Study: poor people fucked

The CSER study identified

four major poverty groups within the U.S.

The first two groups—one composed of disenfranchised

blue-collar workers, the other made up of members of poor rural

populations—have been adversely affected by the nation’s gradual shift to

a technology-based, global economy. Researchers have dubbed

disenfranchised blue-collar workers the Factory Fucked,

while members of poor rural populations are called

the Farm Fucked. Park characterized the

individuals in these two groups as

“fucked from the get-go.”

The other two rapidly expanding

groups of poor fucks are the suburban poor,

whose members can’t afford the rising cost of such basic

necessities as healthcare, and the urban underclass, whose members

are found in the nation’s troubled inner cities. Researchers

termed these groups the Recently Fucked and

the Utterly Fucked, respectively.

Center for Social andEconomic Research

Pictures for Sad Children

“We are at war with our eroticism”

Forget what you’ve heard

about human beings having descended from

the apes. We didn’t descend from apes. We are apes.

Metaphorically and factually, Homo sapiens is one of the five

surviving species of great apes, along with chimpanzees, bonobos,

gorillas, and orangutans (gibbons are considered a “lesser ape”). We

shared a common ancestor with two of these apes—bonobos and chimps—

just five million years ago. That’s “the day before yesterday” in

evolutionary terms. The fine print distinguishing humans

from the other great apes is regarded

as “wholly artificial” by most

primatologists these days.

If we’re “above” nature,

it’s only in the sense that a shaky-legged

surfer is “above” the ocean. Even if we never slip

(and we all do), our inner nature can pull us under at any

moment. Those of us raised in the West have been assured that

we humans are special, unique among living things, above and beyond

the world around us, exempt from the humilities and humiliations that pervade

and define animal life. The natural world lies below and beneath us, a cause

for shame, disgust, or alarm; something smelly and messy to be hidden

behind closed doors, drawn curtains, and minty freshness.

Or we overcompensate and imagine nature floating

angelically in soft focus up above, innocent,

noble, balanced, and wise.

Like bonobos and chimps,

we are the randy descendents of hypersexual

ancestors. At first blush, this may seem an overstatement,

but it’s a truth that should have become common knowledge long ago.

Conventional notions of monogamous, till-death-do-us-part marriage strain

under the dead weight of a false narrative that insists we’re something else. What

is the essence of human sexuality and how did it get to be that way? In the

following pages, we’ll explain how seismic cultural shifts that began

about ten thousand years ago rendered the true story of human

sexuality so subversive and threatening that for centuries

it has been silenced by religious authorities,

pathologized by physicians, studiously

ignored by scientists, and covered

up by moralizing therapists.

Deep conflicts rage

at the heart of modern sexuality.

Our cultivated ignorance is devastating.

The campaign to obscure the true nature of our

species’ sexuality leaves half our marriages collapsing

under an unstoppable tide of swirling sexual frustration,

libido-killing boredom, impulsive betrayal, dysfunction, confusion,

and shame. Serial monogamy stretches before (and behind) many of us like

an archipelago of failure: isolated islands of transitory happiness in a cold, dark sea

of disappointment. And how many of the couples who manage to stay together for

the long haul have done so by resigning themselves to sacrificing their

eroticism on the altar of three of life’s irreplaceable joys: family

stability, companionship, and emotional, if not sexual,

intimacy? Are those who aspire to these joys

cursed by nature to preside over the

slow strangulation of their

partner’s libido?

The Spanish word esposas

means both “wives” and “handcuffs.” In English,

some men ruefully joke about the ball and chain. There’s good

reason marriage is often depicted and mourned as the beginning of the end

of a man’s sexual life. And women fare no better. Who wants to share her

life with a man who feels trapped and diminished by his love for her,

whose honor marks the limits of his freedom? Who wants

to spend her life apologizing for being

just one woman?

Yes, something is seriously wrong.

The American Medical Association reports that some

42 percent of American women suffer from sexual dysfunction,

while Viagra breaks sales records year after year. Worldwide, pornography

is reported to rake in anywhere from fifty-seven to a hundred-billion-dollars annually.

In the United States, it generates more revenue than CBS, NBC, and ABC combined,

and more than all professional football, baseball, and basketball franchises.

According to U.S. News and World Report, “Americans spend more

money at strip clubs than at Broadway, off-Broadway,

regional and nonprofit theaters, the opera,

the ballet and jazz and classical music

performances—combined.”

There’s no denying that

we’re a species with a sweet tooth for sex.

Meanwhile, so-called traditional marriage appears

to be under assault from all sides—as it collapses from within.

Even the most ardent defenders of normal sexuality buckle under its

weight, as never-ending bipartisan perp-walks of politicians (Clinton, Vitter,

Gingrich, Craig, Foley, Spitzer, Sanford) and religious figures (Haggard,

Swaggert, Bakker) trumpet their support of family values

before slinking off to private assignations with

lovers, prostitutes, and interns.

Denial hasn’t worked.

Hundreds of Catholic priests have confessed

to thousands of sex crimes against children in the past few

decades alone. In 2008, the Catholic Church paid $436 million in

compensation for sexual abuse. More than a fifth of the victims were

under ten years old. This we know. Dare we even imagine the suffering

such crimes have caused in the seventeen centuries since a sexual life

was perversely forbidden to priests in the earliest known papal

decree: the Decreta and Cum in unum of Pope Siricius

(c. 385)? What is the moral debt owed to the

forgotten victims of this misguided

rejection of basic human

sexuality?

On threat of torture,

in 1633, the Inquisition of the Roman

Catholic Church forced Galileo to state publicly

what he knew to be false: that the Earth sat immobile

at the center of the universe. Three and a half centuries later,

in 1992, Pope John Paul II admitted that the scientist

had been right all along, but that

the Inquisition had been

“well-intentioned.”

Well, there’s no Inquisition

like a well-intentioned

Inquisition.

…

Although we’re led to

believe we live in times of sexual liberation,

contemporary human sexuality throbs with obvious,

painful truths that must not be spoken aloud. The conflict

between what we’re told we feel and what we really feel may be

the richest source of confusion, dissatisfaction, and unnecessary

suffering of our time. The answers normally proffered don’t answer

the questions at the heart of our erotic lives: Why are men and women

so different in our desires, fantasies, responses, and sexual behavior? Why

are we betraying and divorcing each other at ever increasing rates when not

opting out of marriage entirely? Why the pandemic spread of single-parent

families? Why does the passion evaporate from so many marriages so

quickly? What causes the death of desire? Having evolved

together right here on Earth, why do so many

men and women resonate with the idea

that we may as well be from

different planets?

We are at war with our eroticism.

We battle our hungers, expectations, and disappointments.

Religion, politics, and even science square off against biology and

millions of years of evolved appetites. How to defuse

this intractable struggle?

…

We’ll show that human beings

evolved in intimate groups where almost everything

was shared—food, shelter, protection, child care, even sexual pleasure.

We don’t argue that humans are natural-born Marxist hippies. Nor do we hold that

romantic love was unknown or unimportant in prehistoric communities.

But we’ll demonstrate that contemporary culture misrepresents

the link between love and sex. With and without love,

a casual sexuality was the norm for

our prehistoric ancestors.

…As we’ll explore in detail,

before the advent of agriculture a hundred

centuries ago, women typically had as much access to food,

protection, and social support as did men. We’ll see that upheavals

in human societies resulting from the shift to settled living in agricultural

communities brought radical changes to women’s ability to survive. Suddenly,

women lived in a world where they had to barter their reproductive

capacity for access to the resources and protection they needed

to survive. But these conditions are very different

from those in which our species had

been evolving previously.

It’s important to

keep in mind that when viewed

against the full scale of our species’ existence,

ten thousand years is but a brief moment. Even if we

ignore the roughly two million years since the emergence

of our Homo lineage, in which our direct ancestors lived in small

foraging social groups, anatomically modern humans are estimated to have

existed for about 200,000 years. With the earliest evidence of agriculture dating

to about 8000 BCE, the amount of time our species has spent living in settled

agricultural societies represents just 5 percent of our collective

experience, at most. As recently as a few hundred

years ago, most of the planet was still

occupied by foragers.

So in order to

trace the deepest roots of human

sexuality, it’s vital to look beneath the thin

crust of relatively recent human history. Until

agriculture, human beings evolved in societies organized

around an insistence on sharing just about everything. But all this

sharing doesn’t make anyone a noble savage. These pre-agricultural societies

were no nobler than you are when you pay your taxes or insurance premiums.

Universal, culturally imposed sharing was simply the most effective way for

our highly social species to minimize risk. Sharing and self-interest,

as we shall see, are not mutually exclusive. Indeed, what many

anthropologists call fierce egalitarianism was the

predominant pattern of social organization

around the world for many millennia

before the advent of

agriculture.

…

But human societies

changed in radical ways once they

started farming and raising domesticated animals.

They organized themselves around hierarchical political

structures, private property, densely populated settlements,

a radical shift in the status of women, and other social configurations

that together represent an enigmatic disaster for our species:

human population growth mushroomed as quality of life

plummeted. The shift to agriculture, wrote author

Jared Diamond, is a “catastrophe from which

we have never recovered.”

Several types of evidence

suggest our pre-agricultural (prehistoric) ancestors

lived in groups where most mature individuals would have had

several ongoing sexual relationships at any given time. Though often casual,

these relationships were not random or meaningless. Quite the opposite:

they reinforced crucial social ties holding these

highly interdependent communities

together.

We’ve found overwhelming evidence

of a decidedly casual, friendly prehistory of human sexuality

echoed in our own bodies, in the habits of remaining societies still lingering

in relative isolation, and in some surprising corners of contemporary Western culture.

We’ll show how our bedroom behavior, porn preferences, fantasies, dreams,

and sexual responses all support this reconfigured

understanding of our sexual origins.

…When people began living

in settled agricultural communities,

social reality shifted deeply and irrevocably.

Suddenly it became crucially important to know

where your field ended and your neighbor’s began.

Remember the Tenth Commandment: “Thou shalt not

covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s

wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor

anything that is thy neighbour’s.” Clearly, the biggest loser (aside from slaves,

perhaps) in the agricultural revolution was the human female, who went

from occupying a central, respected role in foraging societies

to becoming another possession for man to earn

and defend, along with his house,

slaves, and livestock.

“The origin of farming,”

says archaeologist Steven Mithen,

“is the defining event of human history —

the one turning point that has resulted in modern

humans having a quite different type of lifestyle and cognition

to all other animals and past types of humans.”  The most important

pivot point in the story of our species, the shift to agriculture redirected

the trajectory of human life more fundamentally than the control

of fire, the Magna Carta, the printing press, the steam

engine, nuclear fission, or anything else has

or, perhaps, ever will.

With agriculture,

virtually everything changed:

the nature of status and power, social and

family structures, how humans interacted with the

natural world, the gods they worshipped, the likelihood and

nature of warfare between groups, quality of life, longevity, and

certainly, the rules governing sexuality.  His survey of the relevant

archeological evidence led archaeologist Timothy Taylor, author of

The Prehistory of Sex, to state, “While hunter-gatherer sex had

been modeled on an idea of sharing and complementarity,

early agriculturalist sex was voyeuristic, repressive,

homophobic, and focused on reproduction.”

“Afraid of the wild,” he concludes,

“farmers set out to

destroy it.”

Sex at Dawn

(not a good book, a great one, and one which

has everything to do with the conversation

here over the last few weeks)

“Eat the Rich” film deal! Their Royal Hineys Baron Pierre and Baroness Pamela von Omidyar to school “small people”

Tell them you heard it first,

right here on Roller Derby: I’ve reached an agreement

in principle to write and direct “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth”, a

documentary about the degradation of our sacred world by the power-mad,

and how the hypocrisy, greed, and self-aggrandizing spin of so-called “prominent

families” is sucking the very life out of us all.  To be produced by one of America’s

most experienced and respected documentary institutions, “Eat the Rich”

will be showcased at film festivals before, and broadcast

on one of the world’s largest cable

networks after, its theatrical

release.

