From: curtis@cs.berkeley.edu (Curtis Yarvin)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Re: Tsk, tsk class  (was: Re: Rictus Hep Is Unintentionally Overheard)
Date: 2 Oct 1992 02:36:23 GMT
Organization: UC Berkeley CS Dept.
NNTP-Posting-Host: boa.cs.berkeley.edu

In article <1992Oct1.123632.7946@nmrdc1.nmrdc.nnmc.navy.mil> rdc30@nmrdc1.nmrdc.nnmc.navy.mil (Code-03 LCDR Michael E. Dobson) writes:
>
>#P 274 W. 19th St., Apt 5B, New York, MY 10011

Dobson, you poor child.

No doubt you thought you were onto something.  You thought you'd
made a Discovery.  Like a toddler, who runs through a puddle and
yells "Mommy, Mommy, look, I can walk on water."

But you didn't.  And you can't.  And if you try you'll sink like
a stone.

Because there is shit here deeper than you can possibly imagine.
Probably even deeper than I can imagine.  And I'm a modest man -
but let me tell you, my son, that my imagination is to yours as
the great Elephant Turds of Bengal, whose provenance no man knows,
but tower over the fewmets of the common loxodont as K2 towers
over a low-rent portapotty in the lottery slums of Des Moines,
are to the constipated flyspecks that pass for pimples on your
pox-spotted nostrils.

Child of grace.  Did you for a second imagine that we, who are so
far above you that you couldn't lick our jocks without standing
tiptoe, hadn't consulted the same pissant oracle that is the
beacon for your autofellative forays?  That we didn't know the
Official Story?

Not two minutes after the question arose, Dobson, we had that data.
Someone went upstairs and teased it out of wetware.  AndyR, I
believe.

And when he came back down, we laughed.  Long, and heartily.
Because we knew it was a lie.  It was only the first lie, the
coliform apex of a great and malignant pyramid of lies.

Cane-Toad?  In New York?  In Babylon?  The City of Whores?  Was
Christ born in a pile of shit?  Did James Beard cook in lard?
Did Leonardo paint Campbell's Soup tins?  Bach play the kazoo?
Shakespeare write Westerns?  Knievel ride a moped?

Such obvious bollocks cannot be contemplated.  And so; we demanded
the truth.

Unwittingly, you've helped us along.  "New York, MY."  _MY_?  I
don't think the Post Office knows about MY.

But I do.  Because I am a man of wealth and taste.  I _have_ a
clue.  And my hobbies include the study of ancient Chinese
mythology.

Anyone who knows anything about the Yang dynasty knows those
initials.  MY is the mythical land of Min-Yang.  Others, in other
places and other times, called it Valhalla.  Avalon.  The land
where Kings go to die.

Min-Yang is not just some castle off in the sky.  Not some
backwoods resort on Cloud East.  No Big Golf Course in the Oxygen
Districts of Mars.

Min-Yang is here.  On Earth.  All around us.  A sort of Heavenly
Marinade.

Min-Yang is any place, any time, that's absolutely perfect.  Nine
AM in Philadelphia, the cobblestones smell of horseshit, the sun
is smiling like a little girl, and two old women kiss each other
in the street: Min-Yang.  Noon like a God's armpit in Sumatra, and
the last two Java rhinos on earth are playing in the surf: Min-Yang.
Sunset in a Greek cafe and the waiter drops the last bottle of
retsina: Min-Yang.

We don't have the answer yet.  Undoubtedly this is just another
lie in the strudel of life.  But we're closing in.  We're making
progress.  And so I'd like to thank you, Rob, from the bottom of
my heart.  Sometimes great truths spring from the minds of fools.
Or, to quote HST: "Even a blind pig finds an acorn, now and then."

c
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre