In Constructive Ignorance

A firm footing that architecture of ignorance lays, spread thin none the less in shallow accompaniment. Foundational shambles in the form of a constrictive constructive demolition, piling upon piling to rock bottom dwelling. Lowest common denominator is the compensator, a dividing line, aplomb nowhere in any upright understanding. So it lays, subterranean in any true measurable nature. Incapable of standing tall due to innumerable building code violations, yet fully erect in longitudinal circumference encompassment. A regular circle of wasted life.

Yup, reinforced ignorance, a building force to be reckoned with. A gravitation to and of mass concreted delusion forged in the fire of fully anguished and extinguished reflective steadfastness. Sinking and sunk, down now out, lashed in lowly symbiotic perpetuity, incredulity of divine pathfinding. Welcome to the conglomeration of sleaze, a long time in the making upon a short space braincase hellbent via immediate gratification intoxication. Unsurpassed following, everywhere in the making achieving nowhere in the given for the taking. Certainly not a leader in any inclination other than corkscrewed captivation captivity descending dilapidation denouement. Ignorance decomposed. So he leads.

Will any stand tall?

Finding Nemo on Cocaine Island

Cold hard fact, an absolute zero. Far below anything substantive, zilch is by no means a misnomer. Doodley-squat, a regular zip, round and round he goes in mindless abject dizziness. Nothingness of angled obliteration, poof! not a whit to be found, meaning all is certainly lost. A cheerio chap. Nada la vista, sucking a big ol’ goose egg. Auf Deutsch, nichts, nein, null, nennen wir ihn Nemo.

Nemo, where are you? – Are snorting cocaine on your boat starting at 9am, proceeding to go fishing all day, all the while billing Little Joe for a ten hour day, again? 

Nemo, a not so fine, bedraggled antagonist character for an ENDPOLITICIANS.COM Story Time episode. After all, Nemo, in Latin, literally translates to ‘no one‘ or ‘nobody.’ So a marvellously fitting character name. And since we are trying to find Nemo on Cocaine Island, let’s, in Disney fashion, make Nemo a piddly little fish so fitting in nature. Though not just any piddly little fish, let’s make him a piddly little blow-fish. A piddly little blow-fish filled to the gills, running the baited and hooked sardined shallow schooling adorning none other than a mass produced dummy-dust dunce cap uniform of endless topping off. Surely Nemo’s clouded lagoon hidey-hole could be called none other than, what else but his Free-Base. And so it goes, up the old nostrils with fury. Say, did I mention filled to the gills already?

Shall we travel back in time a bit, oh, perhaps, say, a few years B.C. You got it, Before COVID – what a marker of time, after which, Globalist government fully exposed itself for the obliterative nuclear meltdown that it always has been, let for the fact of metaphorical neutron bombs endlessly detonating, therefore simultaneously eviscerating and poisoning, in every nook and cranny of anything and everything ever engineered and finagled into civilizational existence in aspect totality of so many human psyches fragilely carrying on with the one thing needed to keep every and all in a hypothesized meaningful continuation: freedom of movement and the illusion of free will that such a clearly needing to be government regulated notion of anarchy brought in making people whole in at least a semi liberating way.

Nemo, Where are you? – Are you masterminding and looking over two hour long weed smoking and cocaine snorting breaks in the middle of a work day, when you actually decide to show up for once? 

Little Joe called me one day, out of the blew. As in, he blew it. The choice that is. Little Joe had found Nemo, and being all too willing and eager to go to Cocaine Island, though it wasn’t called Cocaine Island back then, as Cocaine Island was coined, or, minted, well, let’s call it, struck, by Yours Word Weaver Truly. What is and where was Cocaine Island before it was Cocaine Island you ask? Well, in foreshadowing delight, the 21st century “royal” Romanov Revivalists, “prince” William and “princess” Kate will make a bungling cameo appearance to divulge the exact, now triply named geographical location in question so being referred to as Cocaine Island in this Story Time episode. It was certainly no short snort to Cocaine Island, as an eight hour ferry ride from the northern British Columbia mainland was in order to arrive. Or one could take an airplane of course. Anyways, Little Joe begged and pleaded me to take over for Nemo and his ragtag crew of pusillanimous pilferers installing the millwork at the brand spanking new, taxpayer funded hospital in the largest “city” on Cocaine Island.

Nemo, where are you? – Are you shipping large amounts of cocaine to Cocaine Island in the millwork shipments from Vancouver?

Maybe now is the time to let my readership of three know that “Nemo” and I were intermittent acquaintances since I was the age of sixteen, he being a bit older, thought Nemo, to never, even to this day, surpass the mental age of somewhere in the range of fifteen years old, give or take a few months. Oh right, I also ran into “Nemo” once while he was back on “leave” from Cocaine Island, and let’s just say he was in possession of all of the sinking outwardly caving traits that a filled to the gills piddly little blow-fish displays as it pathetically self destructs in fiendish display while pulling in all of the vulnerable personalities to think such a waste of atoms is worthy of “friendship” and emulation. A great big man-child leading childish “men,” so Cocaine Island went. With great humour, scorn, and seriousness all rolled into one, I asked Nemo, “Are you a big fan of zombie movies?” as per his shambling appearance. To which I got in return: a hate filled scowl. Then I left, not being into the childish antics of a feeble man-child, not to mention a cocaine clownfish. A few days later I ran into someone I worked with on occasion; as him having gone up for a small stint to Cocaine Island under Nemo’s toot toot tutelage, and he told me the extent of what was consuming the entirety of a vast amount of the flock of seagulls to have mindlessly swooped down from all over the province to construct the hospital on Cocaine Island. As such, a seed was planted. Not a coca plant seed.

Little Joe, the former owner of a local millwork shop, the millwork shop supplying the millwork for the shiny new hospital on Cocaine Island, is not called Little Joe due to him being five foot five or so in stature. No, Little Joe is Little Joe because he is a very small man indeed. A weasely whiner if you will, a regular stutterer and stammerer to winkle out his continuance in pathetic projection. Little Joe pleadingly stuttered and stammered shamefully about me going up to Cocaine Island to finish Nemo’s job, so I told Little Joe that I would fly up and have a look see. And so I did.

Nemo, where are you? – Are you starting weak minded followers on cocaine addictions and a FTW poisoning that persist to this very day, à la poisoned menace?

And upon meeting the hospital contractor on Cocaine Island, how else does one make an impression with the guilty as sin colluders of Cocaine Island extravagance, of it being so written over not only their construction superintendent faces, but oozing mercilessly from their porous party-hardy existence of piddly little blow-fish entanglement in the endless mindless fish over a barrel entrapment syndrome? Well, right off the bat, Yours Sushi Maker Truly seen no option other than to be a, how shall I say, a plain as day asshole in the seriousness of actually representing oneself as to what could measurably be referred to as a real human being. Oh right, and I threw that cocaine clownfish Nemo headlong under the bus right off the bat and mercilessly thereafter throughout the hospital site walkthrough that superintendent number one and I had. And then I asked said superintendent if he really wanted me to come back and begin polishing turds? Mr. Superintendent assured me that he would like to have me return, though I am guessing in reality that he just did never want to see that piddly little blow-fish Nemo back on site.

Little Joe received his straightforward confirmation on my behalf, that I would finish the job for him, but it would cost him a twenty percent increase in my regular rate, as well as a new kitchen for my mom’s quaint abode. Yes, I could hear the stuttering and stammering in little Joe’s mind as he telepathically panicked at having to pay out a pittance upon his profits that would all but dwindle further if Nemo and his pilfering crew of cocaine addled time thieves were to return and continue taking Little Joe to the cleaners as no doubt he knew was transpiring on Cocaine Island from day one. And I think for the first time in his life, Little Joe opted to not attempt to pinch a contractual penny that would end up costing him a quarter in the future. Although, Little Joe would try to wriggle out of mom’s new kitchen. Though after reaching down deep into my big time, dick, storage compartment, Little Joe came to realize he had better build that kitchen. And so the command was given.

Nemo, where are you? – Are you balls deep in a fifteen year old girl, again?

