Lots of tree-hugging hippies out there like to write nasty -- and they'd like to think anonymous, but not really George P. in Terre Haute, or Alyssa V. in Schenectedy -- e-mails, and a few with more braincells than usual like trying -- and failing -- to hack other people's computers and e-mail accounts, too. You know who you are, and if you don't knock it off, I'm going to make a special effort to pay you a visit and MAKE YOU STOP...permanently. I can promise you that ObamaCare won't support you in a vegetative state for very long, so please, don't make me have to beat you.
I can handle nasty. Doesn't bother me at all. I just can't handle STUPID. Drives me insane.
This post brought some blowback (and really, people, can't you just use the reply function to make your stupid case? Oh, right; that has a 4,000 character limit, and unfortunately, you can't spout crap in under 5,000), most of it about the destructive effect of all that extra carbon dioxide that will kill us all.
Apparently, you don't need to know the basics of biology in order to be an environMENTAList. Nor do you need critical thinking skills. All that is required of you is that you simply believe, in much the same way the Muslim or the Catholic establishment doesn't really give a shit about what you think; they only care that you believe, and obey...and send money. This willing suspension of disbelief, to disregard evidence, logic, objective truth, or counter-argument is called "Faith". There's no thinking required. It's the major reason why so many sad-sacks join storefront churches, or strap explosives to themselves in the name of God; Faith is far easier than Truth or Reason, and certainly cheaper than a psychiatrist.
If you're a committed environut, you have to only believe four things (mostly because you're incapable of remembering more than four things) , not taking into consideration evidence to the contrary, nor accepting any argument or evidence whatsoever that would seem to knock the intellectual underpinnings out from beneath your beliefs. These four things are:
1. Carbon dioxide is a deadly poison.
2. Carbon dioxide levels are too high, and that Man has the ability to to do all of the following;
a. Calculate precisely how much CO2 there is in the atmosphere,
b. Calculate precisely how much CO2 is "just right" for the continuation of Life as We Know it, at optimum efficiency,
c. determine that if CO2 levels are too high, that it MUST be the result of Mankind doing things (i.e. going through the processes of what we like to call "living").
d. Discern just how elevated CO2 levels will affect the climate of the planet (as if there were only one world-wide climate!), with disastrous results, especially for people who are, in the best of times, slowly starving to death because they can't grow food, fucking themselves into starvation, killing each other in the name of religion, killing each other because they have nothing better to do, or dying of diseases that could be easily prevented if only they'd use soap, or stop fucking their livestock.
3. That Science is providing all the answers to the mysteries of a number of complex systems that we barely understand, and have barely begun to study in earnest.
4. That sans evidence that Man is actually doing catastrophic harm, it is your duty to insist that He is, and to make every effort to arrest progress that it's in your power to do. Usually, this means whine, bitch and moan until you get your way, like a four-year old.
Or write nasty, you-think-you're-anonymous e-mails. So, boys and girls, let me tell you about the Great Chain of Life, in eight (8) Easy Steps. Pay attention, because you just might learn something that might cause you to give up that lifestyle of pretentious affectation you're engaged in now.
1. There are untold trillions of a certain kind of organism on this planet which we call "Plants" and "Plant-like Organisms".
2. These Plant and Plant-like Organisms like to eat, and in fact, must do so to survive, just like you do, only without Che Guevara T-shits, American Idol, patchouli oil, marijuana, and bottled water.
3. Because they don't have access to Tofu, Doritos and Starbucks, these Plants and Plant-like Organisms have developed a wonderful system of making their own food, which we call Photosynthesis, in which they combine CARBON DIOXIDE with water, sunlight, and trace elements to produce complex carbohydrates (you know, like you get in your tastes-like-shit-but-is-supposedly-healthy-as-all-hell PowerBar?) and sugars. The Plants and Plant-like Creatures eat these sugars, and therefore, grow and thrive.
4. As a result of Photosynthesis, these Plants and Plant-like Organisms basically "shit" OXYGEN, a gas which is a requirement for life for water buffalo, mountain gorillas, polar bears, spotted owls, parrot fish, and dumbass Watermelons (Green on the outside, Red on the inside) who write stupid e-mails telling me I should die because I happen to disagree with them...an' stuff.
5. It is a known fact that when Plants and Plant-like Organisms have access to more CO2, they tend to grow faster and bigger, much like your average person if fed a steady diet of Chips Ahoy's, Ruffles, Pork chops, whipped-cream-out-of-the-can, ice cream and Pepsi would. More plants means more oxygen, and more food for cute little grazing animals like Bambi and Dumbo.
6. If one takes CO2 out of the atmosphere, then one deprives the Plants and Plant-like Organisms of their main source of food, thus killing them. And Bambi and Dumbo, too.
7. If one kills the Plants and Plant-like Organisms, one reduces the amount of Oxygen in the air, it means that those of us with the ability to find our own asses with both hands and a flashlight will have to kill and eat nosepicking environMENTALists in order to survive in an Oxygen-and-food-depleted environment.
