Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Philosophia H. Fucktardus: Indz inch?

Indz inch?
What do I care?

Kez inch?
What do you care?

Gna ko gortzit hetevitz.
Go after your own work.

These are the Confuse-ian maxims of the people who live in Glendale, that strain of regressed human called Homo Fucktardicus.

Life to H. Fucktardici means finding a good job, buying a house, and raising a family. OK, fine. Except, then, life becomes the slowly rotting-in-the-meaningless-repetition of the jobs that they've found, the slowly-rotting-in-the-terrifyingly-empty-wide-spaces of the McMansions that they've bought, and the progressively chronic alienation of the members of the family that they've raised, as they watch helplessly. There are people who escape this, except they are like Mad Max persevering in the desert of a post-Apocalyptic world. And that's no way to live.

We Armenians are convinced that the path to a good life is having money. Sure, money helps--alot. But there has to be something more than money, and in Glendale there isn't. Live here for a while, and I guarantee you than you will start feeling like something is missing. What is missing is the life that fanatically enforced rules of behavior necessary for efficient production kills. They turn you into a machine, and in return they give you a house--except you have to take time off spending with family and friends to mainatain that house, and you, after years of working away from them, loose touch. That's the Glendale formula: Shut up and work! Shut up and eat! Shut up and Enjoy!

It's a big problem. Really. If only H. Fucktardici would admit that there is a problem. But they don't. They don't admit it because if they did it would be too overwhelming. They've been rotting in peace for so long that to now arrest the rotting-in-peace would be too difficult a task for them. It would be akin to having to take their after-work fat asses soaking in a comfortable bath of scented warm water and emersing them in an--ice bath. Just like kicking a heroin habit. Comfort is the answer in the absence of meaning for H. Fucktardicus.

Indeed, H. Fucktardici are junkies, except in a humiliatingly paradoxical sort of way. Because what they think makes them normal, living a comfortable life in a big house with all the luxuries that they need, is exactly what makes them abnormal, people who think that the purpose of life is comfortable oblivion extended for as long as it can be extended--and that is exactly what junkies think, except junkies are more honest: they do it directly and get a far better rush.

If you ever really want to know the true meaning of indz inch, talk to a junky. I've known junkies in my life, and I can tell you that they really, really, really don't give a damn. To them, there is only one purpose in life: the comfort of heroin, the regression to the womb. Nothing else matters. They could be sitting waiting to become the next sacrifice in an Aztec ritual where they pull your intestines out of your ass, tie it to a stick, and set it on fire, and the junkies wouldn't give a damn as long as they got to stay high.

There is only one other class of human that can match the complete indifference of junkies, and that is the class of bitter old men who've suffered enough. They, too, really don't give a damn. They, too, can look at a bloody car accident and get more caught up in the carnage than the tragedy, but not much more, because not even the carnage is so interesting to them. Maybe they'd say, "Oh, that's so sad," because that is what is expected of them, but then they'll turn around and walk away, back to the bed, back to comfort. Junkies and old, old men are respectively representatives of active and the passive hedonism in that sense. The only real difference between one type of Glendale resident and another type of Glendale resident.

Because Glendale is all about hedonism, which is alright in a sense, except in Glendale, among other things, there is a weird kind of liberal-democratic hedonism, which is to say hedonism that likes to, on top of everything else, enjoy itself through a hypocritical, pseudo-moral lense, even as it chants its mantra: indz inch? If you can believe that such a thing is possible: to assert your morality, even as you say that you don't give a damn. It is an amazing feat, so let me explain.

Saying I don't give a damn while at the same time saying I care about ethics clearly puts a person in a bind. The miraculous Glendalian philosophical feat in undoing this Gordian knot that lets Glendalians conquer, erm, "Asia"-in-the-form-of-a-McMansion is to explain it this way: By taking responsibility for putting myself in a state of witless, shitless, brainless state of comfort, I spare other people from the responsibility of putting me in a state of witless, shitless, brainless state of comfort.

See how that works? See how "I don't care" in the perverted logic of Glendale becomes the pinnacle of civilization and an act of courage? It's really rather amazing.

All of which is why the drug of choice for this indz inch culture isn't heroin, but Xanax and its relatives. Heroin, after all, takes some balls to do. You can't get your Armenian doctor, brimming with understanding and sympathy that they are, to prescribe you heroin, but you can get him to prescribe you Xanax. The way it works out in this American life, taking a drug that gives you a spiritual orgasm of pleasure isn't OK, but taking a drug that severs the sinew attaching your soul to the world, making you simply indifferent--without causing pleasure--is reasonable. With the former drug you'd be tempted to sit on ass and drool, but with the latter one, Xanax, you can continue to go to work.

And that is essentially what H. Fucktardicus is: A worker and a consumer of garbage, and a rather stupid, obedient one.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

W.H.O. Alert: H. Fucktardicus spotted in Yerevan!

Here's evidence of an Homo Fucktardicus apparently asking for the camera that just took a picture of him, but, obviously, not being very successful. Because, well, here's his picture:

Get profession you fucktard. What is this? Chauchesku? Jesus, what is it going to take for those who are professionally supposed to oppose us to get an account with Wal-Mart and have their slave-driving professionals deal with with this (our) bullshit?

I mean, seriously: when is the KGB, I mean GRU, going to sign-up with Wal-Mart?

Picture courtesy of Tzitzernak. Originally the picture is from an A1 article about hoodlums harassing Armenian Congress supporters, which I think means that the picture is really the courtesy of A1.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

What I fear most in this life in Glendale.


I've been through a few of them. The first (terrifying) time, I was at Glendale High School, and I literally saw the Earth wave with waves that you usually see in Water. The earthquake hit, and they brought us all out to the field, the football field. And then, there was another quake. And I saw, we all saw, nature turn on "her" head and the entire field of grass--there's no name for it--wave like as if it were water. Imagine what its like when you dip your finger in a glass of water, and imagine how it would look like as if it were a field of grass. Waves flowing across a football field.

Then the next time it was at Pasadena City College. And this was the--truly--horrifying experience, because it didn't involve nature, but--people: We were in class; I was a stupid Armenian hick in philosophy class, discussing philosophical issues. I think the class was about "Ethics." Yeah, right. Laugh your ass off.

But, then, an earthquake hit. If it were a movie, it would have hit right in the middle of a discussion about Plato's justified lies. Except it wasn't, and it hit right in the middle of an idiot expressing a completely idiotic thought, which is what 99% of what the American university experience is about. In other words, there was no beauty to to it. But, whatever.

Then the ground shook. Not in the way that you would expect it, however. It shook in long, slow waves. Long and slow, like a merciful lover. We all thought that we were going to die. I remember looking at the ring hanging at the end of a string, attached to the the pull-down projection screen, waving back and forth, real slowly. Back... and forth. I remember the look of panic in the teacher's face, and I remember all of us ducking under our desks, as if the gazillion pounds of concrete that would rain down on us would be stopped by by the one-inch thick surface our desks. Ridiculous. I remember looking at my classmates with that cowardly expression of an animal about to die. There was no courage there. There was no character there. It was just middle-class people shitting their pants. That was it. It was a very clear look at who we were, and who we were was scared shitless nobodies. But that's a different story.

I remember us leaving the classroom, and "calmly" exiting the building. And that is the truly horrifying part. People "calmly" exiting the building. Because, truth be told, nobody was "calm." Everybody was terrified. You had to make a choice at that moment about whether you were a frightened animal, willing to step over other animals, or whether you were a human being, trying to be calm. That's a tough choice. I made mine, and I don't want to again.

So, what I fear most in this life in Glendale is an earthquake. Not the mafia.

The mafia, or let's call it by its real name, the akhperutiun, does things for a reason, but an earthquake happens for--no--reason, whatsoever. An "akhper" will antagonize you for a reason, but an earthquake will happen for absolutely no reason. So, in that sense, there is something WAY tougher than the mafia in Glendale: Earthquakes.

Irrational death sentences. What does the akhperutiun have to compare to that?

Monday, April 13, 2009

Homo Fucktardicus Ground Zero

Homo Fucktardicus Ground zero:

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Within less than a quarter of a mile there on the corner of Dryden and Pacific there must be about 5 Armenian grocery stores. One of them is connected to Armenian mafia money, I think, like King Market in Pasadena, rumored to be connected to good old depressed Serzh Sargsyan. I don't have any hard evidence for this, the former, except the fact that it is way, way too clean to be a real Glendale-based operation and the people who run the place are fat, overbearing, abusive, and totally spoiled degenerates.

For example, I was there the other day, and this fat guy (I know, I said "fat" already, but these people really are fat all around) drove up in a, surprise, surprise, Mercedes, and he started to talk to one of the girls who works there, on her break. She was sitting at a table, having a cup of coffee. She was pretty, but (/and?) she was poor, obviously, working as a cashier. She also wasn't in her twenties anymore, and the stress of being in that, erm, position, I could read from her face, mainly from her eyes.

I was parking the car right in front of the table she was sitting at (probably in violation of a Glendale city ordinance, the tables were set right in front of parking spaces, not that I care much about propriety, but, anyway), and she caught my eye, and held it, for far longer than a woman who is financially secure would. That's how I knew she was poor: she didn't like her job, she didn't like her life, and she was looking at me, a passerby, as a possible knight in shining armor. That's real life. Beyond all the happy hallucinations that television fills people's minds with, real life is sex, drugs, and poverty, meaning being somebody's bitch, and, oh, the night-time gnashing of teeth--but that's another story.

So this dick-head comes out of his Mercedes, holding his cell-phone in one hand and his car keys in the other hand, sporting a gold bracelet, jeans-with-leather shoes, designer shirt, primmed-up like a princess, and obviously an idiot, and starts talking to her. At first, the chatting seemed friendly. Like, Hi, is everything OK, is everything going well, and all that. But towards the end of the conversation the fat-ass dickhead started swinging his car keys and the woman in question started looking tense. Y'all know what I'm talking about. That's Homo Fucktardicus.

That is capitalism in action. The Russian 90's have been imported here, in Glendale, with all of the brutality that went on. If I had the courage, I would have taken the pen that I had in the glove compartment and stuck it right in the bully's eye.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Why did Russians kill this man?

Russians will pay for a long time for this. They killed him:

And let me repeat this: Why did Russians kill this man, and why did people like Kocharian and Sargsyan approve?

I'm not a Monte Melkonian fan. He said many things that are lies. But you can't murder people like that. I know his brother said that everything was un-suspicious. But I think the man was murdered.

I think the Russians killed him.

OK, so sue me. Nobody this cool dies a natural death.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Meet Homo Fucktardicus.

According to wikipedia "[homo sapiens sapiens] have a highly developed brain, capable of abstract reasoning, language, introspection and problem solving." Really? Wikipedia is very generous. You've got to know that they're English socialists, especially when you consider the 2004 US presidential elections when George still-figuring-out-the-opposable-thumb-thing Bush got elected.

But, whatever. It's not like I'm bitter about the entire American population electing idiots as presidents for the last thirty years starting with Ronald fucktard Reagan while laughing at everybody who disagrees... or anything like that. No, It's actually quite entertaining to see Reagan supporters from back when I was a kid all of a sudden start talking about the importance of government regulation. It's funny. These slime-bags, and I mean SLIME-BAGS, who used to talk about people pulling themselves up by the "boot-straps" are now eeking out a living on Medi-care and Medi-Cal (California, state-sponsored health insurance) that pays all of their fucking bills while they sit on their asses and wait for the inevitable to happen. They're all socialists now. Thirty years ago they were "entrepreneurs."

It's hilarious to watch big-time investors in the stock market loose 40% of all of their investments: "Big time" in their own heads, small time in their bank accounts. Nowadays they are all saying the same fucking thing: "A little regulation is a good thing." Really? I don't think so, assholes: why don't you pull yourselves up by your bootstraps? You rugged individualists want your diapers changed now? Fuck You!

And most of the people that I know personally who used to talk like that are, yes, Armenians--Glendale Armenians. Which brings me to the creature at hand: Homo Fucktardicus.

Homo Fucktardicus is a new mutation off of the Homo sapiens sapiens branch. Homo Fucktardicus branched off around the year 1984. Ignorant, but arrogant; wealthy through borrowing hundreds of thousands of dollars and enslaving their very own kids to the responsibility of paying it back; authoritarians in the home, but really wage slaves at work--Homo Fucktardicus rules Glendale.

The Homo Fucktardicus ideology has conquered all. All over Glendale you can witness piss-ant wage slaves in their Mercedes Benzes. They're going to be paying for that car for at least the next ten years. You can see them talking on their cell-phones as if they are deciding the fate of the Asian continent, except they are telling their bosses that, yeah, they'll sacrifice a vacation day to mind the cash register at the store.

Indeed, I give you: Homo Fucktardicus. Armenian materialist idiots. People, as they say, that will crawl over their dead mother to fuck their sister.

Homo Fucktardicus: Damn you shit-heads to hell!