RELIGIOUS CONQUEST

slithering, rather than storming, this time

OUT OF THE EAST

and making excellent progress.

THE REACTION TO

the recent shooting by a lone nutcase in New Zealand is predictable from a people who live in a Fool’s Paradise— and absolutely to be expected. Thus God is in His Heaven and despite appearances all is well with His world. Our world … no?

I’ve stated often that Islam is a system intended for Full Spectrum Domination. But I never get challenged and rarely even a comment. Total agreement, then?

The Islamic dietary requirements are just one of the tools used. Subtle? No—blatant. Blatant to those who look, but there all the time. New Zealand, of course, sheltered behind a belt of grass-skirted ‘warriors’ (wild eyes and poking tongues yelling “Ugga boo! Ugga boo!”) is a cherry ripe for the picking.

And picked it will be.

“… Halal slaughtermen work in nearly all of New Zealand’s red meat export slaughter premises, which are certified to undertake slaughter in compliance with halal requirements. Halal meat is exported to Middle Eastern markets and eaten by Muslim consumers in other countries …” 

Sourced:  CLICK HERE 

  • We had no Muslims
  • We want oil
  • We need trade for that oil
  • We offer sheep meats (God loves lamb!)
  • But to be acceptable—
  • —the offering must be Kosher (oops) ‘halal’
  • which means, despatched only by ‘clean’ slaughtermen
  • which means Muslims only
  • so we had to import qualified Muslims to slaughter, etc etc

skull & bones

AND THE MUSLIMS

of course, needed a mosque to worship their God in. So of course they obtained building permissions and away they went. Boom boom!

Now there’s oodles of them, as is only to be expected. So:

EXCELSIOR~!

—and out with the old, in with the new.

To not digress, this cute wee shack  down there

Screen Shot 2019-03-19 at 10.07.24.png

until very recently was the Masonic Lodge of Invercargill. I guess that Freemasons are ye olde hat these days, so they put it up for sale. For a wee while it became a Farmers Market but now has finally been sold.

Recently.

Very recently.

To Muslims …

I shall watch with an admittedly jaundiced eye to see what will become of it. (They did say in a release that it was to remain open to all as a (from memory, please excuse) ‘hasjiq’ (something like that. I really can’t be bothered; but next time in town I’ll bimble over for a closer look).

I still think it would make someone a lovely mosque … impressive, too.

Screen Shot 2019-03-18 at 09.43.22

Kismet

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VANDALS

and the

HUMAN CANVAS

1abCanvas is usually associated with art. Stone too, and when art gets stoned we call it sculpture—you know, like when an artist looks at a hunk of rock, sees an art within, and keeps chipping away the excess until he releases the wotever.

“Mr Argus!”

(Oops. Little Ollivia, sounding a bit peeved.)

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Always a ‘he’ is it?”

… … … “I’m actually a he, kiddo—”

“Oink! So we’ve all noticed—”

“—and when I’m writing I use masculine in general. I specify the otherwise when being specific. You, Kiddo, are a female and I’m never offended if you use the feminine to do likewise.”

“Oh …”

“And this post is about the cultural differences between sexes being eroded and lost as inter-genderals are erased by social evolution.”

“Oh … so you’re not just being an MCP and slanging off against wimmin?”

(Ye gods … the kid’s got it bad …)

“No, Child. Do I ever? Have I ever?”

“… no, Sir … not at all.”

“Good. Unlike the products of modern ‘culture’ I have no unearned prejudices, especially against women—hell, they’re almost the same as people.”

“MR ARGUS!”

“Sorry, sweet Child—I just couldn’t resist it! Don’t fret, from here on I’ll be good.”

Too damn’ right I will. I like women. Jeez, I even married one. But this post is about art, perception, vandalism, transience, permanence, and future regrets. To not digress—

Consider a virgin brick wall—no, two such—

  • one in the classy end of town (you know, manicured lawns, immaculate hedgery, neatly dressed children and a bull terrier in every kennel); and
  • the rough end of town where the streets are chocabloc with stray rubbish, stray mutts, stray cats, empty bottles and syringes and ciggie butts everywhere; where a book is just a convenient something to rip pages out of for rolling your own …

—so what happens to the virgin brick wall, hmmm? At the end of town where people have core values, make the investments of time and effort and actually give a shit it remains a virgin. No?

At the (?) “values challenged” end of town it is promptly labelled by the first oaf passing with a spray-can of paint, then promptly countersigned by an endless stream of boofwits making their ‘art’ mark in the world; their little statements, kicking against the pricks with the only tools they can afford to steal.

SOME CALL IT DEFACEMENT

and vandalism. I certainly do.

Any takers? Feel free to comment, but my loudest raspberry goes to the first brainwashed modernist prig who screeches “Legitimate social protest!”

AND NOW, TO NOT DIGRESS

no further; it used to be that tattoo was the hallmark of the rover—the Popeye type, the hard-drinking travelling nautical man; a salt of the sea but who would forever remain on the ‘lower deck’ and when retired would either sit smoking in a rocking chair besetting passersby with endless tales of mermaids, wine, dusky maidens and fighting pirates; or grow weeds. “By these signs shalt thou know them”, so to speak.

TO FURTHER NOT DIGRESS

I love ladies for their differences. We used to miscall them the weaker sex (trust me, they ain’t …) and admired them for their refinements and differences. In the ideal they were pure, unsullied, different. They mostly had long soft flowing tresses (I preferred blondes myself, and brunettes, and redheads, and anything else*; in short any lady who looked after herself as if she treasured her femininity).

I had and still have no desire for a woman with an obvious Inferiority Complex who feels the desperate need to prove her capabilities by out-maling the male. I prefer a backlit diaphanous dress on a slender form to a butch outfit of man’s jeans and heavy chains with a bone through her nose. Can’t help it, I’m a product of my time …

SO WHY, I ASK?

Why do some mindless gorm wimmin deface semi-immaculate canvasses—permanently— by covering themselves with more tatts than Popeye?

Screen Shot 2019-03-07 at 19.27.40.png

Obviously it’s nothing new … even Boadicea (who recently changed her name back to Boudicca)(although I have no idea what she’s currently called and don’t care enough to find out…) did it too. But she was a caring type who took time out from being a grieving mother to thump conquerors and I imagine her tatts were an identifying political statement.

As are modern lady tatts, no? (Hardly art … defacing the pure, regardless of mindless excusianism, is hardly ‘art’).

I SAW SOME GIRLS

(yes girls—wanna make something of it?) in town the other day, again deep in animated conversation using words that even now I reserve only for energetic expression when apt. And the ‘leader’ type had more tatts that a shipload of sailors from my day … if she advances in life beyond the rugby pitch she may one day regret them.

I now predict that it is probable that the art/science/skill of tattoo removal may soon be a very profitable field for investment …

Screen Shot 2018-11-07 at 09.41.05

“Hey! Schweetart, ya wanna arm wrassle? Be gental wiv me!”

 

dodo

 

 

* I was widely tested with eclectic tastes

AS A PUP

1ab.pngyoung, arrogant,

and foolish (the terms are synonymous, no?) I delighted in ‘rare’ meats.

Steak or roast, I was a few years ahead of my time and suffered the disapproval and opprobrium of many because of it. Dire predictions were made to the effect that cooking a meat properly would kill all the cysts and worms and bugs and things; cook it my way and life would be abbreviated.

See if I cared—none of the meats I purchased ever had such a gravo diseaso, mine were as pure and unsullied as the driven snow. Just a wee bit rare, that’s all.

Now note—

Rare, I said. Not bloody raw~!

If I could be bothered ever again with restaurants and were to be served up something like this—

Screen Shot 2019-03-04 at 17.16.14.png

—I wouldn’t bother sending it back or ask to speak with the chef; I’d just quietly stroll out. To me that meat is raw—you know, uncooked. Ergo no bargain, no deal, no payment.

Sure, someone has made the gesture and dropped it onto a hot plate for the requisite three seconds, but honestly—

Sheesh

—and anyone grabbing me by the tail to pull me back and demand I pay would definitely be biting off more that he can chew.

THERE IS SOPHISTICATION,

and there are sophisticated tastes. And there are boofwits out to impress (been there, done that)(’nuff sed) and with impressionable idio young folks the lines are often fuzzy. Sadly young fuzzies grow older and bring their falsies with them.

“Mr Argus, Sir?”

“Yes, Little Virginia?”

“Why wouldn’t you send it back, Sir?”

“… … … … an understanding of human nature, my cherub. Trust me.”

Screen Shot 2019-03-04 at 17.09.11.png

(not a link … just a cooked steak (sort of)

But:  as we’ve all noticed, tastes change. Fashions change and I imagine it won’t be long before the adventurous/pretentious have us all gobbling raw sheep eyeballs on toothpicks.

Some of us … I even balk at prairie oysters …

Screen Shot 2019-03-04 at 17.37.48.png

 

dodo

AN INTERESTING DISCUSSION

concerning religion

… what else?                              tenor

In which an unprincipled person tried desperately to assert that “Might Makes Right” — and that there’s no such thing as ‘private property’.

Coming from a completely different direction I have no option but to totally agree with him.

In fact, in my own words:

You only OWN

that which you

can hold by force

against ALL comers.

AND NOW, IN PERFECT SAFETY

(and unassailable) I feel safe in inviting—nay, in challenging—anyone at all to attempt to refute me.

Yep. YOU have to prove ME wrong, if you can … but here’s the rub: I don’t have to prove a thing. Not in the least … history does that for me.

It’s a universal …

Screen Shot 2018-11-07 at 09.41.05

Ya wanna argue?

EVERYONE

A WANNABE

… wannabe wot?                                   dodo

You name it. But in this instance:  a wannabe humorist.

Style. Ya gotta have style. You know, a bit like a chimpanzee drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa—

Screen Shot 2019-02-24 at 15.34.28.png

—and we come across it everywhere. I dare say that deep down in some unvisited caverns there are doubtlessly moustaches added to cave-art bisons—and why not? It’s a timeless thing.

Screen Shot 2019-02-24 at 23.35.24.png

Sometimes they may get it right. Other times they do little more than ‘come out’ as it were—unintentionally but emphatically demonstrating an almost hopeless inadequacy; desperation made manifest.

Or on occasion a genuine talent.

SUTTLE

ya godda be subtle, especially in humour. Airborne custard pies may well be converging from every point of the compass but the guy in the background who slips on the banana while sneaking in for the classic ambush shot is the one who will score the laugh.

OK. TONIGHT I’M A BIT 

jaded. We’ve just watched a Midsomer Murders and both of us know the tune the lassie was teaching on the piano but neither of us can pin a name to it. This, indeed, is the exemplar of ultimate frustration; Tantalus be damned, we’re going gaga over it—

dum da da da da—da da da daaaaah; dum da daaah, da da daaah

—and any help you might give with it would be very gratefully accepted:

“Hey you! Broken nose—play the piano!”

“I ain’t got a broken nose!”

CRUNCH

 plinkety plankety plonkety plunk …

a bigger

I TRY …

… to keep things lighthearted.

Sometimes.

And also to illustrate (where appropriate) the ‘human cost’.

Perhaps if I can get enough people asking questions some mover/shaker types might be moved enough to create change where I’ve never been able to. ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished …

Recently I posted this image—

Screen Shot 2019-02-21 at 18.20.00.png

—which actually is universal, and timeless. It twanged my strings more than any other photo recently, and trust me … I look at lots of photos.

I googled the name and got a brief summary of the background story—

Source:  CLICK HERE 

—which is partly why I included the words ‘timeless’ … and ‘universal’ …

 

Don’t fret — there’s oooodles more just like these, and there always will be. You won’t miss out …

dodo

cropped-img_1815-1.jpg

HAH~!

I KNEW IT!

dodoScreen Shot 2019-02-05 at 22.59.00   Yup.

I’m different. Boom boom!

At last, classified … pigeon holed …

But my sister (she’s a psychic medium—she must be spot on, them spirits don’t lie) told me so a few years ago, and would I believe her? Noooooo~!

NOW here we are:

Indigo children 2.png

And although I make no claims on ADHD (wotever that is) (it sounds medical, and therefore unpleasant) that circle on the left is MOI to the nth degree. I tick all the boxes. (Although I’m not too sure about the eyes …)

AND NOW TO GO GOOGLE

Indigo Children’.

It sounds like one of them modern fad things (but we Leos are gullible that way so I’m excused). Here’s an image, make of it wot the author intends …

Screen Shot 2019-02-21 at 13.10.04.png

Definitely not too sure about the eyes—what do you think?down there

Moi

If I really can be bothered on a day like this …

 dodo                                                                                         dodo dodo

* Failing that, I could be simply bonkers …