Our Manifesto--Now With Pornography!!

So tell me, readers, do you like that title? Does it make you feel good about the site you enjoy reading so much? Because I assure you: if more computer readers do not start visiting this site soon (so that I can MONETIZE it), "Our Manifesto--Now with Pornography!!" will not be just the title of a single blog entry; it will be a quotidian, relentless, and irreversible alteration in the material conditions of this website.

Why? Because the one thing that computer readers wish to see more than anything else--more than celebrity interviews, more than film reviews, more than photos of cute animals accompanied by amusing captions--is pornography. In other words, it is beginning to appear that I will not be able to make any money off of this website unless I transform it into a pornographic website. And so I ask again: Is this really what you want?

I believe that I have been patient--and more than patient--in my largely unsuccessful attempts to increase readership. I believe that I have explained--perhaps not in so many words, but I've made it perfectly clear--that I find myself in dire financial straits. Indeed, so dire are those straits that I have been willing to make substantial--and, to me, not entirely amenable--modifications to this site in order that I might raise money from it like so many other important people have been able to do. It's not that I blame you dear reader--good heavens no!! No, not really. I understand perfectly well that you would rather read about the latest celebrity "hook up" (whatever that means) than ponder my airy musings regarding some obscure aspect of Hegelian thought. I understand this fact, and I have made accommodations to this fact.

But the question now stares us directly in the face, you and I: Must those accommodations include Bukkake?

How do you like that word? Because I assure you, the next time you see it on this website, it will not be the word alone with which you must deal, but the grotesque and wholly nauseating reality which that word denotes. And again: do you think the MILF craze has peaked, or would I be wise to pack my site with videos of older-but-not-yet-menopausal women engaged in sex acts? Is it your considered opinion that it would be wiser for me to focus on the more "mainstream" pornographic genres, such as "babes," "girl-girl," and "anal" (and in what kind of depraved bourgeois dystopia has "anal" become mainstream?), or do you think that the real money is to be made in the niche genres such as "fisting," "gangbang," "BBW," "watersports," "hentai," and "scat?" I would like to know; I really would. Because the clock is ticking and I need to MONETIZE soon.

Well, there you have it. No need for acrimony, no need for hurt feelings. The above considerations have pointed out the course of action which each of us must now faithfully pursue if we wish to prevent this site from being inundated (by me) with a torrent of filth to which millions of readers would, alas, flock. You must work in your sphere--raising awareness, manning the phones, direct mail, etc.--and I in mine (i.e.--performing the intellectual labour which makes this website a reality). When next we meet, I hope to have gladder tidings.


Legal Update: I have to report (literally, it turns out) that the l'affair d' my Paul Robeson pen has been resolved. As per the settlement agreement (which includes the public disclosure of said settlement on this website), Lindsay Lohan has returned my Paul Robeson pen, and I have given Ms. Lohan the high-end gift basket which my secretary--who has since fled the country on an entirely unrelated matter--promised her in an email. I must tell you that no one was more surprised than I to learn that the State of California considers emails to be legally binding contracts. So, long-story-short, it cost me $1,500 to get my Paul Robeson pen back. That sounds fair. OH WAIT IT DOESN'T.


Legal Update II: I must say (again, literally) that I in no way intended to imply that the aforementioned legal settlement was unfair to either of the parties involved.

Legal Update III: I decided to get a two-fer out of the shyster I was obliged to hire, so I consulted him about another unfortunate situation as well. I am very sorry that Melanie Pricksinge has somehow inferred from my jocular correspondence with her father (for which, see below) that she might be my daughter. This inference is wholly unfounded and inaccurate. I have been, for my entire life, both infertile and impotent, so there is not even a reason for the DNA test which she is now demanding.

Update on my stolen Paul Robeson Pen

I am sure that my readers are as anxious as I to put this horrendous and excruciatingly absurd episode behind them, but the wheels of justice turn slowly (when they turn at all), and I am not yet able to proclaim to the world that my Paul Robeson pen is back in my possession. But progress has been made. ARE YOU READING THIS LINDSAY?--PROGRESS HAS BEEN MADE.

I am happy to report that the fine members of the Los Angeles Police Department are now on the case, and are valiantly expending the manpower and resources necessary in order to bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion (for me: my Paul Robeson pen back; for Lindsay Lohan--JAIL!). I have spoken several times with the incredibly courteous and knowledgeable police sergeant Dennis Becker (not his real name, but I assure you that he is very real, and not just a name I got from the Rockford Files), and do you know what he told me? He told me that this is not the first time that Ms. Lohan has, shall we say, absconded in a felonious manner with stolen things that were not her property and did not belong to her. Apparently there was a fur coat; oh, and some jewels too, I hear.

I asked Sergeant Becker how it was that this seemingly master criminatrix has evaded the long arm of justice for so long. "Well you see," he explained with a weary smile, "when we're dealing with a criminal who is a rich parasite sucking the life blood of the workers, the usual rules simply don't apply. With all of the power that the oppressor class wields over the legal system, it's a miracle we're ever able to hold them to account for their manifold crimes. Goodness," he added jocularly, "someone needs to brush up on their Gramsci!"

As the commendable Los Angeles police department closes the dragnet around the bony ankles of a certain Hollywood starlet, I can think of someone else who might want to take a look at Gramsci--specifically, his Prison Notebooks!!



Update: A former colleague of mine--lumpen through and through and, as you will see, a real gas-bag--has contacted me in order to express his "regret" (surely! surely!) at my decision to work with the outstanding Los Angeles police department. Alejandro Pricksinge (he pronounces it, get this, PRYSING!) writes:

Well, well, "Fred," congratulations on your elevation to the ranks of the ruling elite. Are you surprised to hear from me? I'm not sure why: adopting a pseudonym is always less effective when its accompanied by a recent photograph of yourself. Evidently, freelancing for Liposuction Monthly is more remunerative than I would have thought, considering that it has induced you to renounce your old "principles" and embrace the very institutions of class oppression which you once denounced at such interminable length. Do I exaggerate? Allow me to quote from your Encyclopedia Establishmentaria:

"Policeman": Noun: A criminal whose crimes are legal; A sadistic bully hired by the rich in order to more perfectly oppress the poor; A traitor to the people; A parasite; A shabby fellow.

Not convinced yet? How about this zinger from your article "Puck the Fool-Lice":

"Behold the arrogant, bloated, slobbering Sepoy as he approaches, doughnut-jelly dripping from his chin and the blood of the working class dripping from his truncheon. Can he "assist" you? Yes, I'm quite sure that he can assist you--right out of a full set of teeth, right out of your civil liberties, right out (on an especially busy day) of your very life itself. Can such a grotesque figure be reformed? No more so than a viper or a Bengal tiger. In fact, in the future they might well put a few of them on display in the local zoo; a grim reminder of how bad things were in the bad old days."

Now, Fred, I'm not saying that I'm surprised by your sudden embrace of the Los Angeles Sepoy Department: your relationship with your exhaustingly explicated "convictions" has always been a bit, to put it politely, strained. Still, with this retrograde act you have officially dropped from the ranks of the useful idiots and into what is undoubtedly, for you, a much more comfortable position: parasitic pouncey-boy.

Cheers,

Alejandro

P.S.--how does the blood of Rodney King taste?

My readers might like to know that I have written the following response to Mr. Pricksinge, who, incidentally, once joined the Black Panthers just so he could get in on their community breakfast program:

Dear Alejandro,

it has been a long time, hasn't it? How's the Battle of Seattle going? Still think the revolution is going to be made by a bunch of teenagers whose main grievance is their inability to download free songs from the internet? But lets not dwell on your complete betrayal of sound marxian principles--I'd rather focus on all the good work you've been doing for that noble institution The Church of Scientology. Glad you're out there defending it from the absurd supposition that it's an even more obvious scam than western monotheism is. By the way, I just got a message from Xenu--he says "You're Doomed!"

Now be a good little thimble-rigger and shamble on back to your plush home and unbelievably bourgeois family.

Update: My sense of fair-play ineluctably constrains me to to publish Mr. Pricksinge's response to the above note.

"Well, Fred, I must say that I'm not surprised that you've pulled out the old Scientology canard--you're nothing if not an unoriginal hack. As for the Black Panthers business, I'm surprised to hear you mention it since you once told me that you were considering joining Hamas in order to get your inoculations up to date. I am a little bit startled that you would attempt to drag my family into the sphere of your oh-so-impotent wrath: If you had a family, or any friends, I certainly would not do the same. Now toddle on back to your new job as Apologist-in-Chief for the L.A.P.D."

Here follows my (alas, necessary) response to the above damp squib:

"Alejandro, go fuck yourself you thimble-rigging, time-serving, bourgeois-manque. Your lame articles in Backhand magazine are read only by spittle-chinned Stalinists and assorted est survivors. And I would not have brought up your family at all were it not for the fact that I was fucking your wife throughout most of the 1980s and may in fact be the father of one of your amazingly unphotogenic brood (can you guess which one? IT'S MELANIE!) In just one word, Alejandro, scurry on back to your miserable perch as full-time misleader of the people and leave the job of educating the masses to people who aren't waist-deep in the shit of their own bourgeois apologetics."

I have to apologise to my readers for allowing this correspondence to go on too long. After all, I did promise that this site would no longer focus on intellectual topics, and here I am publishing a lengthy correspondence which must appear to many of my readers to be carried on some alien, hyper-esoteric language. Well, next post will be--hand to heart--a real crowd-pleaser. Unless of course my Paul Robeson pen has not yet been returned to me.

Photos of Adorable Animals

Here is a photo of adorable animals--a genre that millions of computer readers enjoy immensely. I am told that their enjoyment is made the more piquant when a humorous or insightful "caption" is appended to the animal photo.

Hey you fucking bitch, why did you steal my Paul Robeson pen?!

Here is another animal photo that millions of readers will want to look at.

Just remain very still and the humans might not exterminate us through their greed and lack of concern for the environment.

Photos: Getty Images, 6/16/2009


Now, I would like to begin the MONETIZING process as soon as possible, so would all of my readers please alert the other computer users to the fact that I now have cute animal photos and celebrity interviews and film reviews on this site, and it is no longer just about really intellectual things?

The Interview: Lindsay Lohan

Before posting the interview, I'd like to give you a quick update on what's going on with me. I have relocated (temporarily) from my "home" in south Florida to Los Angelas. This is actually capital news! LM magazine is putting me up in motel here for two weeks while I conduct research for an article they've commissioned me to write about the liposuction habits of famous movie stars. Of course, any idiot could have figured out that I don't need two weeks to do research on such a boring and pointless topic, so I'm spending most of my time working to increase the readership of this blog, with the ultimate goal of MONETIZING it.

Towards that end, I have arranged to conduct interviews with a number of famous persons who, according to a computer search I did, are just the type of people that computer readers like to read about. (In order to ensure that all of the interviewees will feel entirely at ease, these interviews will be conducted in my small motel room, away from the prying eyes of the mainstream media.)

And now, on to the interview!


Me: Lindsay Lohan, welcome.

Lindsay Lohan: Thanks.

Me: Who are you, exactly?

Lindsay Lohan: (Long Pause). You don't know who I am?

Me: Well, to be perfectly honest, until yesterday I was under the impression that you were a man.

Lindsay Lohan: Why? Why did you think that? That's pretty ridiculous . . .

Me: Now, now, let me explain. You see, where I come from, the name Lindsay is more often the name of a man than of a woman.

Lindsay Lohan: I'm sorry, where do you come from?

Me: I'm originally from Jersey. Anyway, I was about to say that not only did I believe that you were a man, but I somehow got it into my head that you might be a rear-admiral. You know, something ghastly like "Rear-Admiral Sir Lindsay Crohmer Lohan."

Lindsay Lohan: Excuse me, but I don't actually have all day for this. . . Aren't you supposed to do some sort of basic research before doing an interview?

Me: Well, I did do some basic research yesterday. That's when I found out that you are actually a woman.

Lindsay Lohan: Well done.

Me: But I still have no idea why you are famous. Why are you famous?

Lindsay Lohan: You did research on me but you still don't know why I'm famous? Look, the gift basket you promised me better be completely off the hook because this is . . . not really an interview.

Me: Yes, we'll get to the gift basket. I should have warned you in advance that I have a very "intellectual" interview style. I like to shock and surprise my subjects with questions that other interviewers may not think to ask. Do you know the American film actor Tom Hanks? Just ask him.

Lindsay Lohan: (says nothing).

Me: Anyway, could you please tell me why you are famous? I genuinely don't know . . .


Lindsay Lohan: Well, I'm an actress. You actually did research on me and didn't come up with the fact that I'm an actress?

Me: Sadly, no. I did a computer search on your name, and the first 200 hits I got were all photographs of your vagina. That's how I figured out that you are a woman. However, the photos did not have a caption saying that "this vagina belongs to a movie star." The captions only said "this vagina belongs to Lindsay Lohan."

Lindsay Lohan: I'd like my gift basket now.

Me: So! You are a famous actress! What films might I have seen you in?

Lindsay Lohan: (Ms. Lohan has picked up a pen from my bedside table and is examining it intently). Did you see A Prairie Home Companion?

Me: Never heard of it. And, erm . . . would you please put that pen down? It used to belong to Paul Robeson and it's very valuable. His granddaughter gave it to me.

Lindsay Lohan: Who the fuck is Paul Robeson?

Me: (Long pause as I struggle against homicidal rage). This Interview is over.

Lindsay Lohan: Good. Give me my gift basket.

Me: (Long pause while homicidal rage subsides). I'm sorry, I wasn't supposed to say that yet. I apologise.

Lindsay Lohan: Actually, I don't think you are ever supposed to say that. But seriously, I was promised a gift basket with stuff from Godiva, Lancome, Prada . . .

Me: Oh . . . my secretary said that, did she? I'm afraid she exaggerated a bit. But I can give you a naval orange and a half-empty bottle of Jergins.

Lindsay Lohan: Deal.

Me: Good. This interview is over.


UPDATE: The pen is gone! Gone! That fucking bitch stole my Paul Robeson pen! And she doesn't even know who Paul Robeson was! THAT'S THE WORST PART!

The Review: Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen

When a public intellectual writes a film review, she (or he!) is actually reviewing two things: the film in question, and the society which produced it. While much attention is paid to the creative and artistic impulses which underpin the film's unfolding vision, equal attention must be paid to the material conditions and social relations which constitute the film's very raison d'etra. In the case of Michael Bay's provocative and challenging study Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen, the reviewer can be excused for providing a small history lesson by way of introduction.

In the immediate aftermath of the second world war, the United States emerged as aggressive, expansionist empire promoting the "shock doctrine" of global capitalism. Racial oppression at home and imperialist military conquest abroad were the order of the day. However, in the late 1960s and on into the 1970s, a group of dedicated, selfless men and women emerged to challenge the status quo. Through organizing, writing, protesting, and poster-making, these brave workers sought to raise awareness of the unsustainable contradictions which underpinned American society, and to give a firm nudge to the unfolding dialectic of capital and labour.

These people became known as "the Transformers."

But then, in 1980, Ronald Reagan was elected President. Despite the subsequent release of the Clash's album Sandanista, and the invention of the Reagan '84: War '85 bumper sticker, nothing the Transformers could do was able to hold back the darkness, which has lasted until this very day. The Transformers had "fallen" on very hard times indeed.

However, beginning in late 2007, something exciting happened. The unsustainable contradictions of global capitalism finally lurched their way into view. The ensuing global depression--the inevitable result of capitalist exploitation and environmental degