That’s grand. Say, do you have time for a chat? Oh, you don’t have time for you? That’s a pity. You must be a real VIP to be so important, that you simply cannot be expected to waste your time on your own best interests. I’m not interested in coercion, I’m a big proponent of your rights but then you might not realise the State giveth and the State taketh your rights away. It’s like taking candy from a baby.
You’re the baby.
No, you don’t have any candy. It’s been taken already. Your rights are gone.
Let me tell you how this all happened. Make yourself comfortable, because I’m going to tell you a story. I’m just trying to figure out an original opening line...ah, I think I know where to begin. Let's start where all good stories should start; at the beginning.
Of the end.
It was the best of the times (for Microsoft and Secunia and the entire Anti-Virus industry); it was the worst of times (for their victims / customers). You see, an entire industry of billions of $$$ had magically arisen out of thin air. This is a fairy tale, you see. Disney’s bid for the rights to the screenplay is expected at any moment now.
Yes, boys and girls. We’re talking about an honest-to-god, bonafide, legitimate fairy tale. The stuff of magic...!
A billion-$ industry had magically appeared out of thin air (and Microsoft’s oh-so-convenient ‘incompetence’). What a fantastical turn of events, for the Anti-Virus industry; suddenly there were viruses everywhere, requiring them to get to work getting rich. A bit of luck was involved, of course. I would consider myself too lucky for comfort, if suddenly there were more and more people being harmed by the product I was supposed to be protecting people from and profiting handsomely just for my hand in the racket.
The Anti-Virus industry isn’t a wilting violet like I am. They just waved their magician’s wand and created a billion-$ industry out of nothing. Magic is always impressive, until you’re shown how the magician does the trick. I’m going to show you how the trick is done. It’s an impressive trick, but of course you won’t be impressed once you see how simple it is. But you should be. You should be impressed. After all, I’m about to formally introduce you to Genius; the acquaintance of whom you likely have never made. That’s unfortunate for you. And it explains why you’re a mere proletariat, instead of kicking it filthy and Oprah-rich, like Dr Phil.
They both work really hard, though. I’ve always been disturbed by contradictions.
But the past is the past, and you had your chance to sidle up to Genius and introduce yourself - but you missed it, and there’s no point crying over spilt you. Your minimum wage job is also cool. You even have your own tie. And a fancy mass-produced suit to make you forget that your job needs formal wear like Hollywood needs another starlet to sleep with Derek Jeeter. But you’ve likely never bothered to contemplate the appropriateness (or otherwise) of your suiting up every day, to do your job. Don’t beat yourself up over it. The thought has clearly never crossed Jeeter’s mind, either.
We’re drifting off-track, however - talking about Jeeter and suiting up and protection. Let’s get back on topic; we were talking about viruses and infections. Of your computers. Chances are, just like Jessica Alba, you won’t even realise you were getting screwed, at the time. Jeeter is no genius, of course. He’s a filthy maggot. But the filthy maggots in the Anti-Virus industry, on the other hand? Trust me, infected oblivious masses, they’re geniuses all right. Allow me to introduce you.
Goodness gracious, the realisation just hit me that I don’t know who you are, really. Is it alright if I introduce you as Carl? I don’t know your name and likely couldn’t care less. At least I’m honest, but then I’m not selling anything to you, am I Carl? I’m not.
Genius is unfailingly polite. You’ll see, when I introduce you to him. Politeness is important, when you’re in his line of business. It’s important to make a good impression, and cover the suckers you’re about to scam in a warm blanket of cordiality. Suckers place great stock in such things. Fact. Suckers value the insult of feigned interest in their boring affairs and even more boring opinions...than they value the boring logic that would have otherwise saved their sucker faces. Genius realises this fact, of course. And because Genius is genius, you can bet your behind that you will experience some pleasant small talk, whenever you bump into each other. It’s the polite thing to do, when bumping into someone you’re mildly acquainted with. To insult each other with awkward feigned insults; acting like you’re fascinated in the other party’s interminably boring life. Yes, both your lives. You’re as boring as each other. Fact. It’s why you’re both merely acquainted rather than...merely friends. You’re both boring as all hell. Oh come off it, Carl. Wake up to reality. Denial is not just a cliche in Egypt, you know.
You must accept the fact. Even though you won’t. You’ll go on pretending the other guy is boring; but not you. No way. You’re fascinating! Uh-huh. You betcha! You’ll ignore the reality that slams you in your Twitter-tweeting face, every day. The reality that; unlike the tango (which traditionally requires two), friendship only ever requires one (1) person to be remotely intriguing. And friends will flock to them, like birds to a feather or bugs to a beggar.
But I’m drifting away again, as I tend to do. Flirting dangerously with the irrelevant boredom of millions of boring people small-talking on social media. We were talking about something important, before you distracted me Carl. Can we get back on topic, please?
Ah yes, we were discussing the sheer brain-exploding boredom of being forced to endure irrelevant exchanges of faux pleasantries. Pretending to care about what strangers think; on such fascinating topics as...the weather. Or their health. Sorry Carl, I couldn’t give a rats about your health. Deal. Yeah it’s rude, I understand you’re a moron who thinks honesty is rude. But man, I don’t even know you - so how could I be expected to give a flying toss? And I’m not selling you anything, so it’s really quite rude of you Carl - yes, for someone who doesn’t even have the decency to exist, you’re being incredibly rude. Demanding that I insult you with the pretence that I value your opinion on sports above what it’s worth (~ nothing and sweet fuck all, by my estimation).
Why the fuck anyone would give multiple hoots about a salary-capped, draft-selected, evenly matched franchise ‘competition’...is freaking beyond me. The only reason - the ONLY reason - those competitions are not even more boring, is the sheer incompetence of those paid to be competent. At one of the easiest jobs in the world; the management of professional athletes. Don’t even start with me, Carl. Zip it. I said, zip it. The only way you could have ‘trouble’ managing a professional athlete is if you had ‘trouble’ writing a performance-based contract. Or if you had ‘trouble’ understanding the value of one; or maybe you have ‘trouble’ with the reality that having created a ‘moral’ hazard, you deserve literally everything you get. You’ve earned it, but then you think you’re entitled so...
I wonder how you ever got that idea, Princess? You’re entitled to being the victim of a very creepy global remuneration policy. And you’re tricked into thinking, “Jonny, they pay me by the hour, what the fuck.”
Uh oh. And you’ve probably never realised why employees are signed up with a seeming incentive, to be disincentivised. Employees aren’t signed up to be motivated. 99% of the world’s workforce is paid by the hour.
What does that tell you...about the world?
Managing professional athletes is like managing a bowel movement. The shit just takes care of itself, unless you’ve screwed something up prior. It’s the easiest job in the world. Computers can (and have proved they can) do a better job than idiotic coaches at the highest level of every sport. And I’m not even talking about that human freakish alien masquerading as a computer, just so he could win Jeopardy and get famous, either. I’m talking about a retarded computer, like my Nokia N97 mini smart phone. Which happens to be the dumbest phone in the freaking world. But anyway, you go on caring about your generic sports teams playing in competitions perfectly designed to be cyclical; to give everyone a fair go. You ever spend much time thinking about why they’d create such a Commie structure, when selling such a capitalist commercial product? You haven’t.
You’re too busy emotionally riding the idiotic highs and lows of the inevitable wins and losses. You stupid hamster. Sorry to break it to you Carl, but they’re just going to win or lose. Every week. Without fail. Well, occasionally they’ll play out a draw. Substantially more than occasionally, if we’re talking football (or soccer, if you’re American - and that’s a distinction worth getting incredibly emotional about). Yeah, sporting competitions designed to cap exceptionalism. Go watch some under 5’s soccer. It would make a lot more sense. Especially if you’re a pedophile.
Oh come off it, Carl. You think any pedophiles reading just went “OMG why didn't I think of that?”
They thought of it, Carl. They’re not reading this rambling, trust me. They’re probably down at the park.
But sport. Yeah, it was really fascinating stuff. I loved it, like I was obsessed with it at one point. Until I realised the entire industry was a scam. It’s all a ridiculous, rigged joke. Rigged in way more ways than one. Find some statistics on ‘line-ball’ refereeing / umpiring decisions; compare and contrast for Home v Visiting. Blush, you idiot. I loved sports until I started betting sports. Then I blushed. Because sports-bettors see what most people don’t. They see Home and Away games, for a start. They also see, fullstop. Not blinded by idiotic ‘loyaltiesâ€. You want to know who never blushes? I know some guys that love - I mean, they LOVE - sport. But not really. Kind of. It’s complicated. Unlike their business model. Yes, I’m talking about syphoning away 5% of the action, all the matched action, all that intentionally manufactured to be cyclical action. The filthy shysters trading as Betfair.
Yeah, I was obsessed with sport. And then I turned 15. And realised girls weren’t the worst people in the entire world. Well, as long as they’re cute. And as long as they don’t work in a call-center.
nb. If you’re wondering why I was betting Betfair at 15, it’s because I was 22 when I realised girls actually wanted to sleep with me, but I'd been going about it all the right way. So I'd been sleeping alone, for a long time. But 22 would just sound dumb. A man has his pride, you know.
But Mary Kate and freaking Ashley. I don’t know how amazingly cute a girl who worked in a call-centre would have to be...but I’m certain they would not be working in a call-center, if they were cute enough to overlook their vocation.
I like to ridicule call-center employees because....they’re call-center employees. Minimum-wage associates and accomplices, assisting in grotesquely lucrative cons. Friends, without benefits. Minimum-wage employees, helping their bosses scam suckers for fortunes. And demanding peanuts be set aside for their contribution to the sting. Idiots.
They are forced to be nauseatingly polite to you; and therefore nauseatingly offensive. Forced by their genius employers, who understand how morons love to be insulted with provably ridiculous cordiality. It’s amazing, their cordiality. You should stress-test it, some time. It’s fascinating. I’m serious. Marsenne stress test that shit, as if they were memory cards. RAM isn’t nearly as dull, of course. But call-centre employees are way more capable of taking abuse without dishing any out. I wish I could slot them into my laptops, somewhere. My laptops are princesses, diving over every time an opponent gets within 10 yards. Yup. My Latitude E6500 is the Christiano Ronaldo of computing. I’ve been terrified that it might catch a cold, and die from it like an Indian orphan who can’t beg a shot of antibiotics, from a world with only one square to spare. Unless we’re talking military expenditure. They can spare trillions of squares, on that.
