beautiful Blancheflor, how you warmed my heart and made my nights sing! My sweet, beautiful Cateline, how that youthful bosom radiated and undulated before my eyes, with what abandon I groped and sucketh’d from your nipples! My gorgeous, lovely Claudette, how I loved thee, how confounding was your beauty to me? I will never forget it…

… we’re only through the C’s now, and honestly, this is inflicting significant grief. If only the world knew of the unmitigated ecstasy I experienced at the Ecole…

I weep at night for the loss of my loves; only a fire burning this hot and effulgent could possess a man to follow his ideas to the madness of time travel; once sworn off sex and debauchery, I used those flames to propel myself to the heights of cognition- which I now enjoy almost as much as a malodorous vagina.

Upon several sojourns into the future, I encountered a website called WHAT TO THINK. I watched the site grow and grow, becoming more and more significant in terms of cultural and global persuasion; something not unlike what happened to Bill and Ted in their Excellent Adventures. I knew I had to be part of this illustrious community upon visiting the WHAT TO THINK museum in 2052, wherein the scope and reach of these ideas had flourished into every major aspect of human thought in terms of history, science, politics, philosophy, art, music and popular culture. I am honored to submit this, my first entry (in the “dear-diary” sense) on this 28th of February, 2010 (a Sunday), in the WHAT TO THINK catalog, and look forward to submitting many more in the “future.”

Rotting Christ’s Aealo

By Iddiot Stuppid

Rotting Christ’s Aealo grabbed me first at Demonon Vrosis because the song opens a bit like Jocelyn Pook’s Masked Ball; unfortunately, the rest of the album left me feeling a bit like the title of the film Pook composed that song for- only in this sense “Ears Wide Shut” is more apropos.

Sadly, for Rotting Christ, with all their attempts at mixing quasi-catchy guitar riffs on a back-drop (or should I say “black-drop”) of death-metal machismo, everything seems to hold together about as efficaciously as that leg-lamp in A Christmas Story.

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For Anyone considering listening to THE COURAGE OF OTHERS by MIDLAKE

By Iddiot Stuppid

Of course I’m not being literal, so I must be speaking in metaphors. So what am I saying? Well, I guess I’m saying that we should all embrace THE COURAGE OF OTHERS by MIDLAKE the way I do the special bucket at Kentucky Fried Chicken; it’s just kind of sultry and not worth resisting. Also, what exists here is not a review per se, nor aggressively intellectual. Think of it more as a means for me to get all SWIMFAN on this album; I’ll chase after it the way unleashed dogs sprint after Buicks

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