If you are a friend, associate,

employee, or man- or maidservant of The Baron

Pierre or The Baroness Pamela von Omidyar, or in the service

of any of their various “security” agencies, or employed to physically keep

watch over, electronically monitor, or intimidate myself or the film crew, or an

officer of a public police department or intelligence agency solicited in that vein,

and you would like to talk to us, please feel free.  We have secure channels

of communication and your identity will be protected.  If you are a

member of their staffs in Las Vegas/Henderson, Redwood City,

Honolulu, Laguna Beach, Beverly Hills, Deer Valley, Cabo,

Washington, or San Francisco who has anything to

say — anything at all, good, bad, or indifferent —

about Their Royal Hineys,

please be in touch.

Likewise, if you are employed

in a similar capacity with another member

of the “Superclass”, we’d like to talk to you, too.

We’ll be reaching out to many, but are

happy to hear from anyone who

wishes to participate.

Finally, if you are

one of the people who was so alarmed

at the callous indifference of Pamela von Omidyar to

the twenty-day hunger strike and wanted to publicly join it,

I’ll be in touch about the very public mass hunger strike

that is to come, which will be prominently

featured in the film.

As of tomorrow,

this blog will return to its historical mode,

albeit at a more relaxed and intermittent pace while the film

is in production.  There will be an occasional reference to the progress

of “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth”, and some tidbits of juicy von Omidyar video

(thanks to whomever sent the submission via WikiLeaks, we’d very much like

to see more, please), but mostly there will be talk of the world,

sacred poetry, spiritual caresses and branding irons,

and the all-important cartoonery.

Thank you all for

enduring the focus of recent

weeks. Save the whales!

Eat the rich!

trained at the Master’s lotus feet, she were.

Their Royal Hineys The Baron and Baroness Pierre and Pamela von Omidyar Submit to a Smell Test: Chapter the Seventeenth of “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth”

The ultimate measure of

a man is not where he stands in

moments of comfort and convenience,

but where he stands at times of

challenge and controversy.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Ebay Community: “Save the whales, support Sea Shepherd!” Omidyars: “Whales, Sea Shepherd can suck our rich balls!”

SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA –

Following the joyful

announcement on Sunday that its top prize

for favorite non-profit organization had been awarded to

the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, the Ebay Community was

shocked and disheartened to learn soon after that multi-billionaire Ebay founder

Baron Pierre von Omidyar and his wife the Baroness and Grand Panjandrum

Pamela von Omidyar have been engaged in a months-long effort

to evade lending support to Sea Shepherd as it faces

the most difficult ocean conservation

campaigns in its more than three

decade history.

The Baroness von Omidyar,

reviled in cetacean conservation circles as

“the Whore of Babble-on” for her hypocritical posturing

on ocean issues while amassing a vast string of luxury seaside resorts,

as well as her attempts to strong-arm critics into silence while

simultaneously trumpeting political honesty, transparency,

and openness, has so far refused

to comment.

Her Royal Hiney,

a biologist and surfer, is known

as the mother of the Pam Omidyar Memorial Stump

for her promotion of anesthesia-free

hacksaw amputations in

disaster areas.

Baron von Omidyar,

nicknamed “the coward billionaire”, is said to be

in talks with his close personal friend His Holiness the 14th

Dalai Lama of Tibet about how to

spin the issue.

A new documentary film

entitled “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth:

The Pam and Pierre Omidyar Story”

is expected to begin lensing

later this summer.

(reserved for Baron von Omidyar response)

Billionaire Baron Pierre von Omidyar to appeal to Dalai Lama to intervene in support of Ebay community’s chosen charity?

“I will consider interceding on behalf of the small people.

I mean the whales.”

His Royal Hiney

The Baron Pierre von Omidyar

has received a request from the spiritual community

to appeal to his close friend the Dalai Lama for help in changing

his wife’s mind about the fate of the world’s whales. Her Royal Hiney

The Baroness and Grand Panjandrum Pamela von Omidyar (R-HI) has so far

refused, even in the face of a lengthy hunger strike by an ordained minister, to lift

a finger to stop the illegal murder-for-meat operations going on in the Southern

Ocean Whale Sanctuary. The request was sent to Baron von Omidyar –

who founded Ebay and has reaped tens of billions of dollars from

it – on Friday at his homes in Las Vegas, Honolulu,

Beverly Hills, Laguna Beach, San Francisco,

Deer Valley, Utah, and

elsewhere.

Omidyar professes to admire

the compassion of, consistently re-tweets,

and has “shared the stage”, in his words, with His Holiness

the Dalai Lama, who turns 75 on July 6th. Given their close association,

the Baron was believed to be the last best hope of the whales and whale calves

who are being shot, drowned, and flayed alive with heated knives. His wife

has declined repeated and vigorous entreaties to issue a small baronial

dispensation or even address the matter through the media

centers at any of her many foundations, baronial

luxury resorts, and real estate

holding companies.

Known for her intransigence

on the whale issue, Baroness Pamela von Omidyar

is referred to by cetacean activists around the world as

“the Whore of Babble-on” for her hypocritical stance on ocean issues.

They are believed to be pressing her husband Pierre — a man who some say

is a kshamãnidhaye, in spiritual terms (in spite of his attempts to use

local police departments to silence critics) — to make an entreaty to

His Holiness the Dalai Lama at his 75th birthday celebration

on Tuesday.  The request would be tantamount to

asking Don Corleone for a favor at his

only daughter’s wedding.

Given that the Ebay community

just yesterday voted Sea Shepherd their

favorite non-profit organization in the world, hopes are

running high that the consent of Her Royal Hiney to stopping the

murders can be obtained through this extraordinarily

high-level tete a tete between two

spiritual powerhouses.

In an earlier interview

with Forbes, the Baron and Baroness von Omidyar

acknowledged the importance of having the Ebay community

and the larger world at least buy the

image of their goodness

and largesse:

“My wealth is from

a human business, not a technology

business,” Omidyar says during a long, late-day talk

in Paris. “We don’t want to be perceived as flakes. That would

be a waste of our minds.” “And our hearts,”

his wife says, taking his hand.

Of the two,

the Baron von Omidyar is believed

to be the more authentically sympathetic to whales.

“Jesus H. Christ on a chick’s pink bike!” he may have commented

to a reporter over the weekend, “did you read the July issue of Outside magazine,

that article about the orca that killed a trainer at Sea World?! Orcas are widely

regarded by scientists to be the most deeply social, family-oriented creatures

on Earth — virtually all of them stay with their mothers throughout their

lives, and when the mothers die, the sons often perish of apparent

heartbreak shortly thereafter. And it’s a billion dollar

business, trapping them and selling them to marine

parks!  Didja know that the first one that was

ever trapped, 40 members of his family

swam alongside him to Seattle,

450 miles?”

Omidyar continued,

maybe, “Humans, man, what the jeepers!

Noise-bombing orcas to trap them, ripping apart their

families, taking the children to a Gitmo-for-whales! Don’t people

understand that’s the biggest dolphin in the world? They’re echolocators —

they don’t use their eyes like us, they see and map the world by clicking, by sonar!

What does it do to a creature like that, who lives as long as a person, to spend her

entire life confined in a concrete bathtub where every click she makes is

reflected back to her in a maddening circle, along with the non-stop

sounds of pumps and filters?! They get

ulcers, that’s what!”

“They kill person

after person when they’re in captivity,

like that Tilikum / Shamu did! He tore off Dawn

Brancheau’s arm! He ripped the testicles off another dude

he killed, and hey, as a man without any ‘nads, I feel

that! There’s never, ever been an orca attack

on a human in the wild — what

does that tell you?”

Omidyar’s eyes widened,

perhaps. “And the people who are murdering

them in Antarctica!  Listen, Sea Shepherd — dude, at Ebay,

we’re giving them fifteen thousand whole dollars! — travels thousands

of miles through the most dangerous waters in the world to stop them by throwing

rotten butter and driving their inflatable boats in the path of the harpoons?!

Rotten butter?!  Where in the name of Buddha are the F-16s? Where are

the drones? What the hell do I keep giving millions of dollars to

Barack Obama for, anyway?! Don’t get me started.

Humanity is perverse, dude, and

we could burn for it!”

Baron von Omidyar vows

that by the year 2020, when he will be 52,

he will have turned over all but 1% of his wealth.

Whale activists, as well as the Omidyar’s own children —

said to gaze in wonder at the whales which spout near the family’s

many beachfront residences — and people of conscience everywhere are

hoping that Pierre von Omidyar can persuade the Baroness Pam von

Omidyar to break off a tiny 1% share of their staggering fortune,

an amount which Sea Shepherd founder Paul Watson

has said could put an end to illegal whaling

on Earth forever.

The blank black space

directly above this press release will

be reserved to print Baron von Omidyar’s response

to the Earth’s request for intercession with

His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Please check back

for updates.

An announcement is expected

within days regarding a new documentary film

about the Baron and Baroness

von Omidyar.

While we sit gloating in our greatness
Justice is sinking to the bottom of the sea
Living in the wasteland of the free

 

 

 

Yo, P! How’s my dossier coming?

Careful, now.

Their Royal Hineys The Baron Pierre and Baroness and Grand Panjandrum Pamela von Omidyar Celebrate Their Dynasty

Gray whale
Now that we are sending you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothing

I write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another day

The bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
Unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours

When you will not see again
The whale calves trying the light
Consider what you will find in the black garden
And its court
The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas
The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless
And fore-ordaining as stars
Our sacrifices

Join your work to theirs
Tell him
That it is we who are important

(W.S. Merwin)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

O, pardon me,

thou bleeding piece of earth,
That I am meek and gentle

with these butchers!

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Earth’s whales to release flying cloud of bone eating zombie worms around billionaire hypocrite Pam Omidyar: “Dude, we’re pissed.”

Remember Son of Sam?

David Berkowitz? Terrorized New York City

in the summers of 1976-77 by wandering the streets,

shooting lovers with a .44 Magnum Charter Arms Bulldog handgun

(an excellent choice for each and every American, says the Supreme Court)

as they necked in parked cars? Said he was just doing as he was

verbally instructed by Sam, the dog of his neighbor?

Son of Sam was absolutely out and out crazy –

not helpful, brilliant crazy,

just batshit crazy.

I know this

because the whales I play cards

with were here last night, taking more of my hard-earned

taoist poetry money in Texas Hold ‘Em, and laughing about the nonsense

spouted by Son of Sam. “Dogs can’t talk, everyone knows that,” a big gray whale

said at the dining room table, causing the others to shake their barnacled

heads ruefully. “Pair of cowboys and a trey of ladies! Slide that pot on

over here and shuffle ‘em, BW.  Ooh, ooh, got a little itch

on my schnozz — get that for me,

would you, buddy?”

Whales love to interact

with people.  Never mind that, though,

let’s murder them for “cultural heritage” reasons!

Actually, they’d prefer that we didn’t, they told me at poker.

Another thing the whales told me at whale poker night is that they

are weary of Pam Omidyar’s multi-billionaire boo-hoo hypocrisy about

saving them from horrifying torture and death, and they’re planning on spout-

launching a cloud of bone eating zombie worms at her and everyone she

hangs with. Are you familiar with bone eating zombie worms?

What about “whale fall”? Know anything about

old growth forests? Pull up

a chair, cousin.

If you think

a giant redwood tree is amazing

just for itself, you should go learn about how

many species live in its canopy, at varying levels, and

along its trunk, and in its root system. Then, when you’re

properly amazed by what a colossal city it is, read about what

happens when it dies and falls over. A whole other conglomeration

of mammal, reptile, insect, and micro/bacterio/fungal creaturoids take over

as it slowly dissolves into the forest floor. This process takes hundreds of

years, over which each and every tree sustains the lives of generations

of creatures. When all that is done, it lies there for further

centuries as nutrient-rich humus, feeding and

supporting the next generation

of trees.

Whales are the

giant redwood trees of the ocean.

Like redwoods, they’re pretty close to gone;

like redwoods, they’re the largest, longest-lived,

most peaceful and intelligent and groovalicious souls in their

neighborhood. When whales die, they perform a service nearly identical

to that of trees in an old growth forest. Occasionally one drifts up

onto a beach, but by and large they undergo what is known

as “whale fall”, whereby they sink, very slowly,

to the ocean floor.

They don’t just

spout their last breath and tumble

off into the void. They die, and as their bodies

decompose — with the help of dozens and hundreds of other

critters, just like sempervirens – they begin to sink, slowly. Sometimes

during decomposition gases build up and a whale in fall will rise part way again.

Then one of the creatures, generations of whose children will never know

another world than the body of this whale, will do what it does and

nibble open a vent, or excrete a chemical which nullifies the

expansive properties of the gas, and the whale will

begin its stately descent to the

ocean floor again.

There are at least

28 species of life in the world’s oceans

that are found nowhere else but on a whale fall.

The science on this is a little thin because, while we can

sit in Las Vegas and fly a Hellfire missile into the

lap of a ten year old girl driving to a wedding

with her family in Afghanistan –

– we haven’t yet sorted out

the rudimentary technology that it would

take to track a dying whale and thoroughly chronicle its fall.

Anyhow, one of the players in the ethereal drama of the

depths known as whale fall is the bone eating

zombie worm. Check ‘em out:

They anchor themselves

with that thing that looks sort of like

a cloud of snot, and they lunch on the skull and

vertebrae and jawbone of the whale. And that, I was told

by the gray whales I played poker with last night, is what they

aim to spout-launch at the billionaire hypocrite Her Royal

Hiney Baroness von Omidyar. “We’re mad as hell,”

they bellowed, “and we are not going to

take it anymore!”

You might wonder

how the bone eating zombie worms

are going to get to Pam Omidyar, faux ocean

advocate who deletes her Twitter account when her

hypocritical yap is exposed. I did. Well, you probably also

wonder how those little shrimp that appear within a few days

in a high mountain lake thousands of miles from any ocean when it’s

been refilled by rain after a constant drought of nine years get there. They’re

seeded in the ground, maybe, and lie dormant for incredibly long times.

Or they’re blown on the wind, carried aloft by thunderstorms and

deposited. We’re a little hazy on the science there, too, because

the money our society could spend on science largely goes to

funding the next generation of weapons being developed

at Lockheed and General Dynamics. But

creatures have wily ways.

Wiliest of all, they say, are

the whales.  Humpbacks, whom the Japanese

and Norwegians and Icelanders and Greenlanders kill –

you know, by shooting them in the head with a big gun, Son of Sam style –

and whom the Sea Shepherds save, as Pam Omidyar understands

very well, work in groups to blow huge bubble nets around

krill to trap them, then swim up through

the center of the bubble

nets to feed.

And they command

armies of bone eating zombie worms

just like the Wicked Witch of the West commanded

multitudes of flying monkeys, which monkeys oops I mean

bone eating zombie worms are flying straight for Pam

Omidyar, the talking Texas Hold ‘Em whales say,

to worm her good. Or so I am told by

the barnacled behemoths.

“She wants to talk shit

about saving the whales and then keep her

powder dry when presented with an opportunity to do it?!”

coughed a female minke at my card table. “That freckle-ass girl has

got a lesson to learn. Didn’t she ever see any of those videos on

Live Leak where worms crawl out of someone’s

cheek or nose or eyeball? Sistah

better recognize!”

Gross. Well.

I’m not a part of that.

I’m down with whales, though.

If they’re pissed off and want to carry

the microscopic larvae of the bone eating

zombie worms in their moist, warm lungs, as they

say they can do, and spout millions of them into the air around

Her Royal Hiney and her Court as they swim around her home in Hawaii,

or past the beaches of her beachfront luxobillionaire resorts, that’s their deal.

I don’t like to see a woman or her family or friends or employees consumed

alive by bone eating zombie worms; no one ever does. On the other hand,

if someone could flex her pinky and keep me and my children from

being shot in the head and back and womb with exploding

harpoons, and then drug backward by a monstrously

powerful ship until we drowned, and didn’t,

I’d be a little out of sorts too. So, you

know, I feel you, whales.  I hear

you, zombie worms.

Altruism is a source

of goodness for yourself and others,

medicine alleviating all troubles, the great path

traveled by the wise, nourishment for all who see, hear,

remember, and contact it, possessing great efficacy for

advancing others’ welfare.  Through it you

indirectly achieve your own

interests in full.

Tsongkhapa

Their Royal Hineys The Baron & Baroness Omidyar Buy the World: Chapter the Sixteenth of “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth”

Beautiful, isn’t it?

It takes your breath right away.

Whether you stand way back like that,

or put your eye close to one

particular aspect of it —

— the Earth and its fruits

are exquisite, among the most gorgeous jewels

in Indra’s oh-so-connected net. A troublesome feature of that

which is pleasing to the eye (or taste buds or genitals, and yes we’ll be

getting back to that squalid goatporn situation today, I promise) is the tendency

they inspire in some to want to own them. You or I see them and feel

elated, reverent, blessed simply to behold; others

ache instead with a consuming desire

to acquire.

I confess I do not

come from this planet. I’m a visitor,

sent from my own home to one of the garden spots

of the universe to look around, assess what appears to be

a very tricky and desperate situation, and report back

to my superiors. I understand greetings

in fifty-four planet Earth

languages.

What I have to report —

the beauty of your poetry, women, dogs,

and naked goats aside — is not good. Many of the details

are chronicled in the words, photographs,

videos, and songs found

on this blog.

At the heart of it is

that desire to acquire. It’s difficult

to imagine now, but once upon a time ago,

human were a part of life on Earth like whales are

a part of the ocean: integrated into it, held

by it, fed like a baby at her

mother’s breast.

Just a few minutes back —

about ten thousand years, in your flawed

methodology of measuring time — you humans

decided that wasn’t good enough. The situation is pretty

well described in the scroll of Ishmael; rather than letting the

Earth deliver the fish and the fowl and the fruit on an as-needed basis,

people wanted to store things up so that they would be safe forever:

out of the rain, away from the lions, food in the larder, more

food than those fookin’ Cro-Magnon chumps over

the hill, the low rent bastards!

It’s understandable,

in a way, but an evolutionary mistake,

and one that got quite out of hand. Folks got fascinated

by piling crap up — grain (though it grows practically everywhere),

fruit (hanging off every other tree!), gold and shiny noisy machines and things

that go BANG! (especially beloved). These are the fetish articles of Earth, and no

one is more admired here than the man or woman who has the biggest pile.

If two Advanced Acquirers, like His Royal Hiney The Baron Pierre

von Omidyar and Her Royal Hiney The Baroness and Grand

Panjandrum Pamela von Omidyar, join forces to hoover

stuff up, well, folks just fart all over themselves

with admiration. It’s curious.

It doesn’t work, either.

It’s destroying one of the loveliest and

most sublime places in all the known and unknown

universe. It has displaced the reverence and respect humans had

for their Earth and all its inhabitants — redwood, whale, condor, river —

with money lust. Get a little, want a lot. Get a lot, want

every nice hotel and beach in the Monopoly game,

and the goons to protect them, and the

cops to protect the goons.

I’ve been working on

a little plan to turn this in a better

direction for a while. As those in need of resources

are wont to do, I became a supplicant to the rich and powerful,

among them Their Royal Hineys the Baron and Baroness von Omidyar.

Happy enough to talk with me about other things — like

which gewgaw to obtain next – they couldn’t

bear to speak of saving the pearly

blue planet.

I was patient for years —

the filthy rich require patience and coddling

and ass-wiping and burping beyond anything an infant ever needs –

but this year I grew weary of seeing whales made into hamburgers and children

having their limbs lopped off because the von Omidyars were too absorbed

in feathering their nest. (Okay, okay, their many nests — what

self-respecting billionaire would have less

than a dozen homes and

resorts?!)

Thus began

“Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth”,

the first fifteen chapters of which are located here –

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 — for your browsing pleasure.

A movie is in the works, starring the Baron and Baroness

themselves, and I’ll tell you more about that soon,

but now we really need to talk

about the goatporn.

Ever since I alluded to

it the other day, people have been calling

my phones and Skyping me and coming by my house to ask,

“What’s all this about goatporn, BW?” It’s this: as I’ve admitted before,

and as is well-documented in my FBI file, I have a magnificent

collection of goatporn. I’m not the least bit ashamed

of it, either, not like I used to be. Goats heap big

sexy! While slightly conscience-stricken still

about my Cheney-in-leopardskin

shots –

– I don’t feel shy about the goats.

And I’m not ashamed of some other things, either.

Like these folks, I’m proud of my love for lascivious liquid

fishflesh, especially whales and moray eels and bluefin tuna.

Like this fellow, my nostrils flare when I get near a big,

hard, swollen shaft — like those of redwood that

grow along the Left Coast of America.

And the breasts and bellies of

this planet of yours?

They simply make me tremble.

In my heart of hearts, I can understand why some

want to capture them and keep them for themselves, like the

Baron and Baroness and their gobble gobble gobbling of luxury resorts.

But me, I’m just visiting. I can’t take any of this home with me, and I know it.

So while I’m here I just want to behold it, to appreciate it, maybe pick up

some litter so I leave it nicer than I found it, defend the creatures,

perhaps turn off some of the noisier machines

and defuse a handful of the things

that go BANG!

And I want to tell

the truth about what I see here,

even if it offends the rich and powerful,

even if they own the government, even if they own

my local P.D., even if they’re a-plottin’ and a-schemin’ to lay

me low. They may succeed, they may not.  Know what

the Christ of our time said about stuff like that?

“Only Jah can kill me.”

Until that day, Earth first!

Whales first! Dogs first and forever! And

billionaires, well, billionaires can

suck my big Batdick.

Tomorrow: Pierre plays with a whale!

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

WWHHTDLD, Your Royal Hineys?

Pierre and Pam Omidyar,

it doesn’t mean a thing to me that you

order your Control Risk Group to ride in on me,

or your $2500/hr. lawyers, or instruct my local police

chief to act as your flunky and pound on my door

at night and rattle my dog’s chain and mine

and tell me you don’t want me

to write about you.

People on the right

side of the fence have always done that,

always had some version of an ex-NSA “security chief”,

always controlled legions of capos to keep the people in line, always

tried to control the press.  You want to live that life while Rome burns, every

once in a while some lunatic will lift up an ember and illuminate you for everyone else

to see, not caring how you flex your mighty security muscles.  You want to

collect luxury resorts on a golden chain round your necks while

rapping about uniting humanity and using technology to

catalyze economic, social and

political change —

– oopsie! — go ahead.

Don’t expect this kind of thing not

to happen, though. Live over where you do

and  the favelistas are bound to jump up

and peer over the fence at you.

‘Specially when you talks

like you does!

Some will throw rocks.

Some will throw words.  Threaten all

you like. It doesn’t mean a thing

to me.  Here’s what

interests me:

In
this state
there is no Shiva,
nor any holy
union.

Only
a somewhat
something moving
dreamlike on
a fading
road.

Lalla

Even though the

wisdom realizing selflessness and

the development of a concentrated meditation

do not depend on others, the practice of morality, which is

their very foundation, must take place in relation to others because

morality is based on not harming others; without other sentient

beings you cannot perform the virtuous deeds that

stop harming them.  For example, the

virtue of abandoning killing

requires others…

It goes without saying

that attainment of Buddhahood relies on others,

since the distinctive practices for achieving that state are love,

compassion, and the altruistic intention to become enlightened, which come

from being aware of the suffering of others and being moved from the

depths of your heart to bring help and happiness to them.

We should respect those who suffer as

much as we respect the Buddha;

as Shantideva says:

Living beings and the Buddha are similar

Since from them you achieve a Buddha’s qualities.

How is that you do not respect living beings

Just as you respect the Buddha?

 

HHDL

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Pierre & Pam Omidyar: GirlyCretinMan & Hypocrite of the Century? Chapter the Fifteenth of “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth”

I realize that

we’re only ten years into

a century that’s going to be, give

or take, one hundred years long, but I

trust that when you read what’s written here

you’ll agree that we can preemptively award the

GirlyCretinMan & Hypocrite of the Century awards,

respectively, to His Royal Hiney the Baron Pierre von Omidyar

and Her Royal Hiney the Baroness and Grand Panjandrum Pamela von

Omidyar. This is a strange and terrible tale which includes a man without testicles

who claims to have fathered three children; a poor and modest black girl who grows

up to become of the most hypocritical Wealthy White Folks in human history; the

army of Blackwater-like goons which reaches across the planet to service their

diabolical appetites; a corrupt small-town police department working as their

ancillary censorship and strong-arm department; an altogether despicable

and revolting collection of goatporn; a possible denial-of-service

attack on this very website; the murder by shooting,

drowning, and flaying of some individuals just

as admirable as the others just mentioned

are creepy; and little old me.

You should probably

make a pot of tea. This is disturbing, sordid stuff.

Put on the kettle and sit in a comfy chair and

listen to Raul Malo while

the water boils –

Remember your own

angel-flying-too-close-to-the-ground

nature: know that you came to this planet to

take an unvarnished look at what goes on here — you

surely wouldn’t be reading this blog otherwise — and steel

yourself. In what follows, a dark log will be overturned. Scorpions

and poisonous millipedes will scurry. The smell of death will waft. Rivers

of blood will flow, cretinous cops will ooze slimy fluids, three lovely little Arab

American children will discover that their parents are not at all what they

seem. If you want to put a teddy bear, a large caliber handgun, and

a vomit bucket next to your chair before reading on, that’s

probably a good idea. You may need all of them.

(And if you need to catch up

on the first fourteen chapters of “Eat the Rich

& Share the Wealth” first, they’re here:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14)

* * *

One recent night,

not a dark and stormy one though

that would serve our tale, someone was pounding

on my door very loudly — not like you or I would knock, but

as if they hoped to give the hinges a vigorous airing-out. This was

aggrovoking on three counts — as a simple (“minded”, some would add)

taoist poet, I like a quiet life; I am tired and weak as a result of my now fourteen

day hunger strike to protest the tyrannical refusal of the Baroness von Omidyar to save

the admirable individuals alluded to above from violent and grotesque deaths; and

my beloved hound is dying of metastatic melanoma at my home, a process I wish

to proceed peacefully. Amidst the frame-rattling and some frantic barking and

coughing of blood and mucous, I went to the door and looked through

the peephole. Not a soul could be seen. I could hear the crackling

and jabber of police radios, though. Never fond of opening

my door when people with guns are hiding behind

things outside, I sent an email to the

chief of police to inquire

what the hey.

I got this email back

from one of his sergeants late yesterday

afternoon, after a day of watching as Baron Pierre von Omidyar’s

intelligence goons crawled through my electronic life (more

on that later).  This email image, like all the other images

on this site, can be enlarged for readability

by simply clicking on them.

I wrote back and

the following conversation

took place:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Breaking: Baron von Omidyar orders hit on taoist hillbilly! Clemenza, Luca Brasi go to mattresses.

Jumpin’ blue Jesus on a

popsicle stick, my goose is cooked now.

Oh, sure, I’ve participated in some minor league

thuggery in my day, on the instructions of my spiritual

teacher — in our tradition we believe in visiting many

corners of the schoolyard — but I ain’t no match

for these pipe-hittin’ brothers from Basra.

I loved you best, Ma!

Surfing the hedonic treadmill with Her Royal Hiney the Baroness and Grand Panjandrum Pam von Omidyar, Emperor Barack Hussein Obama, and Wee Lord T-Cruise

The hunger strike continues: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Human psychology is

fascinating, if often appalling, stuff.

On one end, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Bob Marley,

Muhammad Ali, and Richard Pryor raise an entire race’s

understanding of itself in a generation; on the other, Ted Bundy

leaves little girls’ bodies in hog sheds covered with bite marks, and

George W. Bush — a man who should have spent his entire life wearing

short pants and a propeller beanie and playing in a padded backyard

under the watchful eye of his governess — roosters about

in a cod-pieced flight suit at the foot of a “Mission

Accomplished” banner.  Humanity

offers up a lot at which one

can stare in horror

or fascination.

One of the interesting notions

in modern psychology is that of the hedonic treadmill,

which posits that however rich a person’s life becomes, she becomes

accustomed to each successive level of comfort, grows progressively less

happy, and lusts again and again for more.  This is why lottery winners enjoy

a bump in happiness for a spell that lasts barely a year, then find themselves wondering

where the next great rush is coming from.  It explains how a person who starts out in

a cubicle feels anointed when given an office, then soon thereafter begins plotting

for one with a window, and then for the corner, and then for the company

Bentley/helicopter/Gulfstream.  If you’ve spent a few years as a partner

at Goldman Sachs, it becomes hard to put on your game face

in the morning without first sacrificing a teenage

virgin from Scarsdale and drinking

the blood of an octoroon.

The hedonic treadmill

is what took Tom Cruise from a boyhood

as little more than a foundling

to behavior like this:

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” —

har. The hedonic treadmill explains as well how

brother Barack Obama, whose campaign was centered

around a cool outrage at George W. Bush’s murderous

wars, can now be found whining that people have

“a lot of obsession” about ending the same

child-and-Treasury-consuming

bloodbaths.

So it is with Her Royal Hiney

the Baroness and Grand Panjandrum Pam Omidyar.

Born a poor black child and working her way through Tufts as a

chargirl and in the information booth in the student union, she impressed the

future Baron von Omidyar with her humanity:  ”And she was so warm to strangers.

She really believed that people are basically good. That’s what impressed him.

That’s what attracted him even before he knew he was attracted.

And he wasn’t even looking for that then. He wasn’t thinking,

Gee, I need to find someone who lives these values.

But looking back, that’s what it

was. ‘She connected with

other people.’”

Oh how a fortune

the size of Saturn will change a girl!

Once committed to connecting with people,

to giving their Ebay billions away to change the

world, to their reputation for being “cheerful, idealistic,

and aggressively democratic”, the Baroness and Baron

now collect luxury resorts like Pez dispensers

and party in tax havens with

fellow plutocrats.

The legendary warmth

of the waif that was Pam has given way

to the steely refusal of the Baroness to lay out

a few grickles to save all the world’s whales from being

murdered by exploding harpoon, backward dragging to drown,

rifle shots to the head, and flensing with heated knives.  That’s what

the hedonic treadmill is good for — one day a sweet young girl is telling you

where the school nurse can be found, the next you’re twelve days into

a hunger strike on behalf of Earth’s most beautiful mammals

and she’s too busy hollering silver-polishing commands

at a vast army of servants and underlings

to be bothered to chat.

Some of you

who know me well remember that

once upon a time ago, when I was writing a bunch

of books and screenplays and giving speaking tours to address the

koyannisqatsi time in which we live, an esteemed worldwide cable TV network

approached me about doing a weekly show.  They flew an executive vice president

and a senior producer back and forth between my home and their offices in New

York, we contemplated and palavered and negotiated, and in the end we

agreed we weren’t quite right for each other: they slightly too staid

as the child of the nation’s biggest media company, me probably

more than a little too radical for the CEO’s taste.

The slot went to a very funny man whose

show has succeeded magnificently.

We’ve stayed in touch,

though, the VP and the senior producer

and me.  I just heard from one of them, the one who

controls the purse strings over documentary production

at the network, and she’s interested in a film about the cruel

and heartless Baroness von Omidyar, her collection of giant golden coins,

and how the hedonic treadmill has hardened her to the point that a man can be

starving to death, her servants monitoring his progress all the while, while

she collects centi-million dollar baubles and knowingly allows

impoverished young ballerinas to have their legs amputated

for lack of a simple sulfa drug.  ”This is a story for

the ages,” she said to me on the phone

yesterday, “It’s Dickensian!”

I can’t say I’m not tempted.

I can say I’m hungry.  And I’ve heard it said

that The Grand Panjandrum Pam Omidyar has a sable-lined

and climate-controlled full floor closet in at least one

of her many palatial homes. How could it hurt

to turn some cameras

on all this?

Well.  Investigations and

discussions are underway, and I’ll keep you

posted. In the meantime, I marvel at the traffic here

since “Eat the Rich & Share the Wealth” has taken the fore.

I rather preferred the days when we read Rumi, Hafiz, Lalla, and Lao Tzu

together, and listened to Richard Pryor as Mudbone doing “Little Feets”,

and peered at pretty naked people making each other happy

in all the ways they do.  In the spirit of the old days,

then, I close today with a little spiritual

and musical offering by way

of Tom Waits.

Mojo is a wonderful

music magazine from the U.K. which

often brings in a musician to guest edit an issue.

Waits, whom I revere, did a bang-up job with the current

issue, not least with the CD that accompanies it.  The songs are all

by other artists, but for one on which Tom shares vocals, and they are too fine

for words.  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Royal Hineys in Hawaii

and everywhere, here are Hank Ballard & the Mountaineers

singing “Let’s Go, Let’s Go, Let’s Go!” — which,

come to think of it, is probably what

the whales are saying.

Pam Omidyar to Earth, re whales: “Nice fish. Where can I get me some more giant gold coins?”

Days since I began a hunger strike to protest multi-billionaire / surfer /

biologist / luxury resort collector Pam Omidyar’s

refusal to save the whales:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Date that the International Whaling Commission granted Greenland

the right to resume harvesting humpback whales

for “subsistence” purposes:

June 25, 2010

Average household income in Greenland:

33rd of 227 nations measured

Average household income in the U.K.:

34th of 227 nations measured

Ranks of Germany, France, and Monaco:

37, 40, & 45

Place where most whale steaks and

“snacks” are sold in Greenland:

4-star luxury hotels

Number of luxury hotel resorts owned by the

self-described “prominent U.S. family”

of Pam and Pierre Omidyar:

A shitload

Rank of Pam & Pierre Omidyar’s “prominent U.S. family”

on the Forbes 400 list of richest Americans:

40

Price of the world’s largest gold coin, sold on the same day

the IWC greenlighted the “harvesting” of humpback

whales after a decades-long worldwide

moratorium brought them back

from near-extinction:

$4,020,000

Number of those 100 kg gold coins that Pam

and Pierre Omidyar could afford:

1,368

Number it would take to end whaling on Earth,

according to Paul Watson and

Sea Shepherd:

14

Manifestation of God — kanaloa —

in Hawaiian culture:

Whale

Number of her own children with whom Pam Omidyar swims

with humpback whale mothers — na kohola — and

their children in the waters off her home in

Hawaii and off her luxury resorts

elsewhere in the world:

3

Whales existed before man,

but they have been known to us only for

two or three generations: until the invention of underwater

photography, we hardly knew what they looked like.  It was only after we

had seen the Earth from orbiting spaceships that the first free-swimming whale

was photographed underwater.  The first underwater film of sperm whales,

off the coast of Sri Lanka, was not taken until 1984; our images of these

huge placid creatures moving gracefully and silently through the

ocean are more recent than the use of personal computers.

We knew what the world looked like

before we knew what the

whale looked like.

Philip Hoare