WAR IS OVER If you want it.

Day 2,453, 17:32 • Published in USA USA • by Silas Soule

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WAR IS OVER if you want it


Everything you know is wrong.




First, let's get something straight. There is only one way to make Lamb with Dill Sauce. And that's the Raymond Chandler way...

"I sipped on my whiskey sour, ground out my cigarette on the chopping board and watched a bug trying to crawl out of the basin. I needed a table at Maxim's, a hundred bucks and a gorgeous blonde; what I had was a leg of lamb and no clues. I took hold of the joint. It felt cold and damp, like a coroner's handshake. I took out a knife and cut the lamb into pieces. Feeling the blade in my hand I sliced an onion, and before I knew what I was doing a carrot lay in pieces on the slab. None of them moved. I threw the lot into a pan with a bunch of dill stalks, a bay leaf, a handful of peppercorns and a pinch of salt. They had it coming to them, so I covered them with chicken stock and turned up the heat. I wanted them to boil slowly, just about as slowly as anything can boil. An hour and a half and a half-pint of bourbon later they weren't so tough and neither was I. I separated the meat from the vegetables and covered it. The knife was still in my hand but I couldn't hear any sirens.

"In this town the grease always rises to the top, so I strained the juice and skimmed off the fat. I added more water and put it back on the heat. It was time to deal with the butter and flour, so I mixed them together into a paste and added it to the stock. There wasn't a whisk, so using my blackjack I beat out any lumps until the paste was smooth. It started to boil, so I let it simmer.

"I roughed up the egg yolk and cream and mixed in some of the hot sauce before putting the lot back into the pan. I put the squeeze on a lemon and it soon juiced. It was easy. It was much too easy, but I knew if I let the sauce boil the yolk was gonna scramble.

"By now I was ready to pour the sauce over the meat and serve, but I wasn't hungry. The blonde hadn't showed. She was smarter than I thought. I went outside to poison myself, with cigarettes and whisky."




See what I mean? THAT's a recipe.




Yeah, ya goobers, stew on that for a gol-durned minute why dont'cha?








Now, it is often said (by me, mostly) that most of what I write is just erudite nonsense, a kind of airy stylizing of words that is meant only to realign reflections onto the inevitable disintegration of words into breath. And of breath into wind. And of wind into sky. And of sky into universe. And of universe into void.

But. No. No, no, no. No, no, Nanette. Such facile dismissals knock on no more real doors of perception than those preposterous stories of a Protestant Chaucer beating a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street.

Still. Who can really say with certitude what is what, what? To take a well-known example, no one has completely discounted Perkin Warbeck's claim to be Richard, Duke of York, escaped from the Tower after all and living peacefully in Flanders. Even Margaret backed up Perkin's story. And yes they found the skeletons of two young boys, but is that so rare in royal circles? Who's to say that either of them was actually Richard? Who knows?...

By the way. Perkin Warbeck. Great avatar name. One of y'all should pick it up on that one next time you're seeking the sweet annihilation to be executed in a bout of the e-nomenphage.








Hey, speaking of names and nomeklatura, anybody remember ol' Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili? (That's იოსებ ბესარიონის ძე ჯუღაშვილი for you neo-Atlantean types.) Did you know he had two adjoined toes on his left foot and that his father was mean drunk? He was also expelled from Seminary for missing his finals and later robbed banks professionally to help out his pal Vlad Ilyich Ulyanov. He was known as a poetic bandit, a role that that many e-Republikans have aspired to, most recently in the eUK if I am not mistaken.

Later on, before becoming Maximum Leader, he was blamed for losing Poland to the Poles. Which is also kind of a poetic gesture when you think about it.

Much more later, after a good bit of trouble had ensued, including a bunch more Poles becoming deceased due to bouts of the "March 5th" strain of the Deadly Rusophage, he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Wladyslav Rieger, a professional Czech patsy.

Not that being nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize is a big deal. Anybody and their mother can be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, which of course is controlled by the Illuminati (duh). Hell, I've been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize 11 times and I don't even exist. Also -- and here's how it all comes together -- Barack Obama was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, and his real dad was a Communist poet (and his mom was a porn star, but that don't make up for his dad). So. Obviously. Barack Obama wants to become a Maximum Leader in the style of ol' Joey Jugashvili, eh?

It's obvious when you know how to look at these things.


OK. I know that was kind of a shaggy dog story. Part of it may not even be entirely true.


Hey, look who I ran into at the Denver International Airport this week! You ol' hound dog!








Did you know that human civilization reached such a high point that in 1977 it amended the Geneva Protocols (Article 57) to specify precisely when and in what matter it is (not) appropriate to attack civilians during an armed conflict? I think we can all commend ourselves on the fact that it recommends that "constant care" should be taken to spare civilians and "civilian objects".


More interestingly.... When Rule 57 is executed in elementary cellular automata using a single black cell as the simple initial condition, the diagram produced is clearly a pyramid. Boom. Illuminati again.





They are everywhere. For example, if you scrawl on a map of DC with a red crayon - whoa!! Owls!!


Marilyn Monroe's roommate, Eunice Murray told the BBC: "When the doctor arrived, she was not dead." Obviously the question here is not "Who shot the Kennedys?" (Naturally, it was the Illuminati. Duh.), but rather, "Who did the Kennedys shoot (up)?".


Dun-dun!









Let's have a moment, let's let the mind alone for moment, let's the body create all by itself. Let's jump up and down. And remember -- as our feet leave the ground -- all the lost cosmonauts everywhere....



















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XOXOXOXOXX,
PQ of the Coyote Trickster Gang