Turn off the TV

Waking up this morning, I have no idea how to start writing something...three dots?! Inspiration? I don`t need no freakin` inspiration! Well, maybe listening to Das Boot by the obscure German act U-96. Not sure if that counts as an inspiration.

We're all in the same shit, for starters. Although I adore the lobotomy as a great achievement of the human race I have to be a little serious. Yes, we are in the same sauce, suffering from the same pains, we are all on the sinking ship that the rats left a long time ago. We can deceive ourselves to the point of infantility, but in the end we know that we are just cogs in the ritual of the big Capital, which, by its necrophilic nature, tramples on the humanity that evolution endowed upon us, with which nature gifts us daily and we, like lobotomized monkeys, ignore it because it is - for free!

So we work like idiots all day to buy the same thing?

Stuck in bot-level relationships with a consciousness that would put termites to shame, we celebrate the death of humanity with the rapture of the righteous. Righteous of the kind that makes me sick, all those who have convinced us that what is free must be bought, what we already have we must acquire, and what we are aware of, we must find out on television or to to be regurgitated in schools. All of those nine-to-five Joe`s & Jane`s.

We are all an army of prejudged losers, deprived of any alternative that would lead us to the unequivocal conclusion of how screwed up our minds are and what monumental idiots we are. Never wonder why things don't pick up from a standstill.

The blind spot is all of us.

A great legion of morons who work their whole lives for the interests of worthless pigs that we will never meet and see what kind of shit they are.

And those people who are downloaded upon us as examples and role models are the same ones who are not worth even half a verse of  some strange band such as Azra or God forbid, Don McLean! Not that it's not scary. To see that there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, that we have been running in the wrong direction and that life has been spent searching for the elixir of shopping at the next megamarket. And we exchanged everything that was free and the most valuable, for useless trifles, toys for grown-up children and similar rubbish.

At least the macro economic parameters are fine. Aren`t they?

For the last time please turn the TV off until it's not too late.

Put down the smartphone for a while.

And if it is too late, i don`t give a damn really. Just enjoy yourselves.

Being a coward I`ll just switch the channel and watch something else.

(Roger Mortis 010)

The Inspirational Butterfly

Here lies the will that never dies. Who knows the secrets of the will and its strength? What we call God is nothing but the great Will which orders all things according to the nature of its purpose. Man does not surrender to the angels, nor to death completely, except through the weakness of his fragile will.

Joseph Glenville

What breaks us in everyday life? All those ordinary things that eat away at us with their banality and monotony and that make us cry from the inside one in a while. In some place, in some time and for some people, that was Malaria, mosquitoes, Sodomy, Cholera, solitary confinement, sharks, guillotine and death. And hope. For escape. For Freedom.

For one man, prisoner no. 54345, the alleged murderer of a certain Marseille pimp, ex-soldier and forger. All those terms you read above were everyday life for 15 years. His name is Charriere. Henri Charriere. Yes, that's "The Butterfly". The one for whom no one on the planet would change. And who I respect as the epitome for a Man. Example number one. All he had was hope that, as they often remind us, never dies.

And that verse that Glenville tells us about, the will that doesn't die even when you see your best years go down the sewer pipes in Cayenne's solitary confinement. No, not that he's missing all of his teeth. Almost no hair. That Malaria takes it's toll. That he's been caught six times trying to escape. That he's been talking to himself for five years in an isolation cell, alone with his mind, his friends cockroaches and rats. Not even that is enough to break Henri the "Butterfly" who has reached the age of fifteen inmate years in Guyana and as an old convict has a rare privilege because he is left to die on Devil's Island, the last station for people turned into numbers. Well, old in a way. He was 38 years old although when he looked in the mirror he recognized an old man who in Marseilles could pass as 75.

One thing the authorities didn't count on, was that he was Henri Charriere. There is obviously a spark in his brain that makes him forget the dead friends for whom he dug holes for quick burial in the Kayenne swamp. Those who disappeared without a trace during escape attempts and those who went crazy in solitary confinement after a year or two, the same place he was for five years. However, Henri does not go alone. There are a few who are willing to take the risk alongside him. Rene, Louis, Pascal, guys that  still dream of freedom.

That day is coming. Everything is going according to plan. The escape succeeds. Seventh in a row. Will this be the last? The end of the agony. Maybe. They end up in the village where the French colonial authorities settle down the leprous inhabitants of the colony. Who knows, lepers might somehow help the escapees. But here comes the test. The test that freezes the blood and kills in amid sentence. A fine gentleman who appears to be an authority in the village, although he has only two fingers left on his cigar hand, cynically offers Henri the cigar he is smoking among the leprous remains that were probably once tongue and lips. Failure to accept the unwritten codes in the hell of Guyana means death. Quick death. Whether because of that or otherwise, Henri casually takes the cigar and takes a deep, uicy smoke. Never mind. Without fear. The triumph of humanity fills the lepers eyes that hardly even see with tears. There are those people. Who do not abhor lepers. And who shares a cigar of cheap tobacco. With a man who is falling apart. They are given a boat and the friends run away. Not for long though. Fate shits at their doorstep once again. They catch them. That's the seventh time. Back in isolation.

That's the end. Henri Charrier and company count the last days on that island. And for the most stubborn, the curtain falls once again. That's that then.

Well, no. Henri is already looking at the sea. Again. Yes, there is no end, no beginning, the horizon blows away all the pains and blackness that have plagued him for 15 years. Wanted to know what freedom is? That is his domain. If someone knows, he knows. The "Butterfly". Number 54345. Who packs a bag of coconut shells. One jump. Oblivion or liberty.

Unspecified day in 1946. Every morning, someone wakes Señora Rita Charriere on the coast of Venezuela. He has such a habit. Gets up at dawn. She is that emotional harbor to him.

It's Henri. The real story of the "Butterfly". A happy ending? Yes. Rita, three children, life in freedom, and the book that contributed to the hell of the Penal Colony being outlived by Henri himself.

Written by him.

Despite everything.

Until the last breath, Mon Ami.

(Roger Mortis 009)

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Perhaps at first glance, one would think that dictators are an extremely perverse breed that, apart from harems, pedophilia, Swiss banks, high military ranks, bizarre uniforms and random infatuation, are also connoisseurs of any of the 459 registered paraphilias in the field of sexual psychology. If you associate that thought with their ultimate fetish, the holy grail of a dictatorial erection, you don't know them as a species.

At all.

From Mobutu Sese Seko, through Ferdinand Marcos to Fidel Castro.

From Leonid Brezhnev, Jean-Bedel Bokassa, Nicolae Ceausescu to Alfredo Stroessner.

Trujillo or Mubarak.

Everyone has the same wet dream. And that is - subjects who not only have no spine, but are constantly in love with the one who spreads their misery. Sterile cowards with high threshold of tolerance, where any kind of experience is received without objection. Passivity to the extent that it has been sung in centuries of tradition among such subjects, as a kind of virtue, skill or wisdom. The holy grail of dictatorship lies where power is truly treated by the subjects as a gift from heaven. These are subjects that are hard to find. Like a perfect woman for example.

But there is one place, hidden behind seven garbage containers and nine dump trucks, a mythical territory behind three counters and 99 bureaucrats, often talked about and enviously looked at by dictatorial eyes, the reason why that piece of land despite the fact that it has no oil, resources or sea or anything to which would be worth fighting for at first sight. And yet it has been the subject of fights and battles of various dictators, kings, emperors and princes for hundreds of years. A motive? In that place live the mythical subjects who will never, ever and under no circumstances rebel against the government. And if someone by chance, to the general horror and contrary to centuries old tradition, rebels, he will be quickly and efficiently eliminated even before the quietest rumor of the rebellion reaches the ears of the dictators.

Do you know which place it is?

It will not be Mauritania.

Maybe Haiti?

The Confederate States of America?

Republic of Rhodesia?

They lied to you that they were enslaving that territory because of some biblically ancient connotations.

Strategic locations and center of the world?

The Alshar Mine or the Lakes?

For the batshit insane & the renowned lunatic asylums?

That they enslaved it for material wealth and resources?

No.

For the sake of the subjects themselves. Now you know why the population of that territory was the target of various conquerors. Heaven, not earth. Because such subjects are not found anywhere else, at least not in this part of the solar system.

Exceptions?

There were. Few and far between and they did not find support among those for whose interest and freedom they fought. Their historical frequency is purely existent enough to irritate statisticians and historians. A few small stones in a bag of rice. And not only that, but they received regular bonuses in the form of betrayals and infighting, due to the fact that opportunism was a religion and myopic animalistic selfishness was a dogma.

That is why history must be changed as they did in the Ministry of Truth, where the hole of oblivion worked at full steam, as well as the printing presses. Every government brings a new history and writes it anew. To cover up the collective fail and give a new fix to the addicts of cheap illusions. If you still can't think of which place it is, you are the one living in such a place. The perfect subject for whom the date is some day and some month. But the year remains the same forever.

1984.

Welcome.

(Roger Mortis 008)

Dialectic much?

The Balkans gender reality is in many ways determined by several concepts.

We will stick to two basic ones, the feminine one (Whore) and the male one (Poofter).

The male member of the homo-sapiens species should be a fucker, a dude, a seducer, in a word, have a high two-digit, and preferably three-digit number of vaginal, oral or anal applications of the dick. And not in USB ports but in different ownership of the specified holes. In some environments, oral application is valued as two or even three vaginal, in others it is counted as half vaginal. Anal also has different values. Shades.

Dialectic!

There are no nuances here. Either he's a faggot or she`s a harlot.

In more recent times, the terms Cobbler, Impotent and Stray are gradually competing with the ultimate expression. of Queer. But nothing can replace the horror, panic and paranoia that is sown by the synonym for reverse sexuality, an anomaly,, double or multiple barrel gun, exhaust pipe...

The female member of the homo-sapiens species should be a saint, honest, collected, honorable, in a word to have an extremely low number of vaginal, oral or Lord forbid, Anal applications to the corresponding holes with the help of one or different penises. The figure starts from zero and with every 50-60,000 inhabitants of the settlement where the owner of the holes lives, it increases by a certain percentage. So yes, in a relatively large city with delusions of a metropolis and the mentality of Kasaba from Kurdistan, the word `Whore` can be delegated even after 3 to 4 headjobs..

Once the limit (the credit) is exceeded, she is officially a Whore, a Cunt, a Tart, Woman of ill repute.

And everything would be fine, the sun would be shining even in the shade, Warblers and other animals would be singing through the blooming forests and meadows, and the May bumblebee would happily fly from flower to flower, buzzing through the end of spring and heralding summer. The fruits of the womb of an honest woman and the seeds of a guy would run around this heavenly setting, married to mom and gifted to dad...

But! The creators of this consensus reality known as our ancestors missed something. Not that they wanted any mistake to sneak up on them, that's what they had in mind. Who rarely served them for opinion more as a depreciated inventory, a ballast in the head, a burden or a curse.

Let us stop beating round the bush. Them ancestors were and not much more. Such was their wisdom that they compromised the future of several generation that came after them.

So, what is the problem?

That always (except during long term wars) the numerical ratio of men and women is more or less half to half. Which means for men to be Fuckers the majority of women have to be Whores. And for the majority of women to be honest, then, the majority of men should be fags. So much for the logic of the ancestors and their descendants today.

Temporary salvation was found in lying.

So everyone can be a bitch and everyone can be innocent.

But that too is only a temporary (verbal) patching of the hymen or the male ego.

What`s the Cure?

Liberalism as Messianic doctrine.

Is that a bird?

Is that a plane?

Is that a rocket?

No!

It is liberalism that flew in like a savior angel to moist dry pussies and runny eggs!

It's on TV!

Pick the remote in your hands and receive in your skull the latest Messianic message, the light of enlightenment, the beautiful liberalism! If you are not satisfied with the TV, if you are urban intellectual, there is an updated product for you, packed with philosophy, spirituality and progressiveness.

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law, as certain person by the name of Aleister Crowley stated many moons ago.

Only this concept has one fatal factory setting error. It was produced in the sterile womb of necrophilic capitalism.

And so is its quality. Necro.

Ordinary animalistic selfishness and evasion of responsibility, reducing man to a product from a shelf on a shelf, and eternal dissatisfaction which in turn is a generator of capital turnover.

Divorce, children without childhood, parents with children as a burden, a baby instead of a Barbie, eternal hell between spouses or partners, a struggle for supremacy between them, children as collateral, a career instead of a child, old dudes, with a facade of extraordinary personalities, and moldy fuckers lonely as scabies infected dog before execution.

In the Balkans, this is not the result of Liberalism. That lobotomy is still new and needs time to start producing victims. Not that there aren't any, they are rare. Conservatism has been working for that purpose for now, stamping misery on the population albeit with different modality.

There was a dry, old, hardened Troll from a Scottish village.

His name was Alexander Neal.

And he tried to troll the system.

To make boys and girls who will literally make love with each other until they realize that quality does not come from quantity.

Quantity also implies responsibility around it. Who is not an end unto himself?

But in practice several sexual partners are more than fine in getting love experience. And not with tricks or strings attached. Through polygamy and polyandry to monogamy?

Trollish concept.

Through.

For rare lucky ones, a reality.

For the Balkans, utopia.

For the rest, there are Liberalism and Conservatism.

Not delivering results? No way!

(Roger Mortis 007)

Is Patriotism a Mental Illness?

The broad definition states the following: any disorder of brain function that affects thought processes, emotions, or the ability to interact mutually and beneficially with the environment and surroundings is a patrio...oops...mental illness.