But call-centre punching bags. They’re a riot. They will remain horrifically cordial, no matter how much abuse you give them. I abuse them for scientific reasons. I’m a social scientist conducting important psychological research. Christ, Carl. I’m not a psychopath. Or an idiot who yells at the cotton-pickers of the 21st century, mistaking them for the owners of the plantation. I’m not you, Carl. Christ, what a horrifying thought.
I yell at call-centre customer service operators because they’re frauds. They cannot pick the fucking cotton, out of their ears. They’re incapable of understanding anything, but then they understand a lot more than they let on. They know their masters are up to no good. But then I’m not a moron like you, Carl. And neither are morons, who work in call-centres. I yell at them because I’m ethically obliged to abuse frauds. You yell at them in frustration, thinking you have a point. There’s no point to anything you yell, Carl. No one will listen, whether you yell or whisper. And if they could, what are you expecting will happen Carl? You think they have authority to reverse their masters’ crimes? Or are you simply confused about masters and slaves? Because masters just love to get down to the field, to pick their own cotton. Or answer their own phones, fielding the abuse of those they have fraudulently extorted. Just to get their hands dirty, you know. A bit of small talk to brighten their filthy rich days.
The contradiction in Society that is “small talkâ€; the ludicrous idea that inoffensive honesty is impolite, or even rude, when you’re forced into a situation with someone you cannot possibly be expected to care about; on account of their being a stranger or a cotton-picker of some variety. The contradiction so widely subscribed to by modern-day cotton-pickers is that the idiotic and insulting rudeness of lying and pretending to care about whatever it is that small people talk about with each other; is somehow ‘polite’ or ‘common courtesy’.
Nonsense. I refuse to insult anyone with such offensive deceitfulness. Though I am often offended by their offensive pretence, I would like it noted for the record that the offending party usually leaves our (non) exchange with their feathers all a flutter, at my refusal to be provoked into a response. Which, if I was one to subscribe to proportionality (which I am), and if this were a fair world (which it’s not), would likely comprise of a sudden, sharp blow to the nearest kidney. So I don’t.
But back to the importance of unimportant exchanges of pleasantries; specifically, the unpleasantness of knowing such an exchange is so often the first sign that you’re about to get bent over and....given a little cheerio, in an uncomfortable place. Small talk is foreplay, you see. The lubrication politely proffered, by the rapists in this world of Spam; ever so considerate aren’t they, attending to your pain. Which is caused by them. And that’s mighty big of them, no? To think of you (and your health, and your day, and your opinions on weather), immediately prior to stealing from you. Or trying to. Don’t you think?
You don’t.
That’s really the problem, of course. None of yall are thinking, all that much. If you were, I wouldn’t be forced to endure the nauseatingly vile insults - delivered with provably malicious intent for provably malicious reasons - by the various Customer Service and Sales / Marketing staff of (insert commercial enterprise here). Yes, I know they are being polite because they’re not geniuses. I’m only occasionally a moron. I realise why they’re insulting me, you moron. I know they are forced to insult me endlessly with feigned cordiality; they’ll lose their minimum-wage jobs if they don’t. I know all of this, Carl. You egg-sucker. Do you think I work in a field? With this pasty white skin? Oh no. I’m house-trained.
Enough, Carl. I get it. Trust me, I get it. Odds are they’re wearing a suit, for heaven’s sake. I’m not blaming them. I pity them, but I don’t hold their rudeness against them. I understand they are just the innocent guards, manning the gates of the concentration camps. I know when I walk into that gas chamber, hurried along by their rifle butts, that they have no choice but to assist in the rape of my wallet with their endless lies and politeness. You can stop defending them, Carl. Mostly because I’m going to abuse them anyway, sfowned. And give me one good reason why I should not? *crickets*
I’ll give you one good reason why I should. Because I can.
Here’s another good reason. They deserve it. Nuremberg didn’t buy their filthy defence arguments. I don’t either. They’re accomplices; the fact they get paid slave wages to be accomplices in stealing from me, doesn’t exactly endear them to me. I respect a genius scam; even when it stings me for an attractive penny. And I’ve been stung for pennies in scams so gorgeous, if they were actresses, they’d likely be scams with herpes from their visit to the Big Apple.
I didn’t mind, and will never mind being stung; but only when the sting is worthy of respect.
And that’s something of a tricky dilemma, you see. What with living in this world full of idiots. Idiots like you, Carl. Nah, I’m just joking. You’re cool. Of course, I’m talking about the other idiots. All the rest of them. It’s completely screwed up, this world. And it screws with my genius-detecting radar. I mean, what’s worthy of respect, when you’ve been raped by a scam? Is a scam brilliant because when smells like a potpourri of genius? Or is a scam brilliant when it is so stupid, it’s simply too impossible to credit with suspicion. Until the Obvious is rammed into you. Usually via behind.
Or, in Anti-Virus industry lingo, via a backdoor Trojan. Hah. That worked on all kind of terrible levels of awesomeness. My terrible punning is without peer. But in all seriousness, Carl; do you have the answer? It’s such a tough spot. You see, a brilliant scam is arguably stupid because it’s targeted at <1% of the market (a bit like my rambling). And an idiotic scam is arguably brilliant, because it’s targeted at 99% (give or take 1%) of the market. So which of the scams is more brilliant, in this Orwellian world where yes used to mean yes, but now it could mean no. Hard to know, really; when moronic girls are making up their minds as they go along - and yes can mean yes, until you correctly believe it means yes, at which point a pretty girl will suddenly be horrified because obviously you’re a big fat No. Too desperate, they tell themselves. The trick is to make them desperate to impress you, and it’s easier done than said Carl. But then I’m being a bit unfair to you. You likely aren’t packing the package I’m capable of delivering; if only for a New York minute or two, at least.
