Thursday, October 21, 2021

Mercury retrograde and the Cabal's final assault against my sense of well-being

How to avoid getting bitten by spiders (photo by Honey Khor 19 October 2021)

In recent years I've stopped paying particular attention to Mercury retrogrades - but this recent one which began 27 September and ended 18 October 2021 certainly got my attention before it fizzled out.

I think it was a spider that bit me between my last two toes on my right foot during the first week of October. It began as just a slight itch and I applied some Tiger Balm (time-tested relief for insect bites). A few days later the itch turned into a slight swelling. 

An important meeting had been arranged at The Fusion Longhouse for October 11th. I began to suspect it was no random spider that bit me. 

It wasn't exactly Shelob but the negative impact on my sense of well-being
was almost as dramatic!

The swelling on my right foot got so bad on October 9th, it hurt when I walked, and I noticed the lymph node in my right groin was inflamed. There was much to be done around the Longhouse so I grit my teeth and went about my daily routines, despite feeling increasingly feverish and having no appetite.

I was prompted along the way to pop an antihistamine pill, followed by 12mg of "horse dewormer." My foot felt fine when I got horizontal and had a good long sleep. Only when I got back on my feet and attempted to go about my daily routine did I feel growing discomfort and fatigue. I took a second antihistamine, followed by another dose of "horse dewormer."


How to say no to this being?
Again, I felt all right whenever I lay in bed. Only when I got vertical did I feel unwell. I observed that the venom from the spider (or whatever the agent had been) was subtly affecting my perceptions, making them cynical and pessimistic.

I was able to enjoy meeting with the small delegation from a growing movement of newly awakened young starseeds but unable to join them with any physical activity. A beloved friend came to hang out and brought her favorite seafood noodles for lunch. Against my better judgment and my survival instincts, I ate her offering of yummy mussels & vermicelli - and, true enough, it exacerbated the swelling in my right foot!

After the guests left, I woke up and when I attempted to clear some mucus from my lungs, I felt my lower back go out of alignment. In March 2011, in conjuction with the abrupt disappearance from my radar of someone I believed to be my "twin flame," I pulled a nerve in a coughing fit and for the next couple of years suffered bouts of intense lower back pain. It took almost a whole year and more than RM10,000 in 2013 to resolve the problem - first with acupuncture, then chiropractic adjustment, and finally ten sessions of structural integration (Rolfing) with my angelic healer friend, Michelle Ch'ng.

A large group had booked the Longhouse for the weekend and there was no way I could handle setting the place up for them.

I texted and Abigail came to my rescue, taking over Longhousekeeping chores and doing so with aplomb.

She did it so efficiently I began to contemplate letting her take over The Fusion Longhouse whenever I feel I deserve a break. Indeed, Abigail qualifies as the ideal locum: not only does she know what goes where, she can also cook up a storm and is an entirely sexy redhaired singing witch.

Meanwhile, good neighbor Mary came to my rescue with her healing energy, dressing the oozing wound on my foot and applying turmeric and an icepack to reduce the swelling.

Miraculously, Michelle Ch'ng showed up a couple of days later and gave me a 30-minute Rolfing session which enabled me to stand straight and walk normally - at least till the next day!


I've been recommending healing frequencies (lots of them to be found on YouTube) to many friends but this was the first time I was prompted to use them myself. They work best with headphones just before drifting to sleep. Believe me, the healing frequencies penetrate all your cells and bring tremendous, almost instant, relief. Toxic pharmaceutical products and fake vaccines will be a medical nightmare of the past when most humans opt for these far more civilized approaches to health. But most therapeutic of all were the impassioned backrubs with spicy essential oil offered by my beloved tantric partner and lifelong soulbuddy who also got me to buy some alcohol pads (never heard of them) to dry up the wound on my feet. After several sessions, the pain was all but gone - but I still have to be very careful not to get my spine out of whack again by carrying heavy loads.

1:11 am, 21 October 2021






















 







 

Meditation on the Muse (revisited)

Van Gogh painting stolen in Cairo: [22 Aug 2010] A Van Gogh painting worth an estimated $55 million was stolen from a Cairo museum yesterday and after reporting it had been recovered, the state news agency quoted a minister as saying it was still missing.


VINCENT VAN GOGH (1853-1890): During his brief career he managed to sell one painting (to his younger brother Théo, an art dealer). Van Gogh's finest works were produced in less than three years in a technique that grew more and more impassioned in brushstroke, in symbolic and intense color, in surface tension, and in the movement and vibration of form and line. Van Gogh's inimitable fusion of form and content is powerful; dramatic, lyrically rhythmic, imaginative, and emotional, for the artist was completely absorbed in the effort to explain either his struggle against madness or his comprehension of the spiritual essence of man and nature. [Source: The Van Gogh Gallery]
If you happen to be involved in the arts, you'd probably be familiar with some of the downsides of being a producer rather than a consumer of artifacts.

No matter how shy you may be - and whether you're a visual artist, dancer, photographer, writer or musician - there comes a point when you have to present your efforts to an audience. That's when every self-doubt you've ever encountered (and thought you had overcome) returns to haunt your waking hours.


Many of my painter friends are extremely reclusive by nature and recoil at the thought of being in the limelight. Yet they realize they eventually have to make their private obsessions public and exhibit their work. After the invitations to the opening have been posted, there's the nagging anxiety that only a handful will bother showing up - or that the usual incestuous clique will turn up for the free wine, stand around "networking" amongst themselves, and then adjourn for dinner somewhere chic after a cursory, non-commital glance at the work you sweated for months to produce. And, of course, there's always the scary thought that your exhibition may finish its run without a single piece being bought.

Lying in a hospital bed at the start of 2010, I had a flash of inspiration. Rather than wait till some miraculous windfall dropped a huge amount of money in my lap, enabling me to produce a 7-CD boxed edition of my music archive, I would reissue my 1986 second solo album as a stand-alone CD and flog it on my blog!

It would be a relatively painless exercise, requiring only minimal physical exertion on my part (meaning, no more than 3 or 4 trips to KL). The music had already been painstakingly digitized by Daniel Tang of AddAudio from 27-year-old open-reel masters and required only minimal tweaking by my audio wizard friend in Koh Phangan. I could scan the original cassette cover and program notes and resize it for the CD package. No problem persuading a few hundred curious souls to order the CD by post, I figured, so long as it was reasonably priced. And that should cover production costs, with enough profit to pay for services rendered along the way, and perhaps even cover expenses for a 10-day retreat in Bali...

The original 1986 release of 2nd Coming on compact cassette

As it turned out, the scanned cassette cover proved unusable. A totally new cover design and layout was in order as the original photos and artwork no longer existed. Not a major problem, especially when a helpful artist friend had kindly offered to take care of the technical details.

Finally the CD master arrived by express courier. My audio wizard mixmaster, Sanuk aka Daniel Schwörer (left), had done three versions - one with no equalization or processing, original tape hiss and all; another with souped-up dynamics; and a "mellow" version with a less aggressive personality. His feedback on the 2nd Coming project is well worth documenting in a separate post.

No Commercial Potential

After the excitement of listening to various versions of the mix (through loudspeakers as well as headphones) had subsided somewhat, I began to feel a twinge of anxiety about how the music would be received.

The way I create music in the studio is so uniquely idiosyncratic the results don't fit into any familiar categories or genres. Since early childhood, I have been exposed to an eclectic spectrum of different styles of music - ranging from schmaltzy big-band post-war dance music and Afro-Cuban cha-cha to totally far-out experiments by envelope-pushers like Conlon Nancarrow, Terry Riley, Sun Ra, John Cage, John Coltrane, Soft Machine, Captain Beefheart, and Henry Cow. I even owned an LP of George Harrison's little-known experiments with electronic music. Apart from this offbeat diet, I also listened a lot as a kid to soundtrack albums (my favorite film composers were Jerry Goldsmith and Elmer Bernstein).

One of my early musical heroes, Frank Zappa, was fond of mocking record company executives by describing his own prolific output as having absolutely "no commercial potential." Zappa never aspired towards mainstream acceptance, but his genius as a composer, producer and guitarist made him a living legend, respected by musicians of all genres - classical, jazz and pop alike. I wonder if Frank occasionally suffered from bouts of self-doubt about the ultimate artistic worth of his oeuvre.

The Acid Test

Well, I do. That's why my music undergoes stringent laboratory tests before being released. For instance, I would play rough mixes of 2nd Coming on various friends' sound systems to check the dynamics under different atmospheric and spatial conditions - and one evening, under the mind-expanding influence of lysergic acid diethylamide, I listened to the whole of Sting's 1985 debut solo album, The Dream of the Blue Turtles; and immediately afterwards played 2nd Coming all the way through. Both albums sounded perfect  to me, even though the musical idioms were worlds apart.