Patriotism itself and its stupid brother, nationalism, are based on "love" for some imaginary entity called "the state" or "the people" in the most common sense of the use of these terms. It also implies some positive difference to all other entities that are named as nations and states.

Emotions directed at imaginary entities is nothing new, religion is the best indicator of how far it can escalate.              

But patriotism as a relatively new phenomenon with it`s climax in mid 20th Century. If in religion at least "love" was given to some omnipotent entity called God, from whom a reward with eternal life was expected, in the case of patriotism we have an emotionally one-sided attitude towards some features on a geographical map and some name that indicates that territory. Of course, behind that concept are hidden quite specific mechanisms for the robbery of the population of a certain territory and exploitation, joined by robing blind the resources of that place on the earth. The genius lies in the brainwashing that asks the victims to love their perpetrator, because it sells them a story of uniqueness, belonging to a greater whole, and the deep fears that every average lobotomized member of a nation tries to avoid during his earthly life.

In other words, patriotism thrives on the fertile soil of the individual's cowardice and mental inertia. Just like many other mental disorders.

This mental illness exploded on a world scene with the rebranding of states into nations in the 18th century. Mostly thanks to the by-product of the French Revolution, that pure evil dictator known as Napoleon Bonaparte.

No patriot or nationalist can explain what is good in the mentioned entities. What is it that leads to an emotional engagement from him to the imagined social construct. Is, for example, masturbation on the Macedonian edition of Playboy an expression of patriotism? Or is it still just masturbation? If it is the former, then patriotism and masturbation are equivalent.

By its action, patriotism prevents the development of a person by eternally insisting on not asking questions (there was a J.F. Kennedy statement in that direction) and conditioning the individual. In the territory known as North Macedonia and the year 2024, this disease is increasingly present. And threatens to kill any independent opinion and prevent any tipping point in the direction of individual and collective values ​​contrary to patriotism. And even worse, in many cases man is conditioned between biological survival and his own attitude. Guess what has the priority.

But patriotism is a disease of pandemic proportions.

An empty personal life and the lack of a clearly defined idea of ​​one's own worth is replaced by ready-made belief models that are derivatives, thus opening the way for a mass epidemic of patriotism, against which the plague pandemic in the 14th century known as the Black Death is only pleasant a spring breeze caressing your hair on a beautiful sunny May afternoon. Only in the 20th century, patriotism and nationalism, according to the most conservative estimates, are responsible for the death of 455 million people in several hundred wars fought on all continents.

Except for Antarctica.

Fortunately, there is almost nothing in Antarctica.

Bacteria and viruses don't grow much there, and neither does patriotism...

What should be done? How we escape the pulling power of this evil? Well, step one, kill the patriot within you!

After that, continue into the neighborhood. Be proactive. Talk to people. Write a Blog. Do anything for the love of all that`s holly.

(Roger Mortis 006)

Victory

He looked at the aperture incessantly. He remembered when he first flew many years ago and wondered how the view did not stop fascinating him after so much time. The world looked quite peaceful and calm as always.

He was wondering. Where from all those memories, unannounced arrived, beginning to turn through his head. Landed friendships, semi-made and unfulfilled love stories, plans that have received an unexpected direction. Much more important things had to be thought off. Direction of life, his life.

Questions. Why didn't he ask for a phone number of  that black-haired, tall, cutely tired girl that he saw  that night at the airport bar, just before receiving the unexpected command. The command they have been training for years hoping they won't ever hear it, memorized for a long time in a separate part of the brain.

Wasn't an exercise. Operational task, flight with use in anger.

No one got a chance except her. Others, her competitors, blue and black, and perhaps even red-haired were difficult to relocate with him, half a year on Okinawa, half a year in Arizona, a year in Korea, two off Diego Suarez. But she always sought it wherever she went.

He was always fulfilled, cheerful, although a bit rigid, obedient and not overloaded with naive questions. He was not particularly perceptive to realize that his thoughts were just phrases with whom they had fed him him through the military training school.

For the first time he was overwhelmed by a strange feeling in that tenderness at nine thousand meters above the North Pacific, alone with a few colleagues in the once magnificent Boeing B-52 Stratofortress, a large and powerful two hundred tonnes machine that he knew more intimate than several girls with whom he had serious relationships. Better than with parents, his father a military pilot in action sometime over some insignificant point on the planet, dragging the Dragon of Air America, white and green, and his mother, who held out somehow without the good will to raise their son, except for a few stories spun now and then. His father's alleged heroic feats, told in the break between watching movies and dinner.