8. Once the herd has been culled of the dumbass envirowhackos, we survivors will go back to putting CO2 back into the atmosphere, so that the Plants and Plant-like Organisms can eat and grow again, so that we can breathe, and so that the chickens, cattle, pigs, and fish -- assuming any of them survived both the loss of plants (their fucking food), and Oxygen -- will return, so that we may eat them instead of environMENTALISTs who aren't so tasty, are far from being Brain Food, and have less nutritional value than CheezWhiz.
So, you see, CO2 is not so much a poison as it is a RESOURCE NECESSARY FOR THE CONTINUATION OF LIFE ON THIS PLANET, YOU DUMB-AS-DOGSHIT ASSHOLE!
Also, I get a kick out of people who:
1. Tell me I should save the world by killing myself, but who apparently won't follow their own advice. Avoiding the "looming environmental disaster headed our way" doesn't fill them with enough fear and despondency to take their own lives. No, no, no; it's all of us regular people who should sacrifice ourselves on the Greenie Meanies' behalf, the selfish cocksuckers. Ever notice how those of us who don't agree with them are "selfish" but those that who would demand your death for their own personal comfort and salvation mysteriously aren't?
2. Lecture me about the evils of industrialization, whilst using a computer made from petroleum products and mined metals, transmitting across the ether on cables made of the same, the whole endeavor powered by coal, oil or natural gas burning power plants, or nuclear plants which leave radioactive waste, the very same things these douchebags say is destroying the atmosphere, and without which, modern life would be impossible.
3. Can use the terms "Massive Global Warming Catastrophe" and "Unprecedented Global Ice Age" in the same sentence and not notice the inherent contradictions, massive stupidity, or delicious irony, contained within?
4. If Darwin (your other Icon) was right, then whatever survives the no-plants-no-oxygen conditions of a global catastrophe will evolve so that they can. It's called Adaptation. They just probably won't be going to college and majoring in Keg Party, Gender Studies and Repeating the Stupid Shit My Professor Says.
If you can process all of this, Children, then maybe you'll begin to discover why it's so difficult to take you seriously.
Showing posts with label Ice Age. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ice Age. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
Friday, June 25, 2010
Words I'd Thought I Would Never Type...
"Al Gore" and "Sex Scandal". In the same sentence. Allegedly.
Though I struggle not to form some mental picture of the Goremeister wrapped in a towel, rivulets of white, doughy flesh hanging over the tuck, my inner eye has just such an image burned into it. The very thought is profoundly disturbing, and if I don't keep my guard up, it pops, unbidden, back into my tortured mind and activates the gag reflex. I've thrown up into my own mouth so many times in the past week that no amount of toothpaste or Scope will wash away the lingering taste of involuntary bile. Even Cayenne and Jalapenos have not scoured the residue of nausea away.
The scene my subconscious insists on creating has me on the verge of committing a violent act, as if the release of all that pent up disgust and rage will somehow scrub the grey matter clean of the mental version of ring-around-the-tub. I shan't link to any of the stories floating on the Web because they'll only make you projectile vomit, but all the highlights of this sordid..ahem...affair (allegedly) are included. It's always the same unwanted vision running through the diseased landscape of my inner mind:
"...His swollen, puffy, corpulent body lay stretched out upon the masseuse table, face-down. A towel covers his flabbier parts, but he's still clenching his butt cheeks together in an attempt to leave the impression that there's still a few remnants of sinewy youth there beneath it all. His manly back, covered in a thick, Brillo-like fur, was glistening with scented oils and lotions. Somewhere in the background, Barry Manilow was softly playing; the Muzak of the Rutting Bore. Manilow knew how to make chicks cream. Al had selected it exactly for this purpose. The masseuse, a vision of early-middle-aged American womanhood -- thrice-divorced, a stray hair protruding from the mole on her chin, face frozen in a mask of permanent surprise from the combination of poor eyebrow-pencil skills and Botox, the Low-End-Store-Brand-Danny-Kaye-Auburn dye job -- leaned over the Beached Whale of an ex-Vice President in that starched, institutional-green smock that always turned him on because it reminded him so of the Good Old Days of Soviet Communism. She was rubbing away the knots and strains of the rough-and-tumble universe of The Sanctimonious Bullshit World Tour, and the absolute Roman-Coliseum Fishbowl that was the Modern Indulgence Selling that used to characterize much of pre-Reformation Christianity, but which still smelled slightly enough of capitalism that the rubes hardly even noticed.