When Sting came out with The Dream of the Blue Turtles, I had been awestruck by the amazing artistic and technical heights the man had achieved. The recording sounded gloriously fresh and every one of his sessionists contributed a magical ingredient to the mix that was truly inspired. Apart from that, Sting's songs were remarkable in their beauty of construction and maturity of expression.

For a long time, Blue Turtles was my measure of absolute perfection in the annals of recorded music, along with the Beatles' ground-breaking Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Cliub Band. Now, I'm not comparing myself to Sting or the Beatles. The music we produce is totally different. What I'm saying is that I was able to enjoy my own stuff as much as I enjoyed Sting's album, without feeling a sense of letdown. That's what I call passing the "Acid Test"!

Not Exactly Easy Listening

I'd be the first to admit that the music in 2nd Coming doesn't qualify as "easy on the ears." I was going through a pretentious phase, so the music is extremely cerebral and demands the listener's full attention. At that point in time I didn't have a strong interest in rhythm, so anyone looking for funky grooves will probably be disappointed. It's not the sort of music you might hear on FM radio or put on at a cocktail party. Unless, of course, you've added a few exotic ingredients in the punch.

1986 ink portrait of E. Manu Eel (now known
as Antares) by Ahmad Fauzi
Why on earth do I make music? That's a question I often ask myself. Of all the activities I have indulged in since my childhood days - writing, cartooning, taking photos, acting, directing, videomaking - making music is perhaps the most intimate expression of my soul.

The hours I spend in the studio laying down multiple tracks in rapid succession, one after another - usually working all through the night - can be counted as my happiest, freest moments. Leaning back on the sofa and listening to the playback of a fresh mix through the recording studio's giant JBL speakers is more gratifying to me than sex.

I did the layout for the cassette inlay myself

It so happens that I have a rather low tolerance for campfire songs and instantly accessible music (such as has made composers like Bollywood whizkid A.R. Rahman and instrumentalists like Kenny G immensely rich). I can admire (and sometimes envy) the catchy hooks and saccharine melodies that constitute the main ingredients of mainstream pop music, but I guess I'm too much of a snob to ever be caught churning out such formulaic stuff.

Or, at least, I was. As one matures, the powerful desire to come across as "different" begins to diminish - perhaps because youth is the appropriate time for us to explore and express our uniqueness as individuals.

Antares (right) plays pots and pans on Chaos at the Supermarket with Rafique Rashid and R.S. Murthi (pic by Syed Zainal Rashid, 1984)

I believe that with my early musical output I went as far out on a limb as anyone possibly could to be totally individualistic - which, alas, automatically disqualified me as a candidate for Top of the Pops. Much as I admired the Beatles (I still do and always will) and at one time yearned to be as rich and famous as the four lucky and talented lads from Liverpool, the influence of Saturn in my Leo makes me distrust popularity and commercial success. This trait can be a serious liability, I know. Another reason why I could never be a politician - I'd lose my deposit at every contest.

I'm not counting on selling a million CDs like Michael Jackson or Cold Play. In fact, I'd be delighted if even 500 people on Planet Earth show enough curiosity to give 2nd Coming a fair hearing - since only 500 copies of this CD exist. And if they find my musical explorations thought-provoking, neurologically stimulating and mysteriously instructive, I'd be positively over-the-moon.


Click here for more background info.
Click here to listen to 2nd Coming.

[First posted 22 August 2010, reposted 10 November 2013 & 17 October 2019]


Wednesday, October 20, 2021

Regain Control of Your Imagination (it's a powerful holographic projector!)

The insane feeding frenzy of human animals has never been more apparent. How easily misled we are by destructive ideologies and beliefs antagonistic to Life Itself. 

For nearly 4,000 years Mother Earth has been ravaged by an alien virus injected into the collective psyche via a portal overhanging the Middle East. Its human agent is documented in tribal lore as a patriarch named Abraham (an anagram for Brahma) and since his advent the world has been deliberately split asunder by messianic and apocalyptic faiths each claiming to be the only "true religion."  

Via this portal, insectoid and reptilian ET influences have spread throughout the 3D computer simulation we call "The Matrix" which have infected the elite bloodlines and corrupted all political systems through manipulation of wealth distribution mechanisms. 

By subtly promoting rule by fear and scarcity conditioning, the power structure has ensured that humans be mostly driven by negative emotional tendencies like paranoia, suspicion, hostility and dread of the strange and unknown. The herd mentality is formatted via institutions like schools and universities and vulnerable young minds forcibly given a left-brain bias, effectively suppressing intuitive faculties and disconnecting them from their own senses. They are programmed to focus on the dots, not to connect them.


Well-paid shills are given the task of "manufacturing consent" by cluster bombing the collective psyche with disjointed trivia and ephemeral distractions, to ensure that the bulk of the populace never attains independent and original thinking and feeling, but remains content to parrot catchphrases and memes, in the process turning themselves into automatons and zombies, easily swayed by statistics and trends.

Competition is encouraged instead of cooperation, to further fragmentize the human ego - an artificial social construct that obstructs us from a constant awareness of the interconnectedness and interdependency of all biological processes and living species. Anthropocentric concerns justify the systematic exploitation and ultimate desecration of the ecosystem that supports and nurtures life. Humans are taught to fear and worship invisible, punitive, judgmental deities and a set of rules and regulations issued by power-hungry priesthoods - rather than revere the beauty and integrity of the natural environment and trust our instinctive, spontaneous responses to external stimuli.

Cult figures are made of long-dead tribal heroes and vast resources squandered on constructing spectacular monuments to their memory - instead of channeled to alleviating poverty and lack across the social spectrum. The disempowered and disenfranchised are kept in their place as a reservoir of menial labor to be drawn upon ad infinitum, to support the luxurious lifestyles of the privileged. In such a distorted reality, truth speakers are habitually incarcerated or allowed to starve, worm-tongues exalted to ministerial posts.

52 years ago I woke up to the realization that Heaven on Earth is not only possible - but absolutely necessary to the continuance of Anthropine evolution on this planet. It has been a full-time job keeping this vision alive in my heart, but there have been many encouraging signs. The incoming souls I have encountered since have reassured me that masterful, powerful entities are now in our midst, in physical embodiment, many from a dazzling pedigree of star lineages. They are here with unimaginable talents and cutting-edge apps, waiting in the wings to take the reins of power from the decadent and debauched Old Guard, which obstinately refuses to give way.

Well, the Old Guard may refuse to give way, step down, hand over... but just wait a few more weeks, at most months, and you will see the traditional power structure crumble into a huge pile of rot. So shall it be!


[First posted in Facebook on 19 December 2016. reposted 17 February 2021]



Wednesday, October 6, 2021

TESTOSTERONAL OVERDRIVE, TERRITORIALITY... AND THE MALAY MALE (revisited)

Self-portrait @ sixteen
I was only 16 when I met Azizah at a "grownup" party where couples were slow-dancing and drinking alcoholic beverages. My classmate Suhaimi had invited Johnny Khoo and me to the party. As a fifth form student in Batu Pahat High School I was still a Walt Disney kid and as naïve as Dumbo the Flying Elephant. 

[Note: When I wrote this essay in May 2009, I was blissfully unaware of Walt Disney's secret life as an initiate of the Cabal; only found out after 2016 when Donald Trump declared war on the global pedophile network and came under relentless attack by the Mockingbird/Talkingturd media!]

One afternoon I saw Suhaimi sitting alone in the school canteen, busy rolling a balut (reefer). "What's that you're smoking?" I asked. Suhaimi winked and said conspiratorially: "We call this ganja." I had no idea what he was talking about so Suhaimi explained that in English it was known as marijuana. He pronounced it "mari-jew-anna."

I was horrified. "Suhaimi, you're my buddy and I care about you, so please listen to me and stop this dangerous habit before it destroys your life."

Suhaimi grinned and nodded amicably but didn't bother arguing with me. Nor did he offer me a toke on his glowing reefer. Two years later when I had my first joint I thought back to this early encounter with "illegal substances" and felt like a complete twit. What a namby-pamby twirp Suhaimi must have thought I was! But he was kind enough not to mock me and I'm still grateful for that.

Gaia by Sabrine
But I digress. Coming back to the party where I met Azizah: I remember her grabbing me by the hand and dragging me to the dance floor. Though I felt awkward and shy I managed to pretend to be cool and sophisticated. I was on cloud nine dancing with the vivacious and extremely friendly Azizah. To top it all she was very pretty too. Before we parted she told me she lived in the Gunung Soga government quarters. She even gave me her address and invited me to visit anytime.

About a week later I found myself driving around the Gunung Soga area with Johnny in tow. My dad, bless his soul, trusted me with his car even though I was too young to possess a driver's licence.

