Connectivity is a bit iffy here at the minute, but from what I’ve gathered on catching up this morning, such things that have been happening in the First World seem to be increasingly high in nothingness and low in cleverness. But don’t despair – the last week of the Silly Season is coming up….
Prince Phillip wanted to come back after death as a nasty virus. Perhaps he did, and we should recognise his achievement by in future referring to the latest harum scarum as The Duke of Monkeypox.
Woody Allen wants his Second Coming to be as one of Warren Beatty’s fingers. But he also says he wants to be immortalised by not dying. At his age, this could well be close to make-your-mind-up time.
There’s money to be made from advising wrinklies about reincarnation, although one must bear in mind that the really smart ones are already on the case: George Soros wanted to come back as God, Richard Branson as a spiv, Peter Mandelson as a danger to children, and Keir Starmer as a flat screen television. All of them seem to have got their wish. Before being God, Soros was probably the marauding Viking Stig Redtooth the Impaler. I don’t like to think about what Mandelson was.
It’s the younger set of challenged challengers who really need some advice. Liz Truss should abandon ‘thick and wicked’, and aim next time for ‘quick-witted’. She says very little worth saying and has no sense of proportion when it comes to promises like defending Ukraine and Taiwan at one and the same time….or being gung-ho to press that red nuclear button.
Personally, I blame the parents for not strangling all of them before the age of five, but the real culprit is Soros who (as he’s God) should have refused them the right to another go – given up on the buggers and simply cast them away into the distant darkness, not forgetting himself at the end of the process.
If I ever come back, it is my solemn wish to return as a syndrome. The beauty of being a syndome is that it means “something not understood” and is completely shrouded in mystery: so nobody would know who or what you really are….or indeed, what on earth to do about you.
There’s a lot to be said for this. Above all, it supplies one with, by definition, hidden depths -even if you are about as shallow as a pool of rabbit piddle, it’s a matter of simple application for a syndrome to be enigmatic, something of a riddle, inscrutable – and in the end, unfathomable: like a sort of cross between Oscar Wilde and Tommy Cooper, but with hints of Eric Cantona and André Maurois.
It was the final nail in the coffin for me with the medical profession when it started to explain away increasingly obvious “vaccine” related deaths as ‘sudden death syndrome’ – later amended (as if this made any difference) as ‘sudden unexplained death syndrome’. I always felt ‘cot-death syndrome’ was bad enough, but there’s something about every nitwit with a medical degree that makes him or her desperate to steer away from, “Frankly squire, your guess is as good as mine” in favour of “Ah, that’ll be another case of Stunkempfeffer’s geriatric demise syndrome”. What was wrong with, “Well the old git was 96 and had a good innings, now put him in a box and move on”?
So that’s what I’m coming back as: a syndrome. I could of course spell it out as “Lord Buddha’s miraculous Reincarnation syndrome”, but such would be to miss the point entirely: for the entire idea is always for wannabe Demigods to explain everything via the simple addition of ‘syndrome’. They want us to feel that – once it’s a syndrome – they’re on it. It’s only a matter of time before they create eternal life for everyone, and rid the world of Not Alive Any More syndrome.
‘He died on the cross so that we might defeat Abe’s gone all Cold and Stiff syndrome’. Well no, he didn’t really: he was dropping a hint about there being more to the Universe than the physical.
When I return to this temporal zone in syndrome mode, I shall still need to fill in forms to establish my suitability to become Top Table 0.03 per cent material. I shall proceed as follows:
NAME: Allenby Fangwoi-Zillane
SPECIALISMS: Generalised Obfuscation, Sub-Atomic Metatarsal multiverse studies, Schroeder’s Cat hairballs, Impenetrable website navigation, Reaching Out, Sexuality in the Age of Wave-Particle Uncertainty, Inexplicable Tarradiddle Fiddlesticks, Notes on the Excremental Sugar conundrum, and IABATO*.
*It’s All Bollocks And That’s Official
The subject of being allowed more goes until you get it right is an interesting one, but it fails one acid test: if that is indeed what happens, why isn’t the world full of millions of sages pacing up and down in long white robes muttering profound things about the value of nothing, multiplying zero and schizophrenics in a one-dimensional Universe?
“Because there’s no money in it,” is one obvious riposte….but there’s more to it than that.
The truth is that wise practicality is outnumbered millions to one by footie commentators opining that “City are only going to score if they start coming forward wide from the back”, environment ministers suggesting how “there’s a very clear link between heavy rain and rivers bursting their banks” or game show hosts concluding “the questions are only easy if you know the answers”.
You could very easily grow to a ripe old age waiting for Grant Shapps to offer any insight, foresight or even hindsight about anything. Liz Truss, by contrast, promises the patently impossible six times a day with an extra four on Sundays. Boris Johnson goes to Ukraine to “demonstrate that we can win” a war we aren’t involved in (although Truss is working on it) and Rishi Sunak claims he was “always implacably opposed” to lockdowns, and when all’s said and done only put up the money for it because he was you know the Chancellor and a Big Fat Boy ordered him to and then ran away to join the Ukrainian Nazi Party.
Yesterday the Remoaner slushfund was in operation on Twitter to remind us that Brexit was all Putin’s idea and #Brexithasfailed and Putin wants to take over the planet and Brexit has filled the Channel with raw sewage and we’ll all be saved if only all those silly Brexiteers would accept that the EU is our only hope, swimming as it is in lots of spare cash and just gagging to give us all of it so that Liz Truss can bomb Russia.
So, in the absence of any intelligence, caution or creativity in the human species, I am forced to conclude that all those billions of smart folks with ten lives behind them came back as something else. Given the numbers involved, my money’s on flies.
For one thing, flies can eat shit without any consequences – and as eat shit is all we’re going to do after the Great Reset, their innate wisdom shines through pretty clearly.
Enjoy the weekend….