Being > A Politician

Those little wriggly bastards, and bitches too – to equitably spread the disdain for such piddly minded shadow skulkers leaving a trail of destruction in their wake as they consume the fruits of lowly labour sellers such as myself. Most assuredly a futile taxing to think they can ever be rid of in totality. No, one is better off in an attempt to protect oneself in insulating fashion; a hermetically sealed cocoon of sorts, to camouflage ones assets that is. Seems those engrained, hideously consumptive lifeforms are evolutionarily cognizant of just sniffing it out. What I got, they want, and they don’t ask, they just take. It is their evolutionary code. Just pests for the extermination is their value in my private confines, of which I have no problem letting the world know how much I would thoroughly enjoy going on a cleansing killing spree.

Canada Revenue Agency bureaucrats one must be thinking? That zoo of the entrenched political animal establishment regardless of Globalist beholden perverted banner, twirling baton, and pom-pom colour scheme of poly-vomit encompassment? Perhaps the fertilizer worthy European “royalty” and aristocracy of Empire Du Jour debauchery in a Deep State of treachery? Heaven knows, such mentioned human filth is woodchipper fantabulous.

Though, no not that scourge of the earth. I speak, through “Sharon”, in augmented digital vocalized emittance of those annoying and uninvited little cellulose particle chompers known scientifically as Lepisma saccharinum, but known crawlingly in domicile trespass as silverfish. Yes, they enjoy eating my paper goods. That’s bad.

As tiny as these nocturnal paper chasers are, it is my belief that their 3 synapse brain function of eat, procreate, and avoid death far outshines the single synaptic moral whoredom kingdom that political puppets of the day serve in such bribe riddled sovereign violating disgrace. Though no doubt both politician and silverfish are on par and extremely versed at the scurrying reflex upon the shedding of illuminating light highlighting their consumption of others belongings.

Do you think the silverfish would feed upon my pile of Canada Revenue Agency slips reminding me that I should be making quarterly instalments on my forced tax obligations; or perhaps the bundle of paper waiting to be put into my printer? Nope, they seem to not be interested. However, antique comic books, my relevantly renewed Bachelor of Survival diploma from the University of Hard Knocks, or the decades old paper from the brochure of a reproduction silver Roman spoon that I acquired, not a problem for the silverfish, in fact, a delicacy one might guess. Paper connoisseurs they surely be. As mentioned earlier, hermetic cocoons. Silverfish will search out the hardest to get at and most favoured paper that one possesses it seems.

And as one of those little wriggling bastard, or possibly bitch, with politician surpassing brain, upon spotting me, scurried away across the top, and down the back of the cabinet that I made in high school, after myself noticing it was masticating upon my aforementioned Roman spoon descriptor; that is when it hit me in contemplative thought: Was the USS Enterprise modelled from the aesthetics of a near two millennia old form of Roman spoon designed for the purpose of prying open and consuming differing varieties of shell fish?

Prickly Pair

Those crafty Germans. After wholeheartedly engaging in World War inclusive of devious, atrociously unflinching genocide, they became a manufacturing powerhouse, of the mercantile model no doubt. Nazi war economy – been there, done that – Viessmann Group that is. Founded in 1917 by Johann Viessmann, whose son Hans Viessman took over the company in 1947 after having served as a Nazi soldier in Greece during World War Two.

Interestingly enough Viessmann founder Johann Viessmann moved the company from Hof to Allendorf in 1937. And wouldn’t one know it, but Allendorf is just 2.6 kilometres west of Battenberg. Yes, that Battenberg, another Teutonic namesake of those “royal” Nazi’s who anglicized their surname to Mountbatten on July 14th, 1917, just three days before the “royal” Windsors had anglicized their names from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Perhaps the powers had already decided Germany was to have lost the war by then? (WWI did start in July of 1914 after all, why take 3 years to make the name change?) And why yes, Prince Phillip, of whom married Queen Elizabeth was a Mountbatten (Battenberg) of Greek “royal” lineage. Hmm, perhaps that posting of Hans Viessman as a Nazi soldier in Greece was not happenstance? Certainly the Globalist Deep State of the Empire Du Jour is not some new fanciful construct.

Clearly Hans Viessman was a literal Nazi in Greece during WWII, though I have been unable to find out in what capacity he served “Hitler’s” Reich. Question is, was Herr Hans Viessmann a member of the notorious SS? Either way, there certainly would appear to be no logical excuse for Viessmann’s identity signifier other than perhaps a flagrant, in society’s face braggadocio of Nazi nostalgia beamed around the globe by a global corporation in smug unapologetic branding.

The logo people, I am speaking of the Viessmann logo. Where the overarching emphasis comes across as the focal point, of, let’s just say, unashamedly putting the SS so proudly in VIESSMANN. Where a now dead, and once literal Hitler heiling Hans Viessmann was the big kahuna of Viessmann in 1965/1966, when the still in use today Viessmann logo was distastefully created under the need for elaborative explanation on behalf of the company. WTF?

The Viessmann corporation purports the stacked SS in the logo design to be a rendition of a coil heat exchanger. I challenge anyone to find the likeness of a coil heat exchanger in the shape of an S.

Really, is it not a red herring, that Viesmann, on its website, has to list a permanent explanation as to why there is a big SS as the focal point of their business logo? A German-centric global corporation with a former literal goose-stepping Nazi once at the head of the company none the less. Traditionally a logo is typically self explanatory, no?

When I start my “royal” fertilizer supply company, the logo is going to be a literal pile of steaming shit, and the motto will be: Liquefying All the Human Filth Fit to Be Rendered for Societal Advancement. And the company name will be, About Time Liquefaction Inc.

 War Some More!

Those warring factions, they were always bringing society together in a huddled mass of enthusiastic splendour. Kids, those were the days. Oh, how low they would stoop in assaulting our senses. One could hardly wait for that Shell-shock accompanying uniformed Chevrons. Those trigger fingers a’ levered in full clip intention. A general blowout of the day and age. Definitively a combustable frenzy – an explosive hydrocarbon bonanza if you will, there was the way, on the down low. Market a corner for total inundation and tributary swelling deluge. Chock-a-block. Used to be a regular occurrence, that premium offering.

Anyone else remember those good old wars – gas wars? No, not the Globalist oil wars, but regional gas wars. When the gas stations would spontaneously drop the price of gasoline by 15% to 30% in the effort to lure in customers, and then other gas stations would lower their price by a few more cents to try and long-cock the originating low-ballers. In retrospect, call it entrepreneurial spirit? Where now all seems to have been relegated into a conglomeration of graft where it sure gives the appearance of the internet coming into play and dictating the price in a mass formation of, squeeze em for all one can pricing. Hmm, the internet, it made gasoline expensive and pornography cheap. Kids, that recipe used to be the other way around you know. Go figure. Nowadays buying gasoline equates to taking it in the rear. Speaking of in the rear, some old cars used to have the gas fill-up tube back there. Behind the license plate it was.

Although, have you seen the price of soda these days. I haven’t, I don’t drink that crap. But I certainly pay more than $2.00 a litre for my kombucha habit. And kombucha does not even entail drilling through the earth’s crust, to then be pumped out of the ground, piped to a facility, refined, and then transported to a cornering market near me. I think it is time they lowered the price of kombucha – bring on the kombucha wars! Home refineries abound in a transformational counter-culture freedom.

CR