After returning from my exploratory expedition to Cocaine Island, I packed all my tools and dropped them off at the millwork shop for shipping and then drove the seventeen hours north, so that I could take the eight hour ferry ride and begin the turd polishing. What, you didn’t expect me to try and take a quarter pound of reefer with me on the airplane did you? I was going to be on Cocaine Island for many months, and with my attitude and course of scumbag insulting actions, it was critical to not be dependent upon anyone for anything, except for scorn at the hands of those admirers of a piddly little blow-fish called Nemo. And Admirers there were. Besides, there was not much to do on Cocaine Island, apart from work, fornicate and do cocaine, and not participating in the fornicating and cocaine aspect, it was nice to have a car and drive the fifty kilometres or so to the next town, where the only retail business, a pub, with decent grub, a Keno machine and some decent people to turn up once in a while was an occasional retreat in the making.

You know, as someone who has not had even a puff of reefer in right on three years, it sure is hard to believe that I smoked that garbage for such a long period of time. Now, one could not pay me inhale such crap.

Anyways, so I worked, on a now withdrawing Cocaine Island, six days a week, ten hours per day. Also, so I whacked-off, on the same withdrawing Cocaine Island, seven days a week, ten minutes per day, except when overtime was needed. I was just exercising my right. Okay, and my left too! Yes, I whacked-off, and I slept, in my tiny little hotel room, on a tiny little single bed, for months on end. Don’t get me wrong, there were hotel rooms with kitchenette units – hotel rooms with queen size beds and kitchenette’s sitting vacant, as I whacked off in my tiny little single bed dwelling and slept with my feet sticking over the end of my tiny little single bed, but for some reason, the non-liker of real people, an admirer of a piddly little blow-fish, we’ll call her, say, the local woman who was the office personnel for the big construction company, did not see fit for me to have a bed that couldn’t also pass as a pedestal for a minuscule little trophy in her vacated mind. Though I said nothing, and carried on with my task of working, whacking-off, and drifting off to sleep on my tiny little bed; but one man, replacing what was on average probably a crew of six cocaine snorting simpletons taking Little Joe to the cleaners. But a man on a mission, to stand tall, blatantly insult the dregs, and show the tiny little worlds and minuscule backyards how a universe that they could clearly never come to understand operates, where those others in possession of a universe surely came to appreciate the effort. Say, did I mention that that piddly little cocaine clownfish Nemo was supplied with a fully furnished apartment by the contractor for his white lined nightmare of corruption? Ignorance is bliss, especially on Cocaine Island.

Nemo, where are you? – Are you showing up to trades meetings so fucked up that it is necessary in such a deluded mentally ill mind to think that if sunglasses are worn perhaps nobody will think anything of it?

Out Building

Another respite and positive experience from my time on Cocaine island was that of befriending a Chief from one of the Clan’s. I met, we’ll call him Arthur, while working on the hospital. You see it is against the Natives beliefs so lay with the dead, but when the flock of seagulls were designing the hospital they had the morgue situated in the basement, which was against the Clan’s customs, so a new morgue outbuilding had to be built out back on the property, and Arthur owned a saw mill and was versed in building log style buildings, of which I had the pleasure of installing cedar tongue and groove throughout the interior’s entirety. We struck up a bit of a friendship and he occasionally invited me to his home and he and his family would make me dinner, and we would bullshit about stuff. He also took me hunting and fishing on a couple occasions, where I had the chance to eat a salmon head, eyeballs included. As such, I thank he and his family greatly.

Where in the end, the payoff to have made everything worthwhile on my journey, in looking for no recognition, other than self accomplishment, was that of when Arthur had told me that the Chiefs and elders took a tour of the morgue upon completion and that the elders had told him that they could feel all of the love and positive energy that was contained within.

If anyone is wondering about the flocks of seagulls to make a few appearances in this Story Time episode, including the title of this article, now is the time to tell you that a seagull is a word used by the local Natives to describe ignorant white people. As the Natives have the Raven and Eagle Clans, highly intelligent and majestic birds, though a seagull is surely known for mindless squawking. Certainly a seagull is the lowliest of the bigger birds to hover in whichever form.