"Hey, let's see if we can find Azizah," Johnny suggested. It only took a couple of turns around the neighborhood to locate her house. We walked up to the front door and boldly knocked. Azizah opened it and broke into a big smile when she saw us. She began chatting with us but made no move to invite us in. A moment later we understood why.

A heavyset bloke sporting a policeman-style mustache suddenly emerged from a bedroom and sauntered to the front door. Azizah appeared a tad nervous as she introduced her fiancé Azlan to us.

Azlan gestured to Azizah and she gave us a weak smile as she disappeared into the kitchen, as if to fetch us some drinks. Her fiancé's hunky body blocked the entrance. "How do you know Azizah?" he asked curtly.

"Oh, we met at a party and she invited us to visit," I began... but Azlan wasn't listening. He took a step forward and kneed Johnny in the groin.

Johnny reflexively got into fighting stance but I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. "Let's leave. I don't think we're welcome here."

That was my first experience of testosteronal overdrive, territoriality and the Malay male. It was such a rude and unpleasant shock I quickly blotted the incident from memory.



Thirty-three years later I was reminded of Azizah and her possessive lover Azlan when I saw Huzir Sulaiman's dramatic monologue, Election Day, wherein he played three housemates named Francis, Dedric and Fozi. The narrator is Francis (a freelance copywriter who could be either Indian or Eurasian) and the plot revolves around "the beautiful and enigmatic Natasha" (a rich girl who is neither seen nor heard at any point but for whose affections all three housemates end up vying). Dedric is a Taiwan-educated Tian Chua type human rights activist and Fozi is a fashionably bohemian architect and one-time PAS member in Perak.

At the start of the play Natasha is Fozi's girlfriend and she has just left the house after a spat with him. The action takes place on Election Day, 29 November 1999. As the drama unfolds we discover that Dedric has a crush on Natasha and thinks Fozi isn't worthy of her. Cleverly interweaving acerbic sociopolitical commentary into his narrative, Huzir concludes his one-hour neo-existentialist drama with a chilling revelation: one of the three housemates is actually a Special Branch officer who manages to set up the other two guys for arrest and detention without trial so he can get the girl - and possibly a promotion for services rendered towards the maintenance of the status quo.

Natasha in Election Day represents the ultimate reward: the land itself, a trophy bride to show off to the whole world and in whose fecund and erotic soil the conquering hero can plant his seeds.

Was Huzir Sulaiman cynically implying that the old adage - all's fair in love and war - holds true and that only the completely amoral stand a chance of winning the game?

Anyway, as I began to recall that long-forgotten run-in with Azizah's jealous fiancé Azlan, many complex issues emerged for me to ponder. First of all, why did Azizah invite me to her house? Okay, assuming she found me rather cute and was keen to befriend me, why didn't she warn me about Azlan? Those were the days before cellphones and SMSes, so it would have been a bit harder to plan secret trysts, even if she had passed me her home phone number. Yet Azizah struck me as a free-spirited, fun-loving girl who enjoyed a wide circle of friends and didn't see anything wrong with befriending other guys even if she already had a steady boyfriend or fiancé.

Perhaps Azlan and Azizah had very different views on this subject. I wonder if she eventually married the fellow - and whether she would have been happy being under the thumb of such a control freak who obviously believed it was fine for him to have four wives, but strictly a no-no for a woman to have four husbands.

I made an effort to imagine myself as someone like Azlan, who would shoot first and talk later if he felt his boundaries threatened. A man of action rather than contemplation who probably dismissed people like me as lily-livered bleeding hearts just because we're capable of a measure of empathy - and are therefore more likely to welcome the unexpected rather than barricade ourselves against the unknown.

If I were Azlan and one day found a couple of strange men at the door asking to see my girlfriend, what would my response be? First, I'd ask her if she knew these guys and whether she wanted to see them. If she acknowledged them as friends and was happy to welcome them to the house, I'd probably regard them as my friends too. They'd be served tea and cakes and after a bit of conversation I might find I enjoyed their company and vice versa. Even if they initially had plans to date her, they would probably be glad just to be accepted as family friends.

After all, if I'm fortunate enough to have a really hot girlfriend or spouse, she's bound to be a big hit with almost every guy she meets and they would all wish they could make out with her. And if I didn't attempt to put her on a short leash and respected her sovereignty as a conscious and mature individual, I'd trust her to always be honest with me.

It's absurd to force your partner to vow NEVER to be attracted to any other. However, it's not difficult at all to swear eternal love to somebody - as long as it's not exclusive, since one never knows what inner changes one will undergo over an extended period.