Her strong hands, much like her donkey-like Slavic ankles, swollen from so much water-retention that she had been unable to file the Last Wedding Ring from her finger -- even though her last divorce was finalized five years before -- found a tender spot. The Gorebot winced momentarily, and then relaxed as her expert digits rubbed the tension away. He sighed, a sound that was almost half-seal-bark-half-phlegmy-rattle. She paused to pluck an errant, wire-stiff back hair or two from under her fingernail, and in that moment, the former Vice-President-in-Litigation made his move. With a great deal of grunting but less struggle than usual he had turned over on the table, and a hint of his manhood became visible as a bump under the hospital-white towel, like a miniature Washington Monument caught beneath the the thick, cold layers of another Ice Age. But that was an illusion: were it not for the triple-layered rolls of belly fat that slid past his waistline and sloughed off between his spongy, varicose-veined thighs, there just might be a whole whopping four, perhaps four-and-a quarter, inches of pulsing Inconvenient Truth lurking beneath that linen.
She was taken aback. She caught her breath, a staccato-sigh of surprise, nay, perhaps even fear. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself; for even laying down the Vice-President's boobs were strangely bigger than her own, with great, fleshy, earth-toned nipples and the same thick, stiff hairs pointing out of them. They strangely reminded her of Sputnik for a moment, and she was caught in a web of confusion, embarrassment...and lust? She flushed and appeared faint, the first sign of the coming glow of perspiration began to darken the smock beneath her armpits. Her slightly fried-onion-y underarm scent aroused him further -- but this hunter liked to play with his prey first.
"They all react that way...at first", said Al. His dark eyes looked into hers. They were hypnotic, but she could not decide if it was because he was such a magnificent specimen of Old-Money-Hypocrite-middle-aged pork, or because even when he spoke in short sentences he was still such a dashing figure of bone-crushing boredom and banality. She stepped away from the table, but he grabbed her wrist -- gently-yet-firmly and still somehow clammy-and-slimy. She was strangely aroused and repulsed, all at once.
" You know", Al begins., "I was the Inspiration for Love Story..."
Her Drug-store false eyelashes fluttered, her face reddened, and she nervously licked at her lips. Al knew that he had her now; they all fell for that line. Tipper fell hard for it --- that and the inherited Controlling Interest in Standard Oil. So did that Naomi Wolff, that little vixen. He began to remember fondly the six...no...seven whole minutes he had held Naomi in the sodden grip of flop-sweaty passion. It had been his crowning achievement, and had infused him with a sense of manhood that he had not felt since the days when he was writing for Stars and Stripes and pretending to be fighting the War in Vietnam until Daddy could pull enough strings. He remembered the blazing fire of the assault upon Tipper's head on the campaign trail, when he appeared so passionate and devoted to her that he almost sucked her into his being as if he were sucking the Bavarian Cream from the center of a doughnut.
Yes...panting feminists and women in prisons everywhere around the world mailed him their soiled underwear for months after that. Not even Clinton got that sort of love. But that was all in the past; the future, for at least the next three-to-five minutes -- more if he could manage to contain the raging Beast Totem in the Towel -- was now there before him. She was panting now, her chest ( with one breast hanging four inches below the other, and the thick, reinforced underwire of her brassiere became visible beneath the fabric ("Steel-Belted Radials", All liked to call those. He wondered, "Front-loader or back-loader?) was heaving like the stormy North Atlantic.
The Goremeister had caused a Storm in her Maidenforms. She was dead in his sights now.
"Don't be afraid, Yummymuffins. I may have invented the Internet, but no one will know of our passion. It will be OUR guilty secret...".
She wilted at that, delivered as it was with a slight Southern drawl and that sibilant-yet-slightly-effeminate "s" of his. She was now all his. He pulled her closer and began to negotiate the towel so that his throbbing, massive-relative-to-your-average-cocker-spaniel Pelvis Bazooka -- the Green Hornet, as he liked to call it -- could be unleashed in all of it's glory. Yes...she was well-and-truly his, and She would be yet another notch in his ever-expanding belt. There was a flash, like lightning. A quick stirring in his loins, an explosion of ecstasy that caused white-hot spots to float before his eyes, and which made him slightly dizzy thanks to the Watered-Down-Canadian-Healthcare System Viagra he had been taking, and he had marked her forever with a hot load of Environmentally-friendly Man-Milk...all over that sexy-as-a-Phony-Carbon-Credit-Sold-Under-False-Pretenses (allegedly) starched smock. "Mark your territory well", Bill had always told him. It was a valuable lesson. He held her gaze for another seven, maybe ten seconds, so that she could bask in the afterglow. All women needed to bask. Al knew this, being the quiet, passionate, unselfish type who always saw to a woman's needs.
"I'll bet you keep that smock forever, Snugglelumps. No one does it like ManBearPig". She sighed, and was about to speak. "No...not another word about it", he said as he pressed his thoroughly-gooey finger gently across her lips. "We must part now, and keep our Runaway Passion a secret, for those parts of the planet that manage to avoid being flooded by sea-level rise, de-forested by the Inhumanity of Mankind, the shores piled waist-deep in drowned polar bears, all destroyed in the Name of the Internal Combustion Engine, burned to the ground by Acid Rain, or frosted over by the Next Ice Age could never understand what passes between us...".