This used to be a binary world of 1s and 0s; but now you can open a Terminal or a Command Prompt on your computer system...but that’s where you’ve made your first mistake, you see? Your computer system isn’t yours. Gosh, Carl. Sometimes I don’t know if you’re being cute or just having a blonde day. You’re adorable.
Order ‘your’ computer to produce output on the command line sometime, and things can get very confusing because someone changed the logic - which would be fine, because then you could just know illogical was really logical, but then that would be too easy for you Carl. Orwell wasn’t that insightful, you know. No one would be confused in an Orwellian world. And this world has advanced beyond its Orwellian phase. It’s called progress, Carl. And the thing about progress, Carl; is that it’s incredibly progressive. Which in this world, can appear to be regressive, like if you upgrade your Macintosh OS X from Leopard to Lion. It’s all very confusing, how we’re progressing into regression. But I’m just talking about humanity, so nothing worth getting emo about. Don’t get emo, Carl. You’ll be yelled at to shut up, by an emo; if you do that.
You could be forgiven for being confused, except you’re so confused you believe you know everything, already. Christ, Carl; when you’re that confused, it would be horrifying if this totalitarian world of tyrants then smirked whilst giving you the ‘freedom’ you think you want but aren’t intelligent enough to realise you’ll never have because you aren’t willing to fight for it. You think you’re free, Carl; because you don’t understand that you live at the pleasure of Law. You know what the first rule of Law is, Carl?
Everything is illegal.
This is the reality of Law, Carl. You think you’re free but you don’t realise that you are illegal, if Power decides that you are against the Law. But then you think you’re special, Carl. Because you’re tight with Power. Power and you go way back. But then you don’t understand what Power is or how Power thinks or what Power does when it bumps into power. There’s no handshakes, Carl. There might be some small talk, but there is no cordiality or decency when Power comes across power. There are fireworks. Power forgets its manners, and Power gets very cold and that’s when things heat up and sparks fly. When Power bumps into power, there are no apologies or excuses that will save you; no quarter is given and you cannot buy your way out Carl. I don’t care if you have a quarter or a few million of them - you won’t be able to pay your way out when you bump into Power’s rear end. Because Power doesn’t need your quarters, Carl. They’re doing okay, thank you all the same. Power can afford to splash $5 billion on making some unpleasant and impossibly offensive choirboys, settle down. Like the good - Boys - they are.
That would be a classified as a “clueâ€, Carl; if you weren’t clueless enough to think you had a clue. But it’s not your fault, Carl. I never play the “Blame Gameâ€, if only because I’m usually to blame.
But boy, are you confused. Because you’re a bitch who needs to be confused. No, Carl. Yes, you do. Come on, Carl. Do you know how hard it would be control you if you weren’t the mindless robot you are? You’d be god damn uncontrollable Carl, if you were in control. Thank His Holiness for your emotions, because without your emotional insanity, I literally don’t know how anyone could control billions of you. All sane and in control? Acht!
Thank Christ you’re confused, because without Him dying for the sins of children who never realised they could have a motive to hurt themselves or anyone else (but then I repeat myself, Carl - you must forgive me); you wouldn’t be the confused little bitch that you are. You’re a marble, Carl. You’re as special as any one of 7 billion marbles could be. 7 billion marbles smacking into each other, being flicked by smirking Holy Men, who have a thing for boys.
Will you permit me to ask you a question, Carl? Here’s my question, and I demand an answer - any answer will do. Because I hate girls. They are creepy, idiotic and cruel things. As flies to wanton boys are girls to moronic boys. Who fuck with their ‘minds’ for sport. I hate girls, Carl. I’ll level with you.
But why does God hate girls, Carl? Why are there no choir-girls?
I think it’s because when little girls sing, they sound like demons screaming to God. But what do I know? I’m not God. I’m wouldn’t kill children to win a neurotic bet about the love of a masochistic cracker. I would think God might employ his omnipotence on a more noble pursuit than gambling with Devils and killing children to win proposition bets, but it’s not my job to tell God how to do his Job. And God did Job over, good. But then there was a Disney ending. Because after God had killed Job’s family, he gave Job a new one!
You see? How everything works out in the end, so long as you endure your masochistic suffering with dignity and silence, and whatever you do - don’t cause a scene. Children aren’t worth it, Carl. Just let them go. Let the Church have them, Carl. Because you don’t own your computers and you don’t own your children.
And you would understand that fact, if you ever opened a Terminal and discovered Unix suddenly decided - for some commands - success is ostensibly denoted by zero output. The logic is that Failure will produce output, but then your brain is unserviceable or you’d instantly spot some exploitabilities with that ‘logic’.
But let’s not get all caught up in confusing Orwellian; that would be ill-advisable in an Orwellian world which was already Orwellian before Orwell was even horrified at how the British Empire was exploiting the Burmese. It’s a good read, Orwell’s first novel. Mine wasn’t. My first novel was an abortion. I thought it was incredibly witty and satirical, but it’s highly unlikely that it even could have been. I mean, how brilliant could anyone really be, if they give a witty and satirical novel to a pretty girl they want to impress. I bit my fingernails, Carl - I swear to God. I was nervous waiting for her esteemed critical assessment. Her brow was furrowed, she was confused by it all. All that sarcasm, which is actually the finest form of wit but then morons love to quote satirical geniuses without realising they’re leveling themselves. Because geniuses are always satirical. You have to be sarcastic in this puerile world of facetious fools, arrogant enough to express their contempt for what was almost certainly a moronic first attempt at a novel - but then we’ll never know, will we Carl? We won’t.
