If there’s a dominant experience of the twenty-first century, it’s that of living in a world that does not make sense. Life is stupid. Not stupid in the same way that a person might be stupid, in the sense of an incomplete grasp of the facts and a throttled slowness in processing those that it has, but a slick, dizzy, reckless, triumphant, positive stupidity, a stupidity that happily assimilates to itself all forms of intelligence. Sexual relationships are stupid; any form can only dissolve, monogamy, polygamy, celibacy, all teeming in panic against our inability to cope with other people or ourselves, charging like flies against a windowpane.
Work is stupid; pointless drudgery that no longer pretends to have anything more in common with actual productive labor than ritual animal sacrifice, so that there’s nobody who won’t freely admit that they’ve wasted their life, so that the cherished tradition of killing time in the office had to be introduced as a new form of labor discipline. Democratic politics are stupid, not so much a reality TV show as a glorified version of the policeman’s identity parade, but in reverse time: the mass of voters identify the perp, and then he gets to go and commit his crimes.
The international order is stupid, drugs law is stupid, global warming is stupid, mass media is stupid, going to the beach is stupid, the Sun and the Moon are stupid, staying at home is stupid, the tiny furrowed creatures that burrow between immense grains of earth are stupid. The world is ending! How did we end up here? Somewhere along the road, centuries ago, millennia ago, we took a very wrong turn.
Here's to Captains Pierce and McIntyre. To their all-night binges. To their secret nurse ceremonies. To their planting of microphones in sleeping bags. To their childish switching of names on latrines. All of which goes into my special report to General Mitchell, which culminates in a detailed account of your Thanksgiving "Come As Your Favorite Nude Pilgrim" party.
He’s not a war hero. He was a war hero because he was captured. I like people who weren’t captured.
I'm sick of hearing about the wounded. What about all the thousands of wonderful guys who are fighting this war without any of the credit or the glory that always goes to those lucky few who just happen to get shot?
We are all crazed, weird loners. I am. You are. Silent all day, fixed to the computer, quiet in company, meek and polite, docile, neutered, and dangerous. We went wrong somewhere, a line was crossed, and though we don’t know when it happened we do know that we shouldn’t be feeling like this, that this isn’t just ordinary unhappiness. It’s hard to fix. Somatic sicknesses have their pathogens swarming in your veins, but there’s no antibiotic for an illness that comes from outside and everywhere.
Hillary Clinton is, as her supporters like to put it, imperfect – a mass murderer, a wrecker of nations and peoples, the political expression of biophagous finance, a ruthless cynic who will fling millions into whatever ravine presents itself to get what she wants, which is power. Donald Trump doesn’t want power; he’s far more dangerous than that. He wants attention. How can you really measure her long list of abuses against the sheer potential for disaster coiled in his stupid, stocky body? Measure so many thousands of dead Libyans, so many tens of thousands of dead Syrians, so many hundreds of thousands of dead Iraqis against the peril of a waddling baby in charge of the world? Still it’s not impossible, we can quantify anything. Say two million excess deaths under President Clinton – from financial predation, from disease, from war – and ten million excess deaths under President Trump – all those plus racist violence, malfeasance, and incompetence – and there’s your moral case for voting for Clinton.
Our spherical earth is increasingly organized like one colossal factory, operating seamlessly and just in time, teeming with millions of tiny and unwilling workers, slurping up the expertise of ten thousand sharpened brains—and it’s not beautiful, it’s Hell. Everyone is wasting their lives. Everyone is unhappy. It’s not just you. The world is insane, insane in a way that doesn’t even require any of the announcements from its administrators to be factually untrue.
The plainfin midshipman are nocturnal and bury themselves in sand or mud in the intertidal zone during the day. At night they float just above the seabed. Some species have venomous dorsal spines and are capable of inflicting serious injuries if handled.
In 1055, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, king of Gwynedd , invaded Ralph's lands and Ralph called up his fyrd (the militia). Arming all his men as Norman knights, they sallied forth from his Hereford castle and were soundly defeated on October 24, 1055. Gruffyd took Hereford and destroyed the new castle.
Ralph was disgraced and he died on 1057, never having recovered from the shock of loss or the ignominy of his defeat: he was ever after called the Timid....
On Aug. 25, two emergency medics stopped for a break in the parking lot of a gas station in Norwalk, which is about 50 miles west of Cleveland, just after 7 p.m. They spotted an object in the grass near the edge of the pavement: It was a two-quart-size plastic bag with a zip-lock. Inside was a heart.
“We don’t usually find hearts in zip-lock bags,” Sergeant Fulton, 58, said. “I can’t remember ever having a call like this. It is very unusual.”
If you’re thinking about your underwear, you’re wearing the wrong underwear.
Kerry O’Brien, the founder and designer of Commando.
With three sisters and a slew of close girlfriends, commando founder Kerry O’Brien understands women and their undergarment garment woes. “The right underwear can do wonders for how a woman looks in her clothes,” she says. “When you have the right foundations, you feel that much more confident and beautiful.”