Fetch!

Warning! This Ancient Geek's feeding time is not for the faint-hearted.

Today is the day I kill off sneering and jeering creeps in a spirit of justice. I can't help it, this is what I was born to do. I don't put much faith in the justice of men. They are taken in by narcissists they never see coming.

When I wrote in my first post about women humiliated and degraded by obsessed-tricians, especially French ones, and by other cut-price Mengeles, my dear little pet-hates, I was only half-finished with them. I am not far from thinking all straight people are hidden Nazis, so I went to the Greeks. Personally I think it preferable to be bent and gay than straight and sourpuss. I knew then there would be cartloads of frustrated little creeps mushrooming around with a vengeance, those of the not-so-funny species who always like to make the human body, preferably female, the target of their dirty jokes, practical and other, and who hate the truth because they fear it. Cowardice give me the creeps. They fell into the reality trap head first: they were born that way. Mushies are born of rot and they walk because they are maggoty. In days of yore, I was too polite and too well-bred to say anything, but now that I am on a steadier path closer to my Maker, I don't want to miss out on the last outposts. I want some fun too before I go. There's the devil in it. I have been wanting to shut them up and to cut the crap coming from their ace hauls for years. Chute on sight! Grand Witch or Harry Potter, I hold the magic wand to dwarf the sneering and jeering creeps, to pen-poison those much hated immature, minimalist bullies who refuse to grow up, so that they can remain at that infantile stage at which (usually) female care givers are kept on stand-by only to be eternally processing their Soil Age. Those overgrown mucky puppies want females to ever have one sole role, to be the recipient of whatever verbal or physical filth they choose to dump on them, so that they can sheet and peace on their human carpets for way beyond the allocated nine months, forever. I have been wondering about Freud, whether he was genuine or just another of those c-obsessed male chauvinist pigs, with him always ranting about sexually starved females and their alleged dirty secret and repressed desires. Who was doing all the talk, the great man or his repressed feminine side? Did it ever cross his powerful mind their brains could be starved to the point of madness? What is it with so-called modern Western males that they have to isolate this or that Greek myth out of context to prove their fancy theories right? There was legendary Oedipus once, now there's only Freud's take on the guy. Dippy is too dead to defend himself. Or is it that legends can always come back with a vengeance? Until recently, Pericles was still the Republican mantra, especially in France. What about Solon the law-maker? What about Lycurgus the Spartan? Ancient Greece and Ancient societies have to be seen as a whole, otherwise we might mistake the pip for the apple. Remember Plato's Cave if you don't remember anything else. As I have said before, I am having a (r)evolution in my alien ghetto, because I want to overthrow the Rule of Filth. Game over, which is why I will have to write about the respect owed to birthing mothers, to be living just like in the olden days of fertility goddess worship (I've said that before too, that primitive men knew better), and also about the self-respect a woman should be let to have for herself, baby-machine or not. I have my job cut out for me, when I see the stigma still associated to the role of carer to the old and the vulnerable, it is a career automatically associated with undereducated females desperate for a job, and with a lower caste, demeaning social status. They've inherited the old prejudices against spinsters. In the UK I have noticed that adverts for a number of products destined to ''little accidents'' or ''intimate area issues'' consistently, exclusively use women as selling points, as if males never could suffer from such revolting things as incontinence, or discomfort where it hurts the most. No, noble - and straight - males get to star in adverts for Viagra. You don't get to hear the afterthoughts of the lucky beaches, other orientations need not apply, you only see a non-gay guy triumphantly prancing around in a trance. That's clean and respectable enough for them. Sure, pull the other one, I'm taken in.

It is true a few women are quite prepared to pass themselves off as victimised veterans of the family war because they went through the hassle of giving birth, and that these women use their experiences, preferably bad ones, to keep their men and their issue toeing the line of a never-ending guilt trip. Their message is: after all I have been through because of you, you owe me and you can't leave me.