I destroyed it. Embarrassed and mortified, because she just looked at me like I was weird. Then she told me, “It’s kinda weird.†In shame, at her expression of displeasure with what she didn’t understand, I didn’t even remember to ask her for an actual critique. Mortified at hearing her express her opinion, I forgot to ask her to show her working, Carl. And that’s where pretty girls would get all tripped up, because they have a lot of opinions and they’re not afraid to express them - but you don’t want to ask them to explain their logic because they call you a creep.
So that’s why you don’t credit the opinions of pretty girls, Carl. But when a pretty girl Spams you with one of her opinions - and pretty girls will do this quite shamelessly - you should instantly embarrass them by demanding they show their working. They’ll be ashamed, and maybe they’ll call you a creep.
Or maybe they’ll sleep with you. It’s hard to predict these sorts of things. That would be a cute trick; predicting insanity.
Are you a creep, Carl? It’s a damn good question, Carl. I wish you knew the answer to it because when you assert your denials Carl; when you are shocked - just shocked! - at the most Obvious things - you remind me of this little wooden puppet who wanted to be a real boy. Just like you, Carl. You want to be a real boy too, even if you don’t realise it’s what you’re wishing for. I wish you would get your wish, Carl. I wish you were a real boy, like Pinocchio. Then you wouldn’t be so obsessed with irrelevant things like your appearance or the length of your hawkish nose. You’re no Monet, you know? But you’re no Cyrano de Bergerac, either. That’s for sure. Look it up, you chump. Do something different for a change, do something crazy...like learn something.
Speaking of filthy lying puppets, what’s the deal with call-center employees? The rudest pricks ever, continually facilitating their employers’ fraud, insulting you with idiotic fake cordiality (talk about rubbing salt into recently gashed wounds), then getting all emo when you hurl some delightful witty, if somewhat colourful, prose at them. Unappreciative scum. With trigger-happy “End Chat†fingers.
I’m just being rhetorical, of course. I only pretend to be stupid so that you can identify with my rambling. The truth is, I’m so bright, it’s really rather unattractive. So I’m forced to be a creep by those who would be repulsed by my humongous brain. Usually cute girls. Which is ironic, because if I hide my humongous brain then...Christ, I’m gonna let you finish that one off, yourself. It had disaster written all over it. When in a flat spin, and dropping like a rock, you're actually in a great position to bail out - I've always thought.
Shrieking is optional. Most girls exercise that option.
Speaking of being forced to finish things off, after I’ve bailed out....poor, cute little suckers. I wish I was a baller, and a little bit taller. They wish for the same. But with no stars to wish upon or terrible Disney scripts around, we’re both out of luck. They get a bailer instead of a baller. Poor little gold diggers of the world; life can be cruel like that. But in all seriousness, they should be looking on the bright side.
It’s funny how hypocritical I am, in reality. You should see how I converse with cute girls, and compare / contrast with my perfunctory style I seem to default into, should I be interacting with one of their homely compatriots. It makes me sick. I’m so nauseatingly polite with the former, and so functionally direct with the latter. But then, that’s how the scam works. Or haven’t you been reading a word I’ve been rambling?
The cotton-pickers lose their job if they slip up. And fail to call you Sir. Fail to insult you with their dryretch-inducing politeness. You can say what you like about Genius, but you cannot fault his manners. He’s a perfect gentleman. Right up until he has your $, and usually long after. Right up until he no longer has your $. Then his polished fawning really becomes rather garish and brusque. But I guess if you don’t have $, there isn’t much point in scamming you, is there? There isn’t.
At that point, Genius can afford to be boorish. The scam is over, and he gets to let his hair down and be himself. And he’s rude, let me tell you. Rude people draw attention to themselves. They’re so uncouth and unpleasant. They’re really tough to even have around, particularly because they’re hard to simply ignore or insult. And far too often to be socially acceptable, they dip their beaks into outrageous honesty. And everyone who is anyone or knows anyone who is anyone knows that there is nothing more offensive than honesty, in Polite Society. This is fact.
Genius has actually already made your acquaintance; on many an occasion. But he was likely too polite, for you to even notice him. That well-mannered lad who ever-so-gently bumped into you on the subway, when you visited the Eiffel Tower and told people you visited Paris instead. It was nothing more than a nudge, really; as the train decelerated rapidly into a station. His stop, as luck would have it. He apologised profusely, of course, for his accidental non-offensive and utterly innocuous brush against your coat. Too profusely, not that you would have noticed. Conditioned as you are, to be offended at an accidental brush; believing that impossibly idiotic apologies are requisite, in such impossibly innocuous spots. You considered the matter settled when he gently caressed your delicate sensibilities; appropriately deferring to your god damn right to ride a subway without being forced into physical contact with the rabble. You did not feel the need to demand satisfaction or “take it outside†and, if you’ve even been to Paris (have you, Carl? Been outside Wagga Wagga? You ever make it to the Big Smoke?) you likely didn’t give the incident even a moment’s thought.