For instance, you may believe you're absolutely besotted with somebody when you're 17 years old, only to realize four or five years down the line - or perhaps even after four or five months - that it was a purely superficial attraction, and that it's time to move on. Even so, one must always be grateful for love and good times shared. It's a very positive thing to continue loving the ones you have mentally and emotionally outgrown or detached from - like your own parents or former teachers, for example.

Do you see what I'm getting at? Azlan is a metaphor for Umno's values of pseudo-nationalism, ultra-ethnocentrism, and erotophobic bi-polarity manifesting as an obsession with sex and power. Azizah symbolizes Malaysia.

As a traditional, patriarchally programmed Malay male, Azlan/Umno believes it is his God-given right to possess and control Azizah/Malaysia. The thought of somebody else - what more a pork-eating Chink? - wanting a share of his prized possession Azizah is enough to trigger a violent knee-jerk reaction.

All very basic, really: without wasting his breath by going into a discussion about the matter, Azlan instinctively knew what Johnny and I were after - his girl! - and since he was a much more mature guy than either of us fifth-formers, he simply turned into a bully-boy to dissuade us from ever approaching Azizah again. Just protecting his own interests, that's all. Nothing personal.



But there's the rub. Azlan saw Azizah as his property - not as a living, thinking, feeling, evolving, autonomous entity. Johnny wanted to punch Azlan in the face but I felt it was prudent to just walk away from an unnecessary fight. It wasn't as if either of us was seriously in love with Azizah. We only wanted to explore the possibilities of befriending this feisty, friendly girl. All very innocuous stuff, really, and it was stupid of Azlan to react so brutishly.

By obeying his own primitive, unthinking, territorial imperatives he had shown himself to be merely a humanoid biped not much more evolved than a gorilla equipped with basic linguistic circuitry. If he had had the good sense to break into a broad grin and quip: "So you guys want to chat with Azizah? Well, I'm her manager and it's going to cost you 50 bucks an hour... each! Actually, I'm engaged to be married to Azizah in three months and if you turn out to be nice fellas, we'll invite you to the wedding."



Well, such an approach might easily have won Azlan two new friends. Instead, he left me with a permanent bad taste about unwarranted jealousy, petty-mindedness and the sheer stupidity of being a habitual control freak. Indeed, I'm convinced that people like Azlan - unless they mature and mellow rapidly enough - won't qualify for admission into the heavenly realms, because we can't have such coarse and loutish souls clogging up the free flow of good feelings in those rarefied frequencies.

Nevertheless, Azlan's violent behavior was undeniably effective. I never attempted again to contact Azizah, though for me she will always represent the beauty, nubility, hospitality and infinite promise my country holds for me - and everyone else who regards her as home. And ever since that time the name Azizah has always held a mysterious appeal for me.

Azizah would be past 60 by now, probably a grandmother several times over. I fervently hope she wised up and dumped that reactionary Umnoish boyfriend of hers and married a Mat Salleh instead. In any case, I wouldn't be at all surprised if one of these days a vibrant, vivacious and extremely attractive young woman named Zamila added me as her Facebook friend, and I later discovered her paternal grandma Azizah was born in Batu Pahat and lived for many years in the Gunung Soga government quarters...


FOR THE SAKE OF SCIENTIFIC ACCURACY ~
 IF NOT POLITICAL CORRECTNESS
Halfway through writing this post it occurred to me that the syndrome I've been discussing is certainly not defined by ethnicity or nationality, nor does it entirely apply to the male gender. It so happened that in this early encounter with "the territorial imperative" the antagonist happened to be a Malay male. He could also have been Italian, Mexican, Japanese, Albanian, Filipino, Zimbabwean, Chinese or Portuguese. Possessiveness is a fairly common trait amongst females too.

Ego insecurity and jealousy are hardwired into our reptilian brains - the most basic, most ancient and primitive component of vertebrate cerebrospinal neural circuitry. In most species the territorial imperative serves the long-range objectives of specific genetic programs in a Darwinian selective process.

Stands to reason that under the harsh, hostile conditions of a prolonged Dark Age, the masculine, warlike qualities would become prominent survival features. However, in an Enlightened Age, this truculent, hooliganistic, shoot-first-talk-later behavior swiftly becomes countersurvival.

Brain supersedes brawn and heart overrides gonads as sentient beings evolve. In effect, the Azlan syndrome is really a residual behavior accumulated over thousands of years when physical might improved procreative odds. In an era when metaphysical vision becomes more relevant and significant as modifiers of human evolution, the gorillaman faces abrupt extinction as the godman takes his place as prime progenitive preference.