My trip is a very well-known ice-cold Antarctica dish because I was born of a booze-fuelled medical rape and a murder. I was consequently turned into a punching ball for the rest of my life to pay for a crime another had committed. I don't do sob stories, I do vendettas. Sic Gorgiamus Allos Subjectatos Nunc**. So now that everybody is dead, it is full systems go to direct the funeral of the beat-shush botching doctors and their masters. I have found yet more of their handiwork in La Voix du Nord (Northern French left-wing newspaper of some standing) not long ago, whilst on the look-out for whatever propaganda Frenchie is spreading about the British having poisoned their wells with the Kent Covid variant, in a lame bid to explain away their vaccination campaign total fiasco (please check the etymology of that Italianate word). French female patients have been fitted (sometimes without their consent) with a type of obstetrical prosthetics that has been banned in the US for the past twelve years. If they want corrective action, they have to go private and pay up, or suffer in the company of opioids and a divorce lawyer. Mediator, a firm as seen in court, knowingly poisoned diabetics for years. Patients died in their droves, the guilty firm's CEO has died since; happy end, there won't be much compo to pay out. They will pay all right. I'll be needing mass graves, and I will never stop filling them up. By a happy return, it's my turn to make them turn in their pit; they are dead to me. Hamlet is making a clean sweep, Jericho is my middle name, and I will never give up. Creeps, you laid my temple to waste, I won't be worshipping in yours. You broke my psyche, I will smash yours. I am not even doing all this for myself and my own, what really got me out of my hide-out was the story of an American lady I fished from a reliable Net site around the time of the Cottrez book release. She was married to a French farmer in the South West, and she was butchered and degraded when she gave birth to her son, forced to give birth naked against her wishes and botched by a moron who should never have been accepted in medical school in the first place. She didn't want to have another child because she was still in mental and physical pain a few years later. She said one thing or the other about her altered relationship with her husband and broken ties with her child. I am happy to bring the beginning of an answer to Rabbi Friedman's book, yes, there are people who still blush about these things. Furthermore, I am absolutely convinced that the son of a female dog who damaged her and her family did so willingly, to make her pay for Trump's mistakes and for French failures, for his own inadequacy, for having just a moron's job in a moronic provincial maternity, rather than a prestigious one in a prestigious Parisian clinic for wealthy and influential people. I have observed in situ how French people are always on the look-out to rape either someone or their own country. Caution, it may be catching. Incidentally, I have heard French health professionals admit quite candidly that obstetrics were to them a despised medical field, a last-chance saloon for lesser medics who can't succeed at anything considered more high-flown such as cardiology or oncology, a dumbed-down career for sons and daughters of already established doctors who can't be seen failing at medical school, or for opportunistic lower-class upstarts with smaller brains but bigger ambitions. Good for them, the beeches can't complain anyway, they were stupid enough to get pregnant, and political friends French doctors are careful to put in their deep pocket by treating their wives right and by filling up their party's coffers will save them from any trouble. I have also seen a number of those medical worthies make disgusting fun of their patients behind closed doors, when they don't have to put up their Mr/Mrs Po-Faced act to impress those ignorant patients. I recognise I owe North America a lot, and I am not the sort to ever forget what I owe her. When I visit military cemeteries in the Bulge, every year outside Covid since I could walk, I feel shame because of what those disgusting Froggies have made of the liberties and rights that were paid with so much young American and Allied blood, and with the reconstruction help that wrecked Europe got from US taxpayers practically free of charge with the Marshall plan. I am not so sure at all Continentals would have been that generous the other way round. They couldn't have made it without the Ricans and the ''Angliches'' they so much like to hit out at. They fill me with contempt and disgust.

My Bulgian venerable ancestors, blessed be their memory and their souls, lost everything he and his family had worked for in August 1914. They found themselves refugees in their own land with nothing more than the clothes they had on their back. Being a wise man, the Bulgian paterfamilias went for hard graft and he left what he could to his children, the savvy fruit peels of his hard labour, coupled to meagre war reparations belatedly paid to him in 1922 - as Yiehel de Nur aka K-Tzetnik 135633 said, how much is a burnt Mama worth - how much is a scorched mother earth worth? So my venerable ancestor wrote a fruit peel will, and this will was passed down from generation to generation onto myself. There isn't anybody after me, so I am willing to share his wisdom with my readers, as I have the feeling I am talking to choice aliens, good little polished Sarmatists who keep their own selves in healthy isolation, who keep their inner walls insulated and their souls fed and watered - with moderation of course, you don't have to turn into a rowdy drunkard for as much, Jeffersonian ideals and the local trough would do - and knowing the laws of a few civilised countries with regard to arms-bearing, you don't have to carry a Sarmatist sword either and get nicked for it. With regard to weaponry, I am myself not too happy about too strict or too lax gun laws; I think that if Bulgians had had access to weapons both times, other countries' troopers wouldn't have had to die for us and to be buried far away from their own in foreign lands. The problem lies with idiots who treat military-grade weapons like Kinder eggs plastic toys, and who spoil the self-defence trade for everybody else. Where I come from, every farmer, every head of a household isolated in remote areas keeps a long rifle and knows how to use it. My nan could shoot, she had a handgun, for when she'd be alone with the kids in her house in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes there is no other way but the para bellum* way. Even today, not everyone gets a good signal, non-urban crime is up, and rural areas can't be swarming with police unless city slicks show themselves willing to finance the whole caboodle. I should be surprised. And anyway where would they hide for a dirty week-end with their harlots? The Belgian border with France and Luxembourg is dotted with as many bordellos; I prefer my borders controlled, thank you very much. Having said that, never give me a gun; I would use it. There would be carnage on the pervs - outside the Sceptered island as you may have guessed, or I'd blow my brains out, one day of not so quiet desperation; I opted for distilling pure hatred clandestinely instead. I live in a big democracy. William Blake once wrote that schools were built with bricks of ignorance, and churches with the bricks of bordellos. Maybe it is time to rebuild schools and churches with the bricks taken away from deconstructed ignorance and deconsecrated churches.