But then you do that, or don’t do that, a lot. Don’t you, Carl?
You should stop doing that. Or start doing that. You understand, I’m sure.
That French kid though, so polite and well-mannered. That didn’t strike you as strange? It should have. You’ll never guess who that kid was? That was Genius, you moron! That was him! You didn’t even recognise him, and you were so close you literally bumped into each other. And you completely failed to blubber, which would have been appropriate, or even get his autograph, which is - quite frankly - a terrifying and disturbing obsession you robots seem to have. What’s the logic behind it? Proof that you bothered someone enough to make them sign your dumb shit? Nice corner to put them in, by the way. If they don’t give in to your terrorist demands, you blabber to anyone who’ll listen about how ‘rude’ they are, for the rest of your pathetic inconsequential, name-dropping, no-name, noose of a life. I swear to god Carl, your obsession with celebrity will still strike me as the creepy and idiotic shit it truly is, even if I live to be 800. And I might.
You met Genius, Carl. You must be kicking yourself. You didn’t even get his autograph. But then, he got yours - he was practising emulating your unique scrawl but then it’s funny that it’s impossible to actually sign the back of plastic. I bet you never even thought about that, Carl. You should compare your signature with your autograph, on the back of the credit cards you know you really shouldn’t be using because it’s just so ‘naughty’ - but giggle, you can’t help yourself, can you Carl?
Genius helps themselves to you, at 17% interest. That’s the Law, Carl. What do you care, when you absolutely have to have that cashmere sweater or those smashing Dolce & Gabbana shades or you will absolutely just die. Genius, Carl! You’ll never be one. But then you meet Genius, all the - freaking - time. And you never even have the decency to ask for Genius’ autograph. You’re in your own little (oh so tiny) world. Don’t blame yourself, Carl. What’s lost in Paris stays in Paris.
In any case, you were thinking about more important things, like the whether the exchange booth would take your Euro coins or if they had a strict notes-only policy. I know you want to take advantage of that awesome “NO COMMISSION†limited-time offer you saw on that huge promotional banner. Right, Carl? Because money exchangers just do it for the love of the game. No commission charged, and a 12% spread on buy/sell. But of course they are forced to do that creepy shit Carl, by you. You force creeps to insult you because you’re so imbecilic you aren’t - even - plausible. You give them the power to insult you, Carl. You demand that people insult you. You scream “Lie to Me†and you shake your head at the outrageous 4% ‘tax’ (but no spread on buy/sell) charged by some idiotically ethical foreign currency exchange outfits, and you race for the “NO COMMISSION†chaps, who have the decency to rape your idiotic face. But who cares, will they take your coins? This is the big question. The 3 Euro question!
You meet Genius all the fucking time, Carl. And you’re in your own tiny world. Would it kill you to throw out your hand and say, “Hey there Genius, I’m Carl. I’m a minimum-wage earning monkey forced to wear a redundant penguin suit as if I were a high-flying executive or someone important. But I’d awfully like to make enough money so that I don’t have to throw on this degrading costume every day, ostensibly to make me forget that I’m a fucking call-centre robot doing a job a computer could do a lot better. Whilst I’m a fucking call-centre robot, terrified of being replaced by a computer. I hope I’m not being too direct, but heck, do you think we could be pals?â€
It’s a pity for you that you didn’t. If only to see insulting politeness transform into brutal reality. Because Genius....Carl, you need to understand Genius has bi-polar. Crazy fucker flips on a dime. And that politeness can turn into fury, faster than you can say “I’m a moranâ€. And you are.
You’re a moron if you think people being polite to you are your friends. Or have good intentions. Genius so rarely has good intentions. Genius is usually cold, vicious, vindictive even. And let’s be fair, you really do ask for it. You demand to be punished, and then you whine about how unfair everything is. You meet Genius all the time but in your stupidity and fear, imagining you can protect yourself from Genius when you’ve pretty much got your hands full protecting yourself from you (mind the gap!) - Genius simply creeps up to you when you least expect it (constantly) and gets so close you could almost touch it, at which point Genius will likely touch you. Genius will slide that friendly hand down your pants, have a bit of a fiddle; maybe come up with something worth Genius’ time. You’re a waste of time, Carl. You wasted away your time. You waste your time. And now, when it’s too late, you are reading this and you are thinking, “This is a waste of my valuable time.â€
You have no value, Carl. But your time is almost up. I have a sixth sense about these things, which means I have five senses which are better than yours. But I know what you’re thinking, Carl. You’re thinking, “I don’t have to take this shit.â€
You’re right, Carl. You don’t need to do anything which serves your best interests. You don’t even need to be sane. All you - need - is to be confused. And in your confusion, they give you the idea that you are an important marble. A special marble. A unique marble that doesn’t need to care about the other 7 billion marbles, because you’re a real piece of work Carl. You’re too important to think, and when you meet Genius which insults you non-stop with vile creepy ‘politeness’; you think nothing of it, and proceed forward in your ignominy.
Too idiotic to realise that you’re walking just a tiny bit lighter. Marching forward, to a date with inevitability; the moment when you realise you seem to be short exactly one (1) wallet. Oh, you didn’t realise it at the time. How could you have? That would have required focus. Ugh. It’s hardly your fault, Carl. You had no focus to spare. All your focus had already been allocated, booked well in advance; caught up by the fascinating prospect of the upcoming derby between two football teams (one of which, you happen to follow). And in focusing on the delicious prospect of watching 2 hours of torturous keeping's-off (albeit performed at the million-£ level); punctuated (if you’re lucky) by a moment or two of ecstasy or despair; you were very rude to yourself, Carl. When Genius was polite to you. You’ve lost your focus, Carl.
Friends tell friends the truth, so belay that.
You’ve never had any focus. You’ve been focused on dreams for your entire life. You’re all blurred, and so confused, I’m not entirely sure you’re even real. You’re out of focus, Carl. Your dreams are blurry patches of fallacy. They’re out of focus, Carl.
It’s funny how hypocritical I am, in reality. You should see how I converse with cute girls, and compare / contrast with my perfunctory style I seem to default into, should I be interacting with one of their homely compatriots. It makes me sick. I’m so nauseatingly polite with the former, and so functionally direct with the latter. But then, that’s how the scam works. Or haven’t you been reading a word I’ve been rambling?
The cotton-pickers lose their job if they slip up. And fail to call you Sir. Fail to insult you with their dryretch-inducing politeness. You can say what you like about Genius, but you cannot fault his manners. He’s a perfect gentleman. Right up until he has your $, and usually long after. Right up until he no longer has your $. Then his polished fawning really becomes rather garish and brusque. But I guess if you don’t have $, there isn’t much point in scamming you, is there? There isn’t.
At that point, Genius can afford to be boorish. The scam is over, and he gets to let his hair down and be himself. And he’s rude, let me tell you. Rude people draw attention to themselves. They’re so uncouth and unpleasant. They’re really tough to even have around, particularly because they’re hard to simply ignore or insult. And far too often to be socially acceptable, they dip their beaks into outrageous honesty. And everyone who is anyone or knows anyone who is anyone knows that there is nothing more offensive than honesty, in Polite Society. This is fact.
Genius has actually already made your acquaintance; on many an occasion. But he was likely too polite, for you to even notice him. That well-mannered lad who ever-so-gently bumped into you on the subway, when you visited the Eiffel Tower and told people you visited Paris instead. It was nothing more than a nudge, really; as the train decelerated rapidly into a station. His stop, as luck would have it. He apologised profusely, of course, for his accidental non-offensive and utterly innocuous brush against your coat. Too profusely, not that you would have noticed. Conditioned as you are, to be offended at an accidental brush; believing that impossibly idiotic apologies are requisite, in such impossibly innocuous spots. You considered the matter settled when he gently caressed your delicate sensibilities; appropriately deferring to your god damn right to ride a subway without being forced into physical contact with the rabble. You did not feel the need to demand satisfaction or “take it outside†and, if you’ve even been to Paris (have you, Carl? Been outside Wagga Wagga? You ever make it to the Big Smoke?) you likely didn’t give the incident even a moment’s thought.
But then you do that, or don’t do that, a lot. Don’t you, Carl?
You should stop doing that. Or start doing that. You understand, I’m sure.
That French kid though, so polite and well-mannered. That didn’t strike you as strange? It should have. You’ll never guess who that kid was? That was Genius, you moron! That was him! You didn’t even recognise him, and you were so close you literally bumped into each other. And you completely failed to blubber, which would have been appropriate, or even get his autograph, which is - quite frankly - a terrifying and disturbing obsession you robots seem to have. What’s the logic behind it? Proof that you bothered someone enough to make them sign your dumb shit? Nice corner to put them in, by the way. If they don’t give in to your terrorist demands, you blabber to anyone who’ll listen about how ‘rude’ they are, for the rest of your pathetic inconsequential, name-dropping, no-name, noose of a life. I swear to god Carl, your obsession with celebrity will still strike me as the creepy and idiotic shit it truly is, even if I live to be 800. And I might.
You met Genius, Carl. You must be kicking yourself. You didn’t even get his autograph. But then, he got yours - he was practising emulating your unique scrawl but then it’s funny that it’s impossible to actually sign the back of plastic. I bet you never even thought about that, Carl. You should compare your signature with your autograph, on the back of the credit cards you know you really shouldn’t be using because it’s just so ‘naughty’ - but giggle, you can’t help yourself, can you Carl?
Genius helps themselves to you, at 17% interest. That’s the Law, Carl. What do you care, when you absolutely have to have that cashmere sweater or those smashing Dolce & Gabbana shades or you will absolutely just die. Genius, Carl! You’ll never be one. But then you meet Genius, all the - freaking - time. And you never even have the decency to ask for Genius’ autograph. You’re in your own little (oh so tiny) world. Don’t blame yourself, Carl. What’s lost in Paris stays in Paris.
In any case, you were thinking about more important things, like the whether the exchange booth would take your Euro coins or if they had a strict notes-only policy. I know you want to take advantage of that awesome “NO COMMISSION†limited-time offer you saw on that huge promotional banner. Right, Carl? Because money exchangers just do it for the love of the game. No commission charged, and a 12% spread on buy/sell. But of course they are forced to do that creepy shit Carl, by you. You force creeps to insult you because you’re so imbecilic you aren’t - even - plausible. You give them the power to insult you, Carl. You demand that people insult you. You scream “Lie to Me†and you shake your head at the outrageous 4% ‘tax’ (but no spread on buy/sell) charged by some idiotically ethical foreign currency exchange outfits, and you race for the “NO COMMISSION†chaps, who have the decency to rape your idiotic face. But who cares, will they take your coins? This is the big question. The 3 Euro question!