“Royal” Constipation

Remember, a “royal” sham & shambles was promised to y’all so very long ago now in a Cocaine Island umasking foreshadowed dangling. Funny, William and Kate’s waste of atoms presence has tried to conspire against my geographical location transversing on two occasions in my life, and their visit to Cocaine Island all those years ago while I was there working, was one of those stinky stagnations. The other time being 2011 when I flew into London from a trip to Iceland.

And so they came, to lay their slippery “royal” slime trail across Cocaine Island. You know, hobnob with lowly serf scum, generally at a distance; pretend to give a fuck about past tragedies inflicted upon local people stricken by the stroke of a decree of a “royal” pen of ancestral rape & pillage machinations; collect and imbibe some freshly squeezed baby blood; pick up the official “royal” blank cheque made out and signed by the Globalist Canadian government politicians, via a lowly tax-slave milked populace. Any and all, they were coming, so I would be leaving, able to foresee what a fucking shit-show with absolute shit-heads it would be. A flight home for a few days was in order. It had been a few months after all.

I had a flight booked to leave the day that Prince Fuck-Face and Princess Pica had arrived. To keep it short, the bus had to pick up quite a few passengers along the way on the two lane “highway” and then head further north on Cocaine Island in order to get to the airport. Needless to say the bus, along with any other poor soul attempting to get anywhere were stuck in gridlock – the consequences of a a “royal” constipation, or, clusterfuck if you will. Nobody knew what the fuck was going on, strictly unneeded posturing for a bunch of “royal” pricks. So everybody sat in dumb-fuck admiration of frustration for the bullshit traffic jam of no reason that they were stuck within.

Then it hit me, that voice of reason within my head that has been indoctrinated out of a vast chunk of humanity to just sit idly by and wither instead of saying or doing something about the thing that certainly should not be. So I listened to said voice, then acted. I had just lambasted and taunted the dregs of Cocaine Island for a couple months now, what was the filthy surprise at the end of such “royal” constipation of highway clogging going to hold? Like the dregs mind, nothing indeed. Well, other than ignorance that is. So I told the bus driver to let me out, then proceeded to walk towards the nothingness of ignorance, so supplied intently by the mere ponderance of some “royal” pieces of shit being here, there, everywhere, though simultaneously nowhere. Fuckface spectacular.

After a kilometre or so, terminal ignorance was reached, and the same ignorance was backed up going in the other direction as far as the eye could see. A “royal” constipation indeed. As politely rudely as I could muster, I explained the situation to the “royal” roadblocker about the situation with the bus, airport, and awaiting flight out of Cocaine Island and that we would certainly miss the plane if he did not get things going. He picked up what I was putting down, and I turned and started to walk back to the bus. On my saunter back to the bus, the traffic started moving upon an irate laxative of understanding. For the first time in a long time, I would whack-off in comfort and then sleep on a bed big enough to accept my feet in sprawled situational awareness.

In closing, I was going to further lambaste that full on waste of atoms, piddly little cocaine clownfish Nemo, and his utter patheticness as a human being, including being a government indoctrinated Marxist that has the perfect world floating around in his immature and incomplete mind, even though he is unable to even show up to work on time – ever, not be a full out slob in domestic affairs, pay his taxes regularly, treat a woman with respect, or even have enough self respect for himself to not go out of his way to corrupt and mess up those with vulnerable personalities following his wasted and weak minded synaptic drippings of drivel, not to mention his extraordinary skill of mercilessly fucking the dog while working…..but why finish with such a complete and utter loser. Yup, a literal no one and nobody Nemo truly is, to anyone with anything greater than a childish fifteen year old mind.

One of the things that stuck in my mind from my time on Haida Gwaii, was when Arthur had told me that before flocks of seagulls had shown up off the Haida coastline and began the subjugation, the Haida people, the feared warrior Haida used to go on raiding parties as far east as what is known as modern day Calgary. The Hecate Straight can be extremely treacherous waters, so imagine crossing it in an old style Haida canoe with paddles and then crossing inland a thousand kilometres or so in order to prove one’s point to the other tribes.