With that, Al Gore, The Love-em-and-Leave-'Em Ambassador of Mother Gaia, wiped his sexed-up hand upon her cheek, hitched his towel back into place, and in a motion that was reminiscent of a crippled walrus trying to refloat itself from a shingle beach, swung the massive U.S.D.A. Grade-A hamhocks he called legs off the table, and waddled to the door, leaving a tangled mat of greasy back hairs on the smooth, vinyl surface of the table. An Oil Slick of Romance. He paused to give her one last, piercing come-hither look from his watery-yet-still-somehow-smouldering eyes, that bulged out from beneath his Just-for-Men-treated eyebrows, only to find that she was vomiting copiously upon the floor.
It was always the same. Al always had that effect on women; he made them all sooooo fucking hot -- hotter than a rapidly-heating atmosphere burdened with the excess carbon dioxide of a civilization intent upon it's own doom -- that their bodies just could not withstand the onslaught. Now that his Inner-Beast had been Unleashed, he set about seeking more nubile prey. There must be a sixty-plus-year-old T.V. satirist's wife just dying to be Gored by Gore...."
And now you know why I've been puking for a week...
Me and my goddamned imagination! I won't sleep for a year.
Though I struggle not to form some mental picture of the Goremeister wrapped in a towel, rivulets of white, doughy flesh hanging over the tuck, my inner eye has just such an image burned into it. The very thought is profoundly disturbing, and if I don't keep my guard up, it pops, unbidden, back into my tortured mind and activates the gag reflex. I've thrown up into my own mouth so many times in the past week that no amount of toothpaste or Scope will wash away the lingering taste of involuntary bile. Even Cayenne and Jalapenos have not scoured the residue of nausea away.
The scene my subconscious insists on creating has me on the verge of committing a violent act, as if the release of all that pent up disgust and rage will somehow scrub the grey matter clean of the mental version of ring-around-the-tub. I shan't link to any of the stories floating on the Web because they'll only make you projectile vomit, but all the highlights of this sordid..ahem...affair (allegedly) are included. It's always the same unwanted vision running through the diseased landscape of my inner mind:
"...His swollen, puffy, corpulent body lay stretched out upon the masseuse table, face-down. A towel covers his flabbier parts, but he's still clenching his butt cheeks together in an attempt to leave the impression that there's still a few remnants of sinewy youth there beneath it all. His manly back, covered in a thick, Brillo-like fur, was glistening with scented oils and lotions. Somewhere in the background, Barry Manilow was softly playing; the Muzak of the Rutting Bore. Manilow knew how to make chicks cream. Al had selected it exactly for this purpose. The masseuse, a vision of early-middle-aged American womanhood -- thrice-divorced, a stray hair protruding from the mole on her chin, face frozen in a mask of permanent surprise from the combination of poor eyebrow-pencil skills and Botox, the Low-End-Store-Brand-Danny-Kaye-Auburn dye job -- leaned over the Beached Whale of an ex-Vice President in that starched, institutional-green smock that always turned him on because it reminded him so of the Good Old Days of Soviet Communism. She was rubbing away the knots and strains of the rough-and-tumble universe of The Sanctimonious Bullshit World Tour, and the absolute Roman-Coliseum Fishbowl that was the Modern Indulgence Selling that used to characterize much of pre-Reformation Christianity, but which still smelled slightly enough of capitalism that the rubes hardly even noticed.
Her strong hands, much like her donkey-like Slavic ankles, swollen from so much water-retention that she had been unable to file the Last Wedding Ring from her finger -- even though her last divorce was finalized five years before -- found a tender spot. The Gorebot winced momentarily, and then relaxed as her expert digits rubbed the tension away. He sighed, a sound that was almost half-seal-bark-half-phlegmy-rattle. She paused to pluck an errant, wire-stiff back hair or two from under her fingernail, and in that moment, the former Vice-President-in-Litigation made his move. With a great deal of grunting but less struggle than usual he had turned over on the table, and a hint of his manhood became visible as a bump under the hospital-white towel, like a miniature Washington Monument caught beneath the the thick, cold layers of another Ice Age. But that was an illusion: were it not for the triple-layered rolls of belly fat that slid past his waistline and sloughed off between his spongy, varicose-veined thighs, there just might be a whole whopping four, perhaps four-and-a quarter, inches of pulsing Inconvenient Truth lurking beneath that linen.
She was taken aback. She caught her breath, a staccato-sigh of surprise, nay, perhaps even fear. She tried not to look, but couldn't help herself; for even laying down the Vice-President's boobs were strangely bigger than her own, with great, fleshy, earth-toned nipples and the same thick, stiff hairs pointing out of them. They strangely reminded her of Sputnik for a moment, and she was caught in a web of confusion, embarrassment...and lust? She flushed and appeared faint, the first sign of the coming glow of perspiration began to darken the smock beneath her armpits. Her slightly fried-onion-y underarm scent aroused him further -- but this hunter liked to play with his prey first.