You meet Genius all the fucking time, Carl. And you’re in your own tiny world. Would it kill you to throw out your hand and say, “Hey there Genius, I’m Carl. I’m a minimum-wage earning monkey forced to wear a redundant penguin suit as if I were a high-flying executive or someone important. But I’d awfully like to make enough money so that I don’t have to throw on this degrading costume every day, ostensibly to make me forget that I’m a fucking call-centre robot doing a job a computer could do a lot better. Whilst I’m a fucking call-centre robot, terrified of being replaced by a computer. I hope I’m not being too direct, but heck, do you think we could be pals?â€
It’s a pity for you that you didn’t. If only to see insulting politeness transform into brutal reality. Because Genius....Carl, you need to understand Genius has bi-polar. Crazy fucker flips on a dime. And that politeness can turn into fury, faster than you can say “I’m a moranâ€. And you are.
You’re a moron if you think people being polite to you are your friends. Or have good intentions. Genius so rarely has good intentions. Genius is usually cold, vicious, vindictive even. And let’s be fair, you really do ask for it. You demand to be punished, and then you whine about how unfair everything is. You meet Genius all the time but in your stupidity and fear, imagining you can protect yourself from Genius when you’ve pretty much got your hands full protecting yourself from you (mind the gap!) - Genius simply creeps up to you when you least expect it (constantly) and gets so close you could almost touch it, at which point Genius will likely touch you. Genius will slide that friendly hand down your pants, have a bit of a fiddle; maybe come up with something worth Genius’ time. You’re a waste of time, Carl. You wasted away your time. You waste your time. And now, when it’s too late, you are reading this and you are thinking, “This is a waste of my valuable time.â€
You have no value, Carl. But your time is almost up. I have a sixth sense about these things, which means I have five senses which are better than yours. But I know what you’re thinking, Carl. You’re thinking, “I don’t have to take this shit.â€
You’re right, Carl. You don’t need to do anything which serves your best interests. You don’t even need to be sane. All you - need - is to be confused. And in your confusion, they give you the idea that you are an important marble. A special marble. A unique marble that doesn’t need to care about the other 7 billion marbles, because you’re a real piece of work Carl. You’re too important to think, and when you meet Genius which insults you non-stop with vile creepy ‘politeness’; you think nothing of it, and proceed forward in your ignominy.
Too idiotic to realise that you’re walking just a tiny bit lighter. Marching forward, to a date with inevitability; the moment when you realise you seem to be short exactly one (1) wallet. Oh, you didn’t realise it at the time. How could you have? That would have required focus. Ugh. It’s hardly your fault, Carl. You had no focus to spare. All your focus had already been allocated, booked well in advance; caught up by the fascinating prospect of the upcoming derby between two football teams (one of which, you happen to follow). And in focusing on the delicious prospect of watching 2 hours of torturous keeping's-off (albeit performed at the million-£ level); punctuated (if you’re lucky) by a moment or two of ecstasy or despair; you were very rude to yourself, Carl. When Genius was polite to you. You’ve lost your focus, Carl.
Friends tell friends the truth, so belay that.
You’ve never had any focus. You’ve been focused on dreams for your entire life. You’re all blurred, and so confused, I’m not entirely sure you’re even real. You’re out of focus, Carl. Your dreams are blurry patches of fallacy. They’re out of focus, Carl.
It’s not the gap that people should be minding. It’s the dots they should be connecting; but aren’t. And haven’t, for the entirety of human history - or at least, the last 1500 or so years but because you're a moron, let’s round it up to 2012. But then that’s the genius of it, innit? It is.
But is that Paris pick-pocket, with a lifetime of unbelievable skill, a true genius? I don’t think so. Why spend your childhood learning how to pick a pocket and steal a wallet, when you can just frighten people into handing them over to you, frantically. With gratitude. They’ll think you’re their friend, after you scare them into thinking they need you; at which point, there you are with your serendipitous ‘solution’! What luck!
Fear isn’t especially hard to manufacture. You wouldn’t need to spend a lifetime mastering your trade if you had lofty goals of domestic terrorism or a career in Spam, that’s for sure. People are so easily frightened, they will thank you after you frighten them, for warning them of the dangers they’d already been alerted was a threat - at some point, from some source they’ve forgotten was you.
And isn’t that...a more genius kind of genius, than mere genius? I wouldn’t know.
It’s run-of-the-mill fraud. Hijacking, ransom, extortion. Pick your label. That doesn’t change the fact that the entire Anti-Virus industry is a god-damn industry of genius! In it’s entirety. In it’s very existence. Which wouldn't exist, were it not for the idiots who throw their wallets at the pickpockets.
So stand and applaud, morons! No really, get up. Start clapping. I mean, it’s not like you have a choice. You want to be their friend, trust me. They are nasty enemies; and one would be an idiot to make an enemy out of them. One would have to have rocks, in one’s humongous brain, and humongous stones, in one's short shorts; to rudely accuse them of the Obvious.
Stand up and clap morons. Stand and applaud.
Okay, that's enough of that. It's time to take your seats, for the beginning of the end of the show. Please do enjoy yourselves. It's going to be grand, with fireworks and lots of shrieks and screams.
Oh, I hope you remembered to bring your wallet, of course. You’re going to need that.
As boys to wanton priests...
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