Just as Umno has yet to integrate the deeper existential implications of its massive losses during the 8 March 2008 election, a large portion of humanity has yet to acquire the more advanced software that will enable us to constantly be aware of the Big Picture - the larger context of our interactions with other aspects of our constantly expanding selves. Those able to swiftly redefine themselves and their own ego boundaries may be classified as "Cultural Creatives" or civilizing agents. 
Now here comes the good news: according to sociologist Paul H. Ray and psychologist Sherry Ruth Anderson, who co-authored The Cultural Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World  (published in 2000), at least 25% of the world's human population now qualify as civilizing agents. I'd call that a critical mass! 
[Firs published 9 May 2009, reposted 2 October 2013]




Saturday, October 2, 2021

HOW MEN GET THEIR LOOKS (repost)















[I don't know who drew these brilliant cartoons or I'd have included a link to his site (it's almost 100% certain the artist is male). My darling daughter forwarded these to me many, many years ago. Guess I'm an archivist at heart. First posted 8 October 2007, reposted 16 September 2014]



Thursday, September 16, 2021

All The Best Limericks Are Lewd (revisited)

Abraham was a wily old Jew
Who kept company with the Chosen Few
By forswearing sin
And his own foreskin
He proceeded the whole world to screw



It was a limerick that got me my first job as a junior copywriter. I had just turned 20 and was living with my parents in the house where I was born. I knew it was time to leave the family nest and learn to stand on my own feet - so when a friend mentioned that an ad agency in KL was looking for new blood, I immediately wrote to them. A few days later I received a test in the mail and was asked to compose a limerick; then write a news report about it, followed by an editorial. This was the limerick I came up with (of course I had to keep it clean):

A grand gourmand named Gus
Decided to devour a bus
But as he began to chew
He said, "Oh no, this won't do,
The passengers are making a fuss!"



Needless to say I got the job and soon found myself turning into a professional wordsmith, churning out readable text by the column inch. It didn't take long for me to realize I wasn't cut out to be a hack. Within 18 months I quit, after winning $5,000 in a slogan writing competition for Hall's cough drops, and began a checkered career as a freelancer and creative consultant. I continued to compose the occasional limerick - but somehow they were never quite lewd enough...



A fair mädchen was having her lüncheon
In a very chic cafe in München
Well, I got bold and told her
I wanted to rock'n'roll her
"Ja ja," she said and we got engaged pretty sünchen

As clean limericks go, this one ranks as an all-time winner (unfortunately I didn't write it and I don't know who did): 

A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m damned if I know how the helican!

But enough of clean limericks! Bring on the best and lewdest ones I have collected over the years. I must mention here that some of the dirtiest limericks ever written came from Isaac Asimov, acclaimed writer of sciencefiction novels. Here are a couple I like:

Said an ovum one night to a sperm,
"You're a very attractive young germ.
Come join me, my sweet,
Let our nuclei meet
And in nine months we'll both come to term."

------------------------------


"We refuse," said two men from Australia,
"Bestiality this saturnalia.
For now, we bethink us,
The ornithorhynchus
Is our down-under type of Mammalia."

And I have a gut feeling we owe this classic to Asimov:

The astronomer's crime was heinous:
"We mustn't let convention restrain us;
Though I've made a career
Out of Venus, my dear,
I'm tempted to switch to Uranus."


Let's open the floodgates of debauchery and prurience, shall we? But first, a limerick defining what limericks are really about...

The Limerick's furtive and mean, 
To be kept under close quarantine, 
Or she'll sneak to the slums, 
Where she promptly becomes 
Disorderly, drunk and obscene!

It's almost impossible to trace limericks back to their source. The memorable ones tend to get circulated and recirculated over time till they end up attributed to Anonymous (presumably an obscure Greek lyricist). Here's the rest of my collection to date:

There once was a girl from Ealing,
Who said she had no sexual feeling.
Until a cynic named Boris,
Touched her clitoris,
And they’re still scraping her off the ceiling.

-----------------------------------------


There was a young fellow from Kent,
Whose prick was so long that it bent,
To save himself trouble,
He put it in double,
And instead of coming he went.

---------------------------------------



A lesbian girl from Khartoum
Took a gay young man up to her room. 
At the start of the night 
She said "Let's get this right. 
Who does what? And with which? And to whom?"


-----------------------------------------


There was an old bishop from Buckingham 
Who spoke of young girls and of fucking 'em 
But a bishop from Wales 
Took the wind from his sails 
When he spoke of young boys and of sucking 'em







From the crypt of the Church of St. Giles 
Came a scream that carried for miles 
Said the Vicar, "Good Gracious, 
Has Brother Ignatius 
Forgotten the Bishop has piles?"

-----------------------------------------


There once was a man from Peru 
Who fell asleep in his canoe 
As he dreamt of Venus 
he played with his penis 
And woke up with a handful of goo.

---------------------------------------------


There was a young woman from Yale 
Who offered her body for sale 
For the sake of the blind 
She had her behind 
Tattooed with her prices in Braille

--------------------------------------------



There was a young fellow from Leeds,
Who swallowed a package of seeds.
Great tufts of grass,
Sprouted out of his ass,
And his balls were all covered with weeds.


-------------------------------------------


There was a young man from Lynn,
Whose prick was the size of a pin.
Said his girl with a laugh,
As she fondled his staff,
“This won’t be much of a sin.”


---------------------------------------------


There was a young lady from Maine,
Who enjoyed copulating on a train.
Not once, I maintain,
But again and again,
And again and again and again.


------------------------------------------


There was a young actress from Crewe, 
Who remarked as the vicar withdrew, 
The Bishop was quicker 
and thicker and slicker, 
And two inches longer than you.

-------------------------------------------------

There was a young plumber from Lee 
who was plumbing his girl with great glee, 
she said,  "Stop your plumbing, 
I think someone's coming..." 
Said the plumber, still plumbing, "It's me!"

-------------------------------------------------

A kinky young girl from Coleshill, 
Tried a dynamite stick for a thrill, 
They found her vagina 
in North Carolina, 
and bits of her tits in Brazil.

-------------------------------------------------

There was a young man from Pitlocherie, 
making love to his girl in the rockery, 
she said, "Look you've cum 
all over my bum, 
This isn't a shag, it's a mockery."

-------------------------------------------------

There was a young lassie from Morton, 
who had one long tit and one short'un, 
on top of all that 
a great hairy twat, 
and a fart like a six fifty Norton.

----------------------------------------

There was a young man from Harrow 
who had one as big as a marrow. 
He said to his tart, 
"Try this for a start. 
My balls are outside on a barrow."

------------------------------------

There was a young girl from Hitchin, 
who was scratching her crotch in the kitchen. 
Her mother said "Rose, 
It's crabs, I suppose." 
She said "Bollocks, get on with your stitchin'."

-----------------------------------------

There was a young girl from Devizes, 
who had tits of different sizes. 
One was quite small, 
almost nothing at all, 
But the other was big and won prizes.

--------------------------------------

There once was a young man from Brighton,
Who said to a young lass, “You’re a tight’un!”
She said, “Listen, Hon,
You’re in the wrong one.
There’s plenty of room in the right one.”

------------------------------------

A lady while dining at Crewe,
Found an elephant’s dong in her stew,
Said the waiter, “Don’t shout,
Or wave it about,
Or the others will all want one too!”

--------------------------------------

There was a young woman of Croft,
Who played with herself in a loft,
Having reasoned that candles,
Could never cause scandals,
Besides which they did not go soft.

----------------------------------------

There was a young woman named Sally, 
who loved an occasional dally, 
she sat on the lap
of a well endowed chap, 
Crying, "Gee, Dick, you're right up my alley!"

----------------------------------

There was a young gaucho named Bruno 
Who said "If there is one thing I do know, 
A woman is fine, 
a donkey divine, 
But the llama is numero uno."

---------------------------------------

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose schlong was so long he could sucket
He said with a grin
Wiping spunk off his chin
"If my ear were a cunt I could fucket!"



Nantucket seems to have inspired more than its fair share of limericks, not all of them lewd - but they do merit a passing mention, if only for their literary value:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.

This soon spawned a sequel...

But he followed the pair to Pawtucket,
The man and the girl with the bucket;
And he said to the man,
He was welcome to Nan,
But as for the bucket, Pawtucket.

What better way to end this post than with a mathematical limerick composed by Leigh Mercer (1893-1977) who came up with this poetic equation:

Translated into plain English it reads:

A dozen, a gross, and a score
Plus three times the square root of four
Divided by seven
Plus five times eleven
Is nine squared and not a bit more.


[First posted 26 April 2017, reposted 18 September 2018, 31 March 2019 & 25 August 2019]