"They all react that way...at first", said Al. His dark eyes looked into hers. They were hypnotic, but she could not decide if it was because he was such a magnificent specimen of Old-Money-Hypocrite-middle-aged pork, or because even when he spoke in short sentences he was still such a dashing figure of bone-crushing boredom and banality. She stepped away from the table, but he grabbed her wrist -- gently-yet-firmly and still somehow clammy-and-slimy. She was strangely aroused and repulsed, all at once.
" You know", Al begins., "I was the Inspiration for Love Story..."
Her Drug-store false eyelashes fluttered, her face reddened, and she nervously licked at her lips. Al knew that he had her now; they all fell for that line. Tipper fell hard for it --- that and the inherited Controlling Interest in Standard Oil. So did that Naomi Wolff, that little vixen. He began to remember fondly the six...no...seven whole minutes he had held Naomi in the sodden grip of flop-sweaty passion. It had been his crowning achievement, and had infused him with a sense of manhood that he had not felt since the days when he was writing for Stars and Stripes and pretending to be fighting the War in Vietnam until Daddy could pull enough strings. He remembered the blazing fire of the assault upon Tipper's head on the campaign trail, when he appeared so passionate and devoted to her that he almost sucked her into his being as if he were sucking the Bavarian Cream from the center of a doughnut.
Yes...panting feminists and women in prisons everywhere around the world mailed him their soiled underwear for months after that. Not even Clinton got that sort of love. But that was all in the past; the future, for at least the next three-to-five minutes -- more if he could manage to contain the raging Beast Totem in the Towel -- was now there before him. She was panting now, her chest ( with one breast hanging four inches below the other, and the thick, reinforced underwire of her brassiere became visible beneath the fabric ("Steel-Belted Radials", All liked to call those. He wondered, "Front-loader or back-loader?) was heaving like the stormy North Atlantic.
The Goremeister had caused a Storm in her Maidenforms. She was dead in his sights now.
"Don't be afraid, Yummymuffins. I may have invented the Internet, but no one will know of our passion. It will be OUR guilty secret...".
She wilted at that, delivered as it was with a slight Southern drawl and that sibilant-yet-slightly-effeminate "s" of his. She was now all his. He pulled her closer and began to negotiate the towel so that his throbbing, massive-relative-to-your-average-cocker-spaniel Pelvis Bazooka -- the Green Hornet, as he liked to call it -- could be unleashed in all of it's glory. Yes...she was well-and-truly his, and She would be yet another notch in his ever-expanding belt. There was a flash, like lightning. A quick stirring in his loins, an explosion of ecstasy that caused white-hot spots to float before his eyes, and which made him slightly dizzy thanks to the Watered-Down-Canadian-Healthcare System Viagra he had been taking, and he had marked her forever with a hot load of Environmentally-friendly Man-Milk...all over that sexy-as-a-Phony-Carbon-Credit-Sold-Under-False-Pretenses (allegedly) starched smock. "Mark your territory well", Bill had always told him. It was a valuable lesson. He held her gaze for another seven, maybe ten seconds, so that she could bask in the afterglow. All women needed to bask. Al knew this, being the quiet, passionate, unselfish type who always saw to a woman's needs.
"I'll bet you keep that smock forever, Snugglelumps. No one does it like ManBearPig". She sighed, and was about to speak. "No...not another word about it", he said as he pressed his thoroughly-gooey finger gently across her lips. "We must part now, and keep our Runaway Passion a secret, for those parts of the planet that manage to avoid being flooded by sea-level rise, de-forested by the Inhumanity of Mankind, the shores piled waist-deep in drowned polar bears, all destroyed in the Name of the Internal Combustion Engine, burned to the ground by Acid Rain, or frosted over by the Next Ice Age could never understand what passes between us...".
With that, Al Gore, The Love-em-and-Leave-'Em Ambassador of Mother Gaia, wiped his sexed-up hand upon her cheek, hitched his towel back into place, and in a motion that was reminiscent of a crippled walrus trying to refloat itself from a shingle beach, swung the massive U.S.D.A. Grade-A hamhocks he called legs off the table, and waddled to the door, leaving a tangled mat of greasy back hairs on the smooth, vinyl surface of the table. An Oil Slick of Romance. He paused to give her one last, piercing come-hither look from his watery-yet-still-somehow-smouldering eyes, that bulged out from beneath his Just-for-Men-treated eyebrows, only to find that she was vomiting copiously upon the floor.
It was always the same. Al always had that effect on women; he made them all sooooo fucking hot -- hotter than a rapidly-heating atmosphere burdened with the excess carbon dioxide of a civilization intent upon it's own doom -- that their bodies just could not withstand the onslaught. Now that his Inner-Beast had been Unleashed, he set about seeking more nubile prey. There must be a sixty-plus-year-old T.V. satirist's wife just dying to be Gored by Gore...."
And now you know why I've been puking for a week...
Me and my goddamned imagination! I won't sleep for a year.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Al Gore Has Blood on His Hands..
Tree-Huggers Kill Themselves, Do something Al Gore Doesn't Have the Courage to Do Himself.