So my ancestor wrote a will for his children, for when he'd be gone, not having much to bequeath through no fault of his own. The main bulk of it consisted of a fable by La Fontaine, The Husbandman and His Sons. Wise was he to copy down, '' 'ere he died, that labour is the mine whence riches flow''. I was always told ''to dig and delve, don't spare any effort, and when you've toiled, return and toil again''. It stood me in good stead, the jeering crowd got proven wrong and I watch it trickling down like a washed-out Dali painting. I got the savvy, I got the gun. Gold is less important than the plough. In passing, I also recommend another of La Fontaine's fables, The Mountain in Labour to those of you who strongly dislike the Camembert-in-Chief and his inherently medical superior knowledge of divine right. Bring back Mickey Mouse, at least he is starry-eyed. Have wicked fun with an cheap inflatable frog and a picture of the big Durham ox. Pah! Long live Hogarth, who deromanticised cruelty and criminality.

Polish Sarmatists kept the divine real by being good Catholics and by building churches: we must all build our inner holy of holies to survive today's world. To be a Catholic or a Christian is to be somewhat Orientalised, and to be Orientalised usually involves a religion, a faith in something. If an atheist and not so keen on any Orient, you can still build just like the others an inner sanctum, not compulsorily religion-based, but sacred enough to you, a life-sustaining well for when the fort, your fort is under siege. I hydrate my self with a copy of Hippocrates' Aphorisms. Not long ago I dug up Abbott Barthelemy's Anacharsis from an e-book library, the man is so erudite on Ancient Greece, and so good at time-travelling reading him is like passing through solid but delicate wrought-iron gates to the Ancient World with a seasoned tourist guide pointing at historical and mythical great figures - there are many - from pre-Homeric times to the last days of Ancient Greece, the way a tour-op would show you the sights and monuments of interest in actual premises. Quite a feat considering the complicated and agitated history of Greece, and the propensity of her people to dispute more than philosophical questions. I have 2% Greek ancestry, and it is a privilege I hope to show myself worthy of - I also like Ozgur Baba singing Dertli Dolap in his orchard, with his hens and his cats wandering freely around him. It's a Sarmatist anthem for the creaking Turkish wardrobe. Learning an ancient language or ancient skills is also important to insure a good working self-defence strategy. It will give your inner self credentials, validation and distinction, especially so if you keep it a secret. I also had to go for Herodotus because he mentions the Lydians as ancestors of the Etruscans, themselves ancestors of my Tuscany Italian ancestors. Greek ancestry usually goes hand in hand with Italian ancestry. I am not so telling all and sundry I prefer a smattering of Ancient Greek to doing the shops or going to the gym. From Sanskrit to Old Norse, from Coptic to Gothic, or the Latin-Greek-Hebrew Classics, you have ample choice and zillions of free courses and civilised, helpful U tubers online (I did find the University of Texas-Austin site very helpful for Ancient Greek and Latin, https://lrc.la.utexas.edu, along with ScorpioMartianus for the pronunciation of Ancient Greek), without speaking of timeless skills such as clog-making or …ploughing matches (still available in the UK). Our roots are worth the trouble. Klingon anybody? I will add, as sad news were announced in the UK at the time I went under print, that I find this late Prince Philipp's quote remarkable and beautiful: he had started the Prince's Trust for young people ''to catch what's still moderately civilised to keep it that way''. I also want to say that his Spartan education at Gordonstoun's, a ''new'' type of outdoorsy school set up by a German Jewish refugee was possibly seen at the times as an antidote not only to Hitler's Uber Mensch, the inflatable meaty no-brainer, but also to the Weimar Republic's purely intellectual, academic and artistic pursuits, because that type of Republic was also very weak and very corrupt. It should get a few of us thinking. As far as I am concerned Republics, always either too strong or too weak lead to one thing: a dictatorship. The only notable exception I know of is the US of A, and some I know would consider the federal government as still too big for its boots. The states of the States seem to me nevertheless freer than many other states of the world. The verdict remains open.

To mockingbirds who mimic batrachians, I only have this to say: Carry on, Carrion. Baudelaire's The Carcass illustrates my kindly thoughts to perfection. I was not born of ''a loathsome carrion with legs raised like a lustful woman'', ''offering, nonchalant and scornful, a belly ripe with exhalations'' to the sky and to hapless on-lookers. May voyeurs, torturers, rapists and their dogging partners end ''eaten up by the kisses of the vermin'', with or without the sacraments. Knowing them, it will be without. If they think it naïve, ridiculous, prudish and old-fashioned, too ''Arabic'', too Oriental to demand respect for our mothers, for the bodies we are born of, may they end cheesed off in putrid rot, undead, unburied, unashed and undust. I know for a fact that cats don't breed dogs, and I will be too happy when the time comes to jump like a hyena from the boulders, from the ruins of their Jericho to take my back on the morsels left of their carcass.

A Carcass death be to sleazebags.

*Lat. Si vis pacem, para bellum, if you want peace, prepare war.

** I will not insult my readers a second time by translating that.