Wrath, Groucho:58, 6006 YD
-from David Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive”, 2001
Wrath, Groucho:58, 6006 YD
-from David Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive”, 2001
Gluttony, Groucho:57, 6006 YD (later)
5 Discordian Archetypes:
the Hung Mung totem, or philosophical type Discordian: these are a big fan of using statements like “Nietzsche says” (a fun party game, much moreso than Simon says, but let’s not get into that) or “Thornley and Hill skid into existentialism here”, or “Discordianism is the logical progression of surrealism” and other statements like that to justify why they’re laughing at a 50 year old joke instead of finding the purpose of life, solving the problem of ego, or hooking me up with free cable (and yes, Discordianism is one of the few things in life that is nihilistic and existentialistic simultaneously. Deal with it). They are wonderful people to have on your side in an argument about Ayn Rand, but get a little dull sometimes.
the Van Van Mojo, or magick type Discordian: These folks may call themselves “neo-pagans”, “witches”, “occultists”, “chaotes”, “lv10wizard\lv5psion\lv5sorcerors” or any other number of names, but what they mean is “I light candles, chant, draw sigils and may or may not practice tantric sex, ergo I am awesome”. They are big fans of “calling the pentagon”, giving elemental significance to the 5 apostles, and giving elemental significance to the 5 basic elements (I got boom=fire, sweet= water, prickle=air, pungent=earth, and orange=spirit), and other things like that. Unfortunately, they usualy suck at card tricks, so they lose.
the Sri Syadasti, or psychedelic type Discordian: Ah the Syadasti Discordian. He giggles when its 4:20 and has almost as many Phish albums as he does stories about last year’s Burning Man festival. They’re fun but get rapidly tedious, and if they become convinced you’re from the CIA, its all over (I would tell you to ask Mord the Foul about Lord Omar’s later years, but alas, “they” got to both those pour souls)
the Zarathud, or traditional Discordian: This group loves to go on and on about how much modern Discordianism has deviated from the original vision and why this is bad. These are few and far between, but they are growing, and they’re insidious “Back-to-Principia” movement is gaining sway in many prominent swing states.
the the Elder Malaclypse, or way-out-there Discordian: Our last sub-type are, well, way out there. These people aren’t weird for philosophical reasons, or cuz they’re tripping, or cuz Eris appeared to them after 4 hours of chanting in sanskrit. They’re weird because that’s that and if you think shoes shaped like dinosaur feet aren’t proper attire for a job interview well then you’re just not getting it. These people will either re-define our faith, our eat your dog while composing a symphony made of computer error sounds. Possibly both.
Envy, Groucho:56, 6006 YD
Apparently MTV used to play this at some point. It must have been a while ago, though, somehow I can’t imagine this being sandwiched between Taco Bell and iPod ads during Laguna Beach.
Lust, Groucho:55, 6006 YD
Pablo Picasso was once present at a dinner where one guest loudly denounced modern art. Picasso ate quietly, saying nothing. Later, the same guest showed a wallet photo of his wife, and Picasso asked to look at it more closely. When it was handed over, Pablo stared at it intently and then asked innocently, “My God, is she really that small?”
Greed, Groucho:54, 6006 YD (later)
I really think the Concordia Movement guy is losing (or has lost) it. Grok: Discordianism Linked With Ong’s Hat Cult
Greed, Groucho:54, 6006 YD
by: Episkopos Cain
I thought I had woken up after sleeping uncomfortably in bed, however, this couldn’t be true as there was no longer any bed under me, only a sparkly brown and yellow dirt. I stood up and looked around me. In the distance were mountains, far closer was a low flat topped hill. It was like nowhere I had been before, yet intimately familiar. Then I saw her. Dressed in full bronze armour, a helmet over her head and a double bladed sword in her hand, she walked up to me. As I got closer, I saw that her hair and armour were covered in blood, a large shield with an apple covering it, the word written on it clearly visible.
“Ah” I said. “OK then. Whats all this about?”
The golden eyes within the helm looked at me. “Its for my amusement and for your possible education. After all, isn’t all life
but a learning experience?”
“I thought that was all Yahweh’s shit, testing people and so on?”
“Its not really a test though, is it? You can’t fail, or succeed, only learn from it.”
With that, she beckoned, then turned and started to walk away. I followed, seeing what she had in store. We stopped suddenly. Looking down, I saw two weapons on the ground, a short sword and a hammer. “Choose only one” she said. I thought for a moment, then reached for the hammer. The sword had the advantage of an edge, but was purely a killing weapon. Hammers had utility in their favour. I stood back up straight, but Eris had vanished. Making my way back to the plains, I saw suddenly a flurry of activity there. Walking down the hill, I saw that they were men and women, all busily at work, consuming the resources of the area to make new things. But as I drew closer there were other things I noticed.
They walked curiously, sometimes bumping into others thats transected their paths. Instead of stopping or apologizing, they just carried on. Occasionally when it came to several against one, the one got trampled on. I also watched as they fashioned bladed items and handed them to others, cutting them as they grabbed it and took it to other areas around the plains, where they were dumped in piles for more blind drones to fall over. One man just ate continually as he walked, whatever he could find, if it was food or rock he didn’t care. Blood ran from his mouth and there were children following him, crying out in hunger. Seeing as he was closest, I walked up beside him and shouted “hey!” It didn’t have an effect, so I attempted to grab some of the food he had held against his body by his arm. Immediately, he grabbed me and shouted “get off my stuff, FUCKER!” and nearly broke my arm shoving me to the ground. I let him walk on, then dusted myself off and rubbed my arm until some life came back into it.
Getting up and moving on, I made my slow way to the flat hill I had seen at the centre of the plains, watching as I went the mechanical scenes of destruction and mindless suffering. Making my way onto the flat surface, I saw someone had erected a huge tablet in the centre, with writing on it. Getting closer, the writing was obvious. Words and phrases jumped out, such as “everyone shall be subject only to such limitations as are determined by law solely for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order …”.
Under that though, other words could be noticed, as I drew closer, such as “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” But under that there were even older scratchings and carvings. I made out one barely, that read “ now on, till (Ahura) Mazda grants me the kingdom favor, I will impose my monarchy on no nation. Each is free to accept it , and if any one of them rejects it , I never resolve on war to reign.” But even under these carvings there were the oldest ones, the ones that had always been there. “Blood shall be spilled and more blood, for there is never enough…”, “war brings strength and only the strong have the right to rule” and “cities of the nations the LORD your God is giving you as an inheritance, do not leave alive anything that breathes. Completely destroy them–the Hittites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites– as the LORD your God has commanded you. Otherwise, they will teach.”
I had an idea as to what to do. Lifting the hammer, I swung as hard as possible and struck the tablet. As the first crack appeared, everyone stopped what they were doing, at started to move towards me, an urgency in their step that I hadn’t seen before propelling them. Spurred on, I struck again and again, until the tablet crumbled, its lower sections totally destroyed, collapsing in on itself. But what I saw horrified me. Instead of stopping what they had been doing, or even attacking me, the crowds had turned on each other. They were spilling blood and crushing bones, like a horrible theatre that would never end. I noticed that an armoured figure was beside me again. “Why are they doing this?” I demanded. “Why didn’t it help them?”
“Whoever said it would help?” came the reply from under the helm. “You think they want to have their illusions ripped from them, the true extent of their handiwork displayed for them and everyone else to see? They’ll torture themselves with guilt, unless they can lay the blame on someone else. You were a target first, but then they saw what those around them forced them to do too. Consider the lesson taught.”
I looked back, and no-one was there.
Pride, Groucho:53, 6006 YD (later)
I stumbled across this story today, and am thoroughly amused by what the story could suggest if you were to consider the content “ironic” and decide to read between the lines . . .
Anyone among you thinking of paying a visit to the Gloucestershire village of Leighterton with the intention of burgling the good burghers of that little piece of rural England might want to pick another target, The Sun suggests. That’s because Leighterton is protected by 60-year-old retired farmworker Keith Clifford and his herd of “highly-trained” attack sheep. And in case you’re willing to laugh off the threat posed by the 24 ovine vigilantes, bear in mind that Keith has raised them from birth to strike without mercy – a fact attested by The Sun’s promotion of the woolly Ninjas from “flock” to ruthless wolf-style “pack”.
Keith’s dog Birdie does the recon work, then orders in the pack to eliminate the threat. Keith said: “Normally sheep run away if they are frightened, but these don’t. They are more than capable of handling themselves.” Mercifully, the sheep-pack has not yet been used in anger. The thought of a couple of behoodied ne’er-do-wells being torn limb from limb in a lanoline-lubricated killing frenzy is too horrible to contemplate.
Pride, Groucho:53, 6006 YD
As taught by Wiseass Pomal Coleslaw:
1. lack of pity (not harshness)
2. ingeniousness (not cruelty)
3. tolerance (not negligence)
4. gentleness (not naiveté)
5. humour (not buffoonery)
Sloth, Groucho:52, 6006 YD
-from Mondo Trasho, 1969
(This is probably my favourite scene in any John Waters movie.)