Give them credit for at least being true to their "code"; if only all the other people who believe that mankind is ruining the planet and that a One-World Socialist State run by the U.N. is the answer to all problems were likewise so committed.
Because, ultimately, this is where EnvironMENTALism leads; to the conclusion that the planet is better off without humans, left to revert to it's pristine and natural state, isn't it? At least for the foot soldiers in the movement. The high-mucky-muck like Al Gore are expected to be thanked and given positions of leadership for advocating policies that will kill millions.
The unfortunate part is that the idiots who believed, the brain-damaged sacks of DNA who were supposed to be parents, decided their children had to die for their stupidity, too. And just like pot-smoking slackers everywhere, they did the job in predictably half-assed fashion; they left one alive. Now, that innocent little girl is an orphan, but frankly, she's a lot better off than if her parents had lived. People who come to the conclusion that murder-suicide is a solution to a problem are truly nuts. This child, at least, will now have a chance to be adopted by normal parents who will give her a normal life, love her, and think of her in terms of a her basic humanity instead of her environMENTAL impact.
Because those so-called parents, I don't believe, ever loved their children. The proof is that they resorted to (attempted) murder in the name of a psuedo-scientific-theory-elevated-into-religion based upon lies. Those weren't children in their minds; those were potential polluters and exploiters of Mother Gaia... they were carbon footprints.
I wonder if Al Gore will sleep soundly tonight knowing that he's promulgating a scam upon people who are mentally weak and in need of psychological help, to the point where murder-suicide seems a reasonable alternative to them? I wonder, if Al Gore now feels like Osama Bin Laden in the sense that his words and deeds on behalf of a crackpot cause, the re-romaticisizing of World Socialism under the guise of a religion, have incited the murder of innocents?
(Note: Yes, that may be a bit hyperbolic, but the analogy holds true. Al Gore would kill millions with his philosophy if it meant he got rich, powerful and could aggrandize himself in the process. Just like Bin Laden, he wants to be seen as the savior of... something, and amply rewarded for his service).
I rather doubt Mr. Gore actually gives a shit. After all, he has a billion dollars, a Nobel Peace Prize, and he gets invited to all the smart parties that he flies in private jets to. In some precincts, he's even taken seriously an dtreated as if he were relevant, almost sage-like. That "legacy" -- the Legacy of Environmental Prophet, even if it will be potentially responsible for the deaths of millions and the economic ruination of millions more -- is a whole lot better than the one he would have had without Global Warming: crybaby, compulsive liar who tried to sue his way into the White House, but who ultimately lost to a man his political compatriots said was a complete and utter dunce.
Selfish bastard.
Give them credit for at least being true to their "code"; if only all the other people who believe that mankind is ruining the planet and that a One-World Socialist State run by the U.N. is the answer to all problems were likewise so committed.
Because, ultimately, this is where EnvironMENTALism leads; to the conclusion that the planet is better off without humans, left to revert to it's pristine and natural state, isn't it? At least for the foot soldiers in the movement. The high-mucky-muck like Al Gore are expected to be thanked and given positions of leadership for advocating policies that will kill millions.
The unfortunate part is that the idiots who believed, the brain-damaged sacks of DNA who were supposed to be parents, decided their children had to die for their stupidity, too. And just like pot-smoking slackers everywhere, they did the job in predictably half-assed fashion; they left one alive. Now, that innocent little girl is an orphan, but frankly, she's a lot better off than if her parents had lived. People who come to the conclusion that murder-suicide is a solution to a problem are truly nuts. This child, at least, will now have a chance to be adopted by normal parents who will give her a normal life, love her, and think of her in terms of a her basic humanity instead of her environMENTAL impact.
Because those so-called parents, I don't believe, ever loved their children. The proof is that they resorted to (attempted) murder in the name of a psuedo-scientific-theory-elevated-into-religion based upon lies. Those weren't children in their minds; those were potential polluters and exploiters of Mother Gaia... they were carbon footprints.
I wonder if Al Gore will sleep soundly tonight knowing that he's promulgating a scam upon people who are mentally weak and in need of psychological help, to the point where murder-suicide seems a reasonable alternative to them? I wonder, if Al Gore now feels like Osama Bin Laden in the sense that his words and deeds on behalf of a crackpot cause, the re-romaticisizing of World Socialism under the guise of a religion, have incited the murder of innocents?
(Note: Yes, that may be a bit hyperbolic, but the analogy holds true. Al Gore would kill millions with his philosophy if it meant he got rich, powerful and could aggrandize himself in the process. Just like Bin Laden, he wants to be seen as the savior of... something, and amply rewarded for his service).
I rather doubt Mr. Gore actually gives a shit. After all, he has a billion dollars, a Nobel Peace Prize, and he gets invited to all the smart parties that he flies in private jets to. In some precincts, he's even taken seriously an dtreated as if he were relevant, almost sage-like. That "legacy" -- the Legacy of Environmental Prophet, even if it will be potentially responsible for the deaths of millions and the economic ruination of millions more -- is a whole lot better than the one he would have had without Global Warming: crybaby, compulsive liar who tried to sue his way into the White House, but who ultimately lost to a man his political compatriots said was a complete and utter dunce.
Selfish bastard.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
An Inconvenient Windbag...
Al Gore is back, fighting for his rice bowl.
The issue that Mr. Gore, and many other Tree-Hugging-Hippies miss is this: climate change happens whether or not human beings have a hand in it. I can drag a few hundred scientists into my living room this afternoon who will be all too happy to explain how they know that the very spot I sit on has been covered in ice sheets several miles thick in the recent, geological past. That ice isn't here anymore (although there is an awful lot of snow on the ground right now), and it hasn't been for 20-40,000 years now.
That means the ice disappeared, maybe before this continent was even populated, without the benefit of smokestacks, internal combustion engines and CFCs. That is to say, the ice retreated without the efforts of a single person. The evidence for climate change is everywhere: the Sahara used to be a lush forest, the Southwestern US used to be the site of mangrove swamps. There is evidence of mass-extinctions which may be related to climate change, and evidence of creatures evolving to take advantage of climate change. In fact, some scientists speculate that had it not been for Global Warming, all the oxygen we now breathe would still be encased in glacial ice, meaning we wouldn't be here.
The conclusion: Climate Change is something that occurs naturally, outside the experience and abilities of man to create, predict or control. It has happened many times before and will continue long after mankind has died from Obamacare. The geological and fossil records prove it to be so. The evidence lead some to believe that mankind has very little effect on his environment, or at least not in the way that Mr. Gore and his compatriots would like you to believe we do. The mechanisms -- the science if you will -- of climate change are poorly-understood, and not fully explored, but, Climate Change has become the new Revolutionary chic. All the fashionable people believe in it, and it's really an excuse to exert power over their fellow human beings. It is Communism in newer guise, given the patina of religion by evoking the Noble Savage and Bucolic Nature Worship.
The Cult of the Watermelon (Green on the outside, Red on the Inside) is supported by a series of "official reports" and "scientific papers" which are based upon deliberate falsehoods. The Ten Commandments, if you will, of Global Warming are all predicated on lies; on data that has been fabricated and kept out of the reach of those who might objectively review it, defended by those who have destroyed records and conspired to professionally ruin their intellectual and political adversaries. Some of the men who perpetrated these lies, who are the demigods of the cult, have even confessed to it.
We know the climate will change, Mr. Gore; we just don't believe that adopting Global Communism under the Auspices of the UN will "save" us. We don't believe that arresting the development of the West to fund the development of Everywhere Else is the solution to the problems of poverty or material dearth, and this, at root, is the true purpose of the Global Climate Change crowd; they wish to redistribute the wealth of the West to the Scum of the Earth.
If the Scum want my way of life, then they can do what my forebears and myself have done: go out and build it for themselves. It's not my fault if they live in absolute squalor, steeped in superstition, trapped in cultures which rate child rape, clitorectomy and cannibalism higher than personal rights, technical advancement and freedoms. The forced redistribution of wealth the Tree Huggers scream is the only means to "save" mankind will not help; those societies which suffer in poverty, which live in filth and ignorance, will remain filthy and ignorant, and still poor. They might only be slightly-better dressed.
The issue is not wealth, it is not "redistribution of resources", it isn't boilerplate communism in a new shade of lipstick:
It's culture. Change those cultures where people still crap in their own drinking water and leave their children to die on hillsides, and they'll very quickly become wealthy and self-reliant without an Al Gore or the UN. The Gores and the Watermelons of the world can't change culture; it's too difficult to do by means of persuasion and example. So, force is the only resort. They wish to force the productive to support the unproductive, forever, as a sap to their consciences, and to scratch some mysterious mental itch that they all seem to have which makes them irrationally guilty and overly-emotional. And if they manage to get rich in the process, so much the better.
Never let it be said that communists never appreciate money; they just don't like the people who have it. Al Gore is more concerned these days about his wallet than his scruples.
Al Gore really doesn't give a shit about the planet, because if he did, he wouldn't live in a mansion you could park a 747 in, and which leaks electricity like a sieve. He wouldn't have a houseboat --- with a penthouse on it. He wouldn't fly everywhere he goes on private jets with an entourage of Secret Service Agents and a battalion of sycophants. He wouldn't be writing an article for a newspaper --- which slaughters trees. He wouldn't be concerned about restricting a gas (Carbon dioxide) which is a necessary resource for all life on Earth. He certainly wouldn't be a guy who would be so crass as to make a billion bucks on an invented crisis, would he? I mean, someone this devoted simply couldn't be the same man who happens to run one of the biggest Ponzi-schemes ever devised, the Carbon Credit markets? Don't believe it; Gore, all by himself, is the new Enron.