Her son was a battle she lost without much fight. Unlike her husband who pulled out a white flag for several months after the birth of the future rider of the Apocalypse.

They learned and trained for her. Although big and heavy, she radiated some energy that required a lot of potassium and iodine for her lovers. They only used her in some obscure places like Maralinga, Montebello, Bikini Atol or Tanesruf Belt. She was the real one. She. The Bomb. Ultimate symbol of destruction. Orgasm of 1,1 megatonnes of raw power. B-28M was her real name. Molly for the ones that new her. The crew of the bomber also called her "sweety", probably to cover up the fear of flying with her, knowing her inclinations.

The enemy. There was no opportunity to retaliate, the standards for Mutual Assured Destruction did not apply this time. At least intelligence reports suggested. On several occasions, the thoughts like "It wasn't our fault, they started it", "We could do nothing but defend ourselves"

Intelligence, plans and operations had a common cut.

They were 100% secure only in politicians' accounts.

This time there was no going back.

Next was the goal.

Molly, the sweet little Molly, was unloaded as planned.

The fuel was at an end, the last drops were helplessly extracted from the tanks.

Calls to supplement fuel in the air faced dead silence, flying tankers that were supposed to appear did not appear and did not respond to calls. There was nowhere to land. Down was hell, upstairs was the fuel gauge. Scenes went unstoppable in his mind, all the way to the bottom.

They missed the possibility of forcing water landing some time ago, confident in the existence of it's base. It was clear to them what had happened, but they had no time for a storm of emotions, anger, sadness. Maybe just a shock. The pilot has been in a daze for some time, humming a perticular song.

As i was walking,

That ribbon of highway,

I saw above me

That endless skyway,

I saw Below Me

That Golden Valley.

This land was made for you and me.

Strangely, the aircraft's autopilot was not activated. Unlike the autopilot in the head of our protagonist, which in the last minutes before the stratospheric beast was attracted by gravity downwards, still tirelessly worked. He was not sorry for anything, neither for himself or the ashes that they left somewhere there, not for friend or foe.

He was pleased that they finally showed them.

(Roger Mortis 005)

Mythology as the basis to the system of misplaced values

There are letters, commas, periods, that will lead many, without any basis, to the conclusion that the author of this article is a dirty commie, a Yugo-nostalgist and a Tito pioneer.

What on earth could be the point of said article?

The point is the myths, similar to the ancient mythologies but of course without the quality of those old ones that speak about heroes, fairies, dragons and other natural and supernatural beings. Those myths had a cultural, educational, entertaining and folkloric purpose. The new ones aim at brainwashing and manipulation of perception.

The premise here is a hook for the ex-state, the late SFR Yugoslavia.

And after its leader, of course. The mighty Josip Broz.

Everyone knows why that is.

But those who disagree are the first to step in, like an East German western cowboy "das ist meine statt, auslander!" with the following myth.

"Yugoslavia was more peaceful than other communist states because Tito took loans and we lived on the fringes". This is a popular myth, but popularity does not mean that it has any reality.

The successor countries of the late Yugoslavia, in a three times shorter period, borrowed 5 times more than the former federation owed at the breakup in 1991.

$15 billion in 1991, adjusted for inflation, roughly $30 billion in today's value, for 48 years of existence.

The emerging countries today, $255 billion in 33 years of existence.

Not counting Kosovo of course.

So less than the legendary figure of 22 billion that is often mentioned, based on the record of 21.7 billion in 1987, which fell to 15 before the collapse four years later. And yet, at the same time other countries owed the dying Yugoslavia around $4,4 billion.

So the real debt was about $11 billion dollars, today that would be $22B, and that already brings us to a scale of 1 to 14, very unpleasant fact for believers in modern mythology.

And during that time, from the collapse until now, all the strategic infrastructure sold to foreign companies... of course.

Here the difference is most evident and the consequences that follow in the immediate future.

But at least patriotism is on the rise. And that's something i guess.

The old and stupid wisdom that some geezer made something out of nothing seems to be true.

In the past, Yugoslavia produced and exported everything. Nowadays, countries of the region produce nationalism and export it`s youth, it`s brightness, it`s future.

The same party has been in power for 67 years in these areas, only changing its priorities in 1991.

Before the collapse, he opened "patriotic" branches with appropriate flags and songs, from "right-wing", to "competition" with the "left-wing" branches of the same company.

To end with Johnny Stulic quote in Yugoslavian style, such is the topic and the conversation.

Namely, Johnny warned us with some verses like the one "How is the essence of fraud brought to unrecognition", but no one listened to him. Those who listened to him were converted to the point of rationality.

Or maybe not.

(Roger Mortis 004)