Ole Thomy Capin, always had a song in his heart, that was the problem, always had a song widdlin at his soul even when he thought he'd vainish'd those ole creaky toones. You’d think you could talk to him again and he was all playful, making toys out'a string an twine and helping your sister with groceries, but then a guitar wire would show up in his ball of twine or a passing car radio would blast some godforsaken folk music and ole Thomy would start a singing. You see when Thomy gets a singing he hasn’t care in the world, and doesn’t care who he hurts or how he does it and he gets real funny like.
For example, one cold winter’s night, as a light snow fell on our little town, ole Thomy was fiddling away on quiet street corner about his favorite colors, to no one in particular, since us townies know when we need to stay locked up tight indoors by a roaring fire with a hot cup of cocoa quietly praying to whatever might save us. Unfortunately for a young couple who thought they might come down from the sky lodge for some of our famous spiced cider and rustic tales, but without a pub open and all the shops shuttered they slowly circled towards that frantic music like a couple of June bugs hypnotized by the mantis’s prayers that only they can hear. He slowly brought his fiddle to a rhythmic plateau, cutting short verse about how he loved the black of night before the dawn, to say “ Well, you two look like a couple who likes good music, dont’cha? Of, course you do, well we’ll have a good time then, we’ll have a good time then…” Well those two poor youngins should have known better, but ole Thomy’s curly locks, gentle eyes and corduroy jacket would put just about anybody at ease, not to mention Thomy’s downright uncanny nose for sniff’in out human weakness. Next thing you know out came his jug of spiced cider and a lively tune.
“Well now, what do you folks want to sing about, I think a spider is what I'll be. Imagine all the possibilities…” he trailed off. Most folk would have gotten a little scarred about a lone stranger pretending to be a spider, with all its inferred predatory imagery and alien menace, but these folks had already drank deep of our strong cider, which Thomy had added his own special spices to and as the paralytic, sedative and alcohol weaved their dooming threads through their now addled minds, it was all they could do to stumble about half blind, knowing they should cry out but forgetting how. Before long they were twitching on the shallow snow and out came the twine, ole Thomy singing to himself as he envisioned his new toys and the games he would play with them.
Well the next morning, exhausted from a night of singing, playing and digging a shallow pit in his root cellar, ole Thomy smashed his fiddle screaming at himself. He swore he would never sing a single note again. Of course he knew he was lying. Even at that very moment of ultimate remorse. He would hear the rhythmic swaying of the ice glazed trees, the chirping of the birds, and he knew no matter where he went or what he did the music would find him, because deep down past the barbaric drums and manic chanting, past the mad fiddler who demanded sacrifice, through the frozen ice caves and pits of his psyche, he knew he would always, always, have a song in his heart.
Reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oz9cQOX4X3w
9/04/2011
2/28/2010
Renyold’s Band Omni Media Experience Part 2
Beer my friends that is the catalyst, time travel is not something to be taken literally, wait no that’s not the terminology I intended I am just saying that our understanding on time travel as postulated by such conceptual analysis’s as Terminator, Back to the future and countless other chronological fantasies is false, time travel is not only a MC square type situation it must be done incrementally and in a mentally acceptable fashion, a Marquis De Sade could not fathom a 1950’s America, and thus could not travel directly from point A to point Z. There are many letters between and as far as decomposition goes traveling back 2,000 years could be a life time pursuit, if we are speaking of linear thinking that is, and we are not. It seems the combination of hops (a distant and somewhat homely cousin to the infinitely more flashy Marijuana) and alcohol can warp time, much as mass can and often does. That is the variable which Renyold C. Macantire discovered, that and a secondary but almost comparable discovery, basing the location of the majority of your personal adventures in the environs of British Columbia will automatically give them a gothic quasi supernatural tinge, a natural twilight zone.
With the mechanics of the tale explained let’s get to the 21st , I mean if you’re going to make a time machine into a car, you mine as well do it with style…and unique ability. Having been a subject of the occult since a zygote it is only appropriate that Mayan prophecy would come to fruition through him. Aching for a DUI Renyold burst out of B.C. and trekking till he found the burrito of his dreams passed the 88 mile barrier transcending time and space and kicking relativity in the ass. Babylon, the whore of cities was the first and natural destination, since we ARE living in a Renyold based universe now, that’s right out of billions of years of slag we have about 5,000 years worth of shit. Whether that’s the chronology of a almighty G-d or just a mile stone when the apes stopped throwing shit at each other, Babylon, the Accadian’s the whole civilization deal was bland, flavorless corn fed and weak not unlike our own democracy and needing the “Rock” in the vitalizing tripartite force of love and peace.
Mark Twain understood that the world was not as it should be in both realities, from a red neck child lording over a full grown ‘negro’ to the opposition to genocide in the Belgian Congo the man had come to understand the world through the deluvian tides of the Missouri, Mississippi and in spirit the Nile, hence the birth of rock.
Rock, what is it to the average man, not much, if you’re not the creative type its nothing but noise, but if you have moved passed the classical composers and need a stronger fix, well that’s when the fevered pitch and tone of rock strums the dendrites of the brain just so, bringing a mix of pain and pleasure, not unlike spicy food, onto a conscious level. A Renyold-less world is one of cultureless progress only he is privy to, the rest of us live in a world saturated with his influence, inventing the term Reinformation:
The word Reinformation was first used in 1454 by the Venetian inventor Reduxious Informentii who saw the transformation of Haga Sophia and believed that information itself was being reinvented. This is of course impossible but it was a fun idea to play with like a mental bauble of questionable reality. Of course a definition for this impossibly constructed word remained elusive. So some believed that Reinformation would fade into histories scholarly depths, those people are called retards, and we have special homes for them. The rest of us knew that Reinformation would once again raise its nebulous and improbable head. As for what Reinformation means, to know it would be to read Webster’s dictionary and “ Get it” , to cry when somebody said “no, let me explain it again” knowing that the original explanation died in its birthing so future explanations could live, to change the term Reinformation into a continually changing Noun, Adverb, Adjective, verb, and dangling modifier. Its very nature, when understood, would be change. To know it is to break the surly bonds of human logic and touch the face of G-d… and then to have your hand crumble to dust as you are unclean and unfit.
Babylon
The world of idolatry? Inappropriate, but me and you would have lived in such a pre Enochian moral squallier for an endless eternity if the champion against original sin hadn’t raised his inebriated head above times colossal force and engaged history in a meaningful physical debate. Why not worship a single G-d of immeasurable power? It’s a fun idea, one a supreme deity could get on board with instead of a mass of intelligent apes viciously fucking each other to death within a few generations of a cataclysmic flood. Noah, not the man for the job, everything coming from him being a McDonald’s of humanity, history needed some jumper cables. In the haze of a Urian summer Renyold saw the ziggurats, the layered cake of human expression smacking G-ds sun in the face like a drunken whore (since whores are natures upstarts) in perfect Hebraic Acadian, which all non-knuckle draggers used, he expressed the idea of a tower, not just any tower but one from which the world could wage war on this G-d of everything.
Well I don’t have to tell you things didn’t turn out well for that generation, but the division of the world along linguistic lines spawned endless and deviant understandings of the world, like a fever dream reality took on new form. His brain splintered into seventy odd parts, the conscious disconnected and forlorn from the whole he turned to the trick of the Alzheimer’s patient and taught himself to sing his mind. Music, the shit that keeps the cosmos in order and the sun burning at an acceptable level, suddenly hit human consciousness like a meteor in the Yucatan. Express ones lust for the world in lyrical terms if all sensible cohesion was lost? Give me one good answer to why we should do that? That’s right, sex and peace had competition because humanity finally knew what it wanted to do with its life. For the first time, having lost touch with their co-humanists, eating rotten fruit didn’t seem like a bad idea. Humans and elephants bonding in inebriation couldn’t last, dexterity couldn’t be in hand AND nose, this G-d fellow wouldn’t stand for it, plus we were chosen and that’s just how things work, plus where else am I supposed to store umbrellas.
The world seemed destined for drink and a pitiful future, a bit better then it was before, but still a weak contender till under the fog of pomegranate wine Renyold rode out in his G-d like conveyance leading to a polygamist orgy, though the man isn’t to blame as the only sane reaction to the impossible is a debouch in the name of the infinite. Having laid the fundamental groundwork of his species slow march, Empire, possibly the most ‘Metal’ of institutions, red in claw and tooth, made its appearance on the scene.
A river is interesting thing, a physical representation of persistence, stranding Plesiosaurs inland and transforming once salt water Octopi into freshwater monstrosities, than why not enslave the minds of humanity to a single whim, a sensible jump, no? Why did it take my Childs life? Was it an undercurrent? A Crocodile? Or perhaps a vengeful unknown deity exercising its might to impress and intimidate us. If the last case is true in addition to the wealth such a waterway imparts, it must be appeased, great powers require sacrifice, let us bend society to its diluvian will of flood and famine. Anything fucked into existence is cheap in the absence of sentimentality, while vast waters and high places connect to our primal natures, pyramids in the sand and hanging gardens in the desert, the will of the world had been superseded with fragile civilization aping its might, a tipping point that a drunk and half blind Renyold drove into.
With the mechanics of the tale explained let’s get to the 21st , I mean if you’re going to make a time machine into a car, you mine as well do it with style…and unique ability. Having been a subject of the occult since a zygote it is only appropriate that Mayan prophecy would come to fruition through him. Aching for a DUI Renyold burst out of B.C. and trekking till he found the burrito of his dreams passed the 88 mile barrier transcending time and space and kicking relativity in the ass. Babylon, the whore of cities was the first and natural destination, since we ARE living in a Renyold based universe now, that’s right out of billions of years of slag we have about 5,000 years worth of shit. Whether that’s the chronology of a almighty G-d or just a mile stone when the apes stopped throwing shit at each other, Babylon, the Accadian’s the whole civilization deal was bland, flavorless corn fed and weak not unlike our own democracy and needing the “Rock” in the vitalizing tripartite force of love and peace.
Mark Twain understood that the world was not as it should be in both realities, from a red neck child lording over a full grown ‘negro’ to the opposition to genocide in the Belgian Congo the man had come to understand the world through the deluvian tides of the Missouri, Mississippi and in spirit the Nile, hence the birth of rock.
Rock, what is it to the average man, not much, if you’re not the creative type its nothing but noise, but if you have moved passed the classical composers and need a stronger fix, well that’s when the fevered pitch and tone of rock strums the dendrites of the brain just so, bringing a mix of pain and pleasure, not unlike spicy food, onto a conscious level. A Renyold-less world is one of cultureless progress only he is privy to, the rest of us live in a world saturated with his influence, inventing the term Reinformation:
The word Reinformation was first used in 1454 by the Venetian inventor Reduxious Informentii who saw the transformation of Haga Sophia and believed that information itself was being reinvented. This is of course impossible but it was a fun idea to play with like a mental bauble of questionable reality. Of course a definition for this impossibly constructed word remained elusive. So some believed that Reinformation would fade into histories scholarly depths, those people are called retards, and we have special homes for them. The rest of us knew that Reinformation would once again raise its nebulous and improbable head. As for what Reinformation means, to know it would be to read Webster’s dictionary and “ Get it” , to cry when somebody said “no, let me explain it again” knowing that the original explanation died in its birthing so future explanations could live, to change the term Reinformation into a continually changing Noun, Adverb, Adjective, verb, and dangling modifier. Its very nature, when understood, would be change. To know it is to break the surly bonds of human logic and touch the face of G-d… and then to have your hand crumble to dust as you are unclean and unfit.
Babylon
The world of idolatry? Inappropriate, but me and you would have lived in such a pre Enochian moral squallier for an endless eternity if the champion against original sin hadn’t raised his inebriated head above times colossal force and engaged history in a meaningful physical debate. Why not worship a single G-d of immeasurable power? It’s a fun idea, one a supreme deity could get on board with instead of a mass of intelligent apes viciously fucking each other to death within a few generations of a cataclysmic flood. Noah, not the man for the job, everything coming from him being a McDonald’s of humanity, history needed some jumper cables. In the haze of a Urian summer Renyold saw the ziggurats, the layered cake of human expression smacking G-ds sun in the face like a drunken whore (since whores are natures upstarts) in perfect Hebraic Acadian, which all non-knuckle draggers used, he expressed the idea of a tower, not just any tower but one from which the world could wage war on this G-d of everything.
Well I don’t have to tell you things didn’t turn out well for that generation, but the division of the world along linguistic lines spawned endless and deviant understandings of the world, like a fever dream reality took on new form. His brain splintered into seventy odd parts, the conscious disconnected and forlorn from the whole he turned to the trick of the Alzheimer’s patient and taught himself to sing his mind. Music, the shit that keeps the cosmos in order and the sun burning at an acceptable level, suddenly hit human consciousness like a meteor in the Yucatan. Express ones lust for the world in lyrical terms if all sensible cohesion was lost? Give me one good answer to why we should do that? That’s right, sex and peace had competition because humanity finally knew what it wanted to do with its life. For the first time, having lost touch with their co-humanists, eating rotten fruit didn’t seem like a bad idea. Humans and elephants bonding in inebriation couldn’t last, dexterity couldn’t be in hand AND nose, this G-d fellow wouldn’t stand for it, plus we were chosen and that’s just how things work, plus where else am I supposed to store umbrellas.
The world seemed destined for drink and a pitiful future, a bit better then it was before, but still a weak contender till under the fog of pomegranate wine Renyold rode out in his G-d like conveyance leading to a polygamist orgy, though the man isn’t to blame as the only sane reaction to the impossible is a debouch in the name of the infinite. Having laid the fundamental groundwork of his species slow march, Empire, possibly the most ‘Metal’ of institutions, red in claw and tooth, made its appearance on the scene.
A river is interesting thing, a physical representation of persistence, stranding Plesiosaurs inland and transforming once salt water Octopi into freshwater monstrosities, than why not enslave the minds of humanity to a single whim, a sensible jump, no? Why did it take my Childs life? Was it an undercurrent? A Crocodile? Or perhaps a vengeful unknown deity exercising its might to impress and intimidate us. If the last case is true in addition to the wealth such a waterway imparts, it must be appeased, great powers require sacrifice, let us bend society to its diluvian will of flood and famine. Anything fucked into existence is cheap in the absence of sentimentality, while vast waters and high places connect to our primal natures, pyramids in the sand and hanging gardens in the desert, the will of the world had been superseded with fragile civilization aping its might, a tipping point that a drunk and half blind Renyold drove into.
10/05/2009
Renyold’s Band Omni Media Experience Part 1
Whatever the musings of mad ole Abdul, spooky reed infested eastern European rivers or even the stoning of random victims to enhance the quality of corn pale in comparison to what I am about to tell you, something whose inalienable reality will shatter the reader's mind making all you have ever ‘known’ false and the myth’s and tales you dismissed as wild fantasy…well those might well remain as such, people have creepy imaginations filled with teenage cheer leading vampires and alternate realities which defy even the extensive realities of infinite time, though this my friends is a tale to be told.
December 21st in the year of your lord 2012 a lowly grease monkey by the name Renyold C. Macantire drunkenly fiddled with his vintage Delorean DMC-12, none of that non-vintage Texas based crap, after having left Ohio State University in disgrace and solitude. Not so much laughed out of the University as having failed to keep his GPA up to their ‘academic’ standards due to his irrationally successful canonization of the sacred fraternity of “Tappa Tappa Keg.”
Once believed to be nothing more than an excuse to drink beer and enjoy the collateral effects of women with low tolerance drinking beer he proved beyond any empirical doubt that the whole basis of the fraternity system relied on the sacred order of Tappa Tappa Keg when the order itself was imported from the bohemian classes of primordial Egypt to the fertile and party loving Aegean shores from which such educational orders have sprung. After the Athenian defeat to Spartan Militarism, and TTK’s eminently sensible attitude of staying ahead of the curb in the face of Macedonian ascension they relocated to the German hinterland where their love of Barley and Hops inspired the Germanic peoples for centuries till their gothic descendants overran the decadent wine drinking peoples of the Roman Empire.
Unfortunately for you, the uninformed reader, I have been sworn to secrecy as far as the orders histories from 476 in the year of the 30 year old virgin till 1977 when the unrecorded visitation of the psychedelic group whose thankful attitude for fatality typifies their band, unleashed cosmic forces unknown to man at that time were recorded by none other than myself Blake Newberry in the inland port city of Cleveland Ohio.
With the native, though deceased, powers of American aboriginals released along with the sickeningly powerful emanations of American Rock mixed with the Shamanic resonance of psychedelic fuckupedness passed through the placental barrier to infuse the embryonic Renyold C. Macantire with mystic knowledge only known by a few wizened fading Beatniks who remained as the sole possessors of the ancient knowledge passed through the ages from the banks of the Nile to our present time, a new age/period/epoch/happy-go-lucky-funtime was born.
Unknown to myself who was dealing with my own Demons, literal ones, not some sort of literal device but an actual demon who haunted me and demanded attention so my concern over a mindfucked hippie princess was less than acute, sorry, that’s just how I role, began a domino like effect which would change history forever.
Born some eight months later in the provincial capital of Columbus Ohio Renyold’s life was bonded to the world of Rock and at times Roll with some supernal connection to Jazz, Blues and certain bastardized mixes of rhythm, gospel and soul music. While his youth and adolescence was amazingly interesting to the point of eclipsing any other coming of age story and setting the standard for ‘boy meets girl stories’ in the western world, I cannot mention it both because of his own wishes and due to the restrictive social requirements of the literary world, fuck you Ayn Rand I will form a collectivist socialist state whenever I damn well please. Women. Anyway…
So, post romantic entanglement (ie an abortion later) our man enrolled in good ole OSU, swearing an eternal hatred towards the cannibalistic, adultering, incest loving minions of Michigan State and the hubris of the estrogen fertilized, grade inflating foppishness of the Ivy League, as all good G-d fearing individuals might do, he became privy to such secret mysteries as he had always suspected, thanks to his ability to hold a cherry long enough to drop it in his drink with his butt cheeks, as the members of The One True fraternity have practiced since time immemorial, though bastardized versions of this initiations have permeated the Greek system, degrading such practices with substitutions like olives in Gin, and disgustingly lemon slices in Tom Collins by some fraternal orders, just because something is called a Cocktail doesn’t mean it should be demeaning, but in this case it applies. None the less the pure and ancient ritual almost forgotten, and relegated to a few uninformed campuses until the arrival and return of the high school graduate Renyold C. Macantire, was born anew.
The original name of the fraternity is unimportant, as are most things, lets face it life is pretty meaningless most of the time. What is important is what he learned from the charcoal prints lifted from ancient and destroyed Germanic rune he stole from the inebriated form of a wizened ex-Nazi professor whose grade wrecking ways left him little sympathy, achtung indeed mein furor, during that most Germanic of festivals in the month of October. From this source he was able to deduce the basis of social cohesion.
December 21st in the year of your lord 2012 a lowly grease monkey by the name Renyold C. Macantire drunkenly fiddled with his vintage Delorean DMC-12, none of that non-vintage Texas based crap, after having left Ohio State University in disgrace and solitude. Not so much laughed out of the University as having failed to keep his GPA up to their ‘academic’ standards due to his irrationally successful canonization of the sacred fraternity of “Tappa Tappa Keg.”
Once believed to be nothing more than an excuse to drink beer and enjoy the collateral effects of women with low tolerance drinking beer he proved beyond any empirical doubt that the whole basis of the fraternity system relied on the sacred order of Tappa Tappa Keg when the order itself was imported from the bohemian classes of primordial Egypt to the fertile and party loving Aegean shores from which such educational orders have sprung. After the Athenian defeat to Spartan Militarism, and TTK’s eminently sensible attitude of staying ahead of the curb in the face of Macedonian ascension they relocated to the German hinterland where their love of Barley and Hops inspired the Germanic peoples for centuries till their gothic descendants overran the decadent wine drinking peoples of the Roman Empire.
Unfortunately for you, the uninformed reader, I have been sworn to secrecy as far as the orders histories from 476 in the year of the 30 year old virgin till 1977 when the unrecorded visitation of the psychedelic group whose thankful attitude for fatality typifies their band, unleashed cosmic forces unknown to man at that time were recorded by none other than myself Blake Newberry in the inland port city of Cleveland Ohio.
With the native, though deceased, powers of American aboriginals released along with the sickeningly powerful emanations of American Rock mixed with the Shamanic resonance of psychedelic fuckupedness passed through the placental barrier to infuse the embryonic Renyold C. Macantire with mystic knowledge only known by a few wizened fading Beatniks who remained as the sole possessors of the ancient knowledge passed through the ages from the banks of the Nile to our present time, a new age/period/epoch/happy-go-lucky-funtime was born.
Unknown to myself who was dealing with my own Demons, literal ones, not some sort of literal device but an actual demon who haunted me and demanded attention so my concern over a mindfucked hippie princess was less than acute, sorry, that’s just how I role, began a domino like effect which would change history forever.
Born some eight months later in the provincial capital of Columbus Ohio Renyold’s life was bonded to the world of Rock and at times Roll with some supernal connection to Jazz, Blues and certain bastardized mixes of rhythm, gospel and soul music. While his youth and adolescence was amazingly interesting to the point of eclipsing any other coming of age story and setting the standard for ‘boy meets girl stories’ in the western world, I cannot mention it both because of his own wishes and due to the restrictive social requirements of the literary world, fuck you Ayn Rand I will form a collectivist socialist state whenever I damn well please. Women. Anyway…
So, post romantic entanglement (ie an abortion later) our man enrolled in good ole OSU, swearing an eternal hatred towards the cannibalistic, adultering, incest loving minions of Michigan State and the hubris of the estrogen fertilized, grade inflating foppishness of the Ivy League, as all good G-d fearing individuals might do, he became privy to such secret mysteries as he had always suspected, thanks to his ability to hold a cherry long enough to drop it in his drink with his butt cheeks, as the members of The One True fraternity have practiced since time immemorial, though bastardized versions of this initiations have permeated the Greek system, degrading such practices with substitutions like olives in Gin, and disgustingly lemon slices in Tom Collins by some fraternal orders, just because something is called a Cocktail doesn’t mean it should be demeaning, but in this case it applies. None the less the pure and ancient ritual almost forgotten, and relegated to a few uninformed campuses until the arrival and return of the high school graduate Renyold C. Macantire, was born anew.
The original name of the fraternity is unimportant, as are most things, lets face it life is pretty meaningless most of the time. What is important is what he learned from the charcoal prints lifted from ancient and destroyed Germanic rune he stole from the inebriated form of a wizened ex-Nazi professor whose grade wrecking ways left him little sympathy, achtung indeed mein furor, during that most Germanic of festivals in the month of October. From this source he was able to deduce the basis of social cohesion.
6/30/2009
To you crazy, enigmatic Russians…with Love!
Who the hell gave you the right! Of course as a G-d fearing American Family man I have a G-d given right to all that is mine, manifest destiny and all that Jazz, but you Russians? You are harsh breed running on a flammable mix of Class conflict, Vodka and strategic depth and trusting you with let’s say... The Ukraine, just for example, would be like trusting a starving cat with a lame mouse. How many nations greatest founding figure gets “the Terrible” deservedly in their title? Or have tried atheism as a national religion? Or defined a national strategy as let them invade the most fertile and populous portion of our country and then let the winter take care of them? None, that’s who, just you mother Russia in all your intense yet quick to fade beauty. Sure, we are like you in many ways, we go the whole sea to shiny sea thing going, though outside of the summer months could you really consider the Baltic shinning? And sure your society has traditionally had a democratic ting, though never in an ideological sense, more of a, to keep the competing factions from tearing each other’s throats out and then torching the opposing homesteads before we ourselves succumb to our wounds, kind of way.
Then again either Tartic or Native, we both realized the necessity of pacifying nomadic warlike tribes who we once feared, to further our national pride at the expense of their traditionally savage ways, yes, that’s an ethnic policy we can both agree on. Maybe it’s a Mongol thing, I can’t understand the Chinese for the life of me, just a upside down ant farm, maybe having someone able to rape 40,000 descendents into existence in three generations, conquer and subdue ones nation for almost three hundred years will have that effect on a national psyche, or maybe, just maybe you’re just a dark evil people, a primitive relic of our shared primordial Indo-European past like a Neanderthal Empire threatening our Cro-Magnon civilization, I think I saw a anime about that once and like a randy band of Shemale pirates attacking uptight and sexually repressed Japanese businessmen, high quality low frame rate animation is the highest form of chronological transcription, ah, History!
In short you are a enigma, and as Churchill put it, and yes you will be hearing a lot about him, the only key to your thinking is your blatant, blunt and uncomplicated national interests which seems to be centered around adding more buffer territory, planting more wheat and Potato’s and finding more ethnicities to further stratify your social hierarchy with. So let us camp out in some dismal sod hut, pop open a bottle of home distilled Vodka and fear impending Cossack raids together my friends and allow the horrible, feted, screaming waters of the past to flow under the bridge of our mutual distrust, my friend, my comrade.
Then again either Tartic or Native, we both realized the necessity of pacifying nomadic warlike tribes who we once feared, to further our national pride at the expense of their traditionally savage ways, yes, that’s an ethnic policy we can both agree on. Maybe it’s a Mongol thing, I can’t understand the Chinese for the life of me, just a upside down ant farm, maybe having someone able to rape 40,000 descendents into existence in three generations, conquer and subdue ones nation for almost three hundred years will have that effect on a national psyche, or maybe, just maybe you’re just a dark evil people, a primitive relic of our shared primordial Indo-European past like a Neanderthal Empire threatening our Cro-Magnon civilization, I think I saw a anime about that once and like a randy band of Shemale pirates attacking uptight and sexually repressed Japanese businessmen, high quality low frame rate animation is the highest form of chronological transcription, ah, History!
In short you are a enigma, and as Churchill put it, and yes you will be hearing a lot about him, the only key to your thinking is your blatant, blunt and uncomplicated national interests which seems to be centered around adding more buffer territory, planting more wheat and Potato’s and finding more ethnicities to further stratify your social hierarchy with. So let us camp out in some dismal sod hut, pop open a bottle of home distilled Vodka and fear impending Cossack raids together my friends and allow the horrible, feted, screaming waters of the past to flow under the bridge of our mutual distrust, my friend, my comrade.
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