Al Gore continues to spout his stupidity because Al Gore has a vested interest, a billion-dollar-vested-interest, in doing so. Anything he has to say on the subject of Global Climate Change, Global Warming, a New Ice Age (why is it that the term keeps changing?), or whatever he's selling this week, needs to be taken with a huge dose of scepticism.
The issue that Mr. Gore, and many other Tree-Hugging-Hippies miss is this: climate change happens whether or not human beings have a hand in it. I can drag a few hundred scientists into my living room this afternoon who will be all too happy to explain how they know that the very spot I sit on has been covered in ice sheets several miles thick in the recent, geological past. That ice isn't here anymore (although there is an awful lot of snow on the ground right now), and it hasn't been for 20-40,000 years now.
That means the ice disappeared, maybe before this continent was even populated, without the benefit of smokestacks, internal combustion engines and CFCs. That is to say, the ice retreated without the efforts of a single person. The evidence for climate change is everywhere: the Sahara used to be a lush forest, the Southwestern US used to be the site of mangrove swamps. There is evidence of mass-extinctions which may be related to climate change, and evidence of creatures evolving to take advantage of climate change. In fact, some scientists speculate that had it not been for Global Warming, all the oxygen we now breathe would still be encased in glacial ice, meaning we wouldn't be here.
The conclusion: Climate Change is something that occurs naturally, outside the experience and abilities of man to create, predict or control. It has happened many times before and will continue long after mankind has died from Obamacare. The geological and fossil records prove it to be so. The evidence lead some to believe that mankind has very little effect on his environment, or at least not in the way that Mr. Gore and his compatriots would like you to believe we do. The mechanisms -- the science if you will -- of climate change are poorly-understood, and not fully explored, but, Climate Change has become the new Revolutionary chic. All the fashionable people believe in it, and it's really an excuse to exert power over their fellow human beings. It is Communism in newer guise, given the patina of religion by evoking the Noble Savage and Bucolic Nature Worship.
The Cult of the Watermelon (Green on the outside, Red on the Inside) is supported by a series of "official reports" and "scientific papers" which are based upon deliberate falsehoods. The Ten Commandments, if you will, of Global Warming are all predicated on lies; on data that has been fabricated and kept out of the reach of those who might objectively review it, defended by those who have destroyed records and conspired to professionally ruin their intellectual and political adversaries. Some of the men who perpetrated these lies, who are the demigods of the cult, have even confessed to it.
We know the climate will change, Mr. Gore; we just don't believe that adopting Global Communism under the Auspices of the UN will "save" us. We don't believe that arresting the development of the West to fund the development of Everywhere Else is the solution to the problems of poverty or material dearth, and this, at root, is the true purpose of the Global Climate Change crowd; they wish to redistribute the wealth of the West to the Scum of the Earth.
If the Scum want my way of life, then they can do what my forebears and myself have done: go out and build it for themselves. It's not my fault if they live in absolute squalor, steeped in superstition, trapped in cultures which rate child rape, clitorectomy and cannibalism higher than personal rights, technical advancement and freedoms. The forced redistribution of wealth the Tree Huggers scream is the only means to "save" mankind will not help; those societies which suffer in poverty, which live in filth and ignorance, will remain filthy and ignorant, and still poor. They might only be slightly-better dressed.
The issue is not wealth, it is not "redistribution of resources", it isn't boilerplate communism in a new shade of lipstick:
It's culture. Change those cultures where people still crap in their own drinking water and leave their children to die on hillsides, and they'll very quickly become wealthy and self-reliant without an Al Gore or the UN. The Gores and the Watermelons of the world can't change culture; it's too difficult to do by means of persuasion and example. So, force is the only resort. They wish to force the productive to support the unproductive, forever, as a sap to their consciences, and to scratch some mysterious mental itch that they all seem to have which makes them irrationally guilty and overly-emotional. And if they manage to get rich in the process, so much the better.
Never let it be said that communists never appreciate money; they just don't like the people who have it. Al Gore is more concerned these days about his wallet than his scruples.
Al Gore really doesn't give a shit about the planet, because if he did, he wouldn't live in a mansion you could park a 747 in, and which leaks electricity like a sieve. He wouldn't have a houseboat --- with a penthouse on it. He wouldn't fly everywhere he goes on private jets with an entourage of Secret Service Agents and a battalion of sycophants. He wouldn't be writing an article for a newspaper --- which slaughters trees. He wouldn't be concerned about restricting a gas (Carbon dioxide) which is a necessary resource for all life on Earth. He certainly wouldn't be a guy who would be so crass as to make a billion bucks on an invented crisis, would he? I mean, someone this devoted simply couldn't be the same man who happens to run one of the biggest Ponzi-schemes ever devised, the Carbon Credit markets? Don't believe it; Gore, all by himself, is the new Enron.
Al Gore continues to spout his stupidity because Al Gore has a vested interest, a billion-dollar-vested-interest, in doing so. Anything he has to say on the subject of Global Climate Change, Global Warming, a New Ice Age (why is it that the term keeps changing?), or whatever he's selling this week, needs to be taken with a huge dose of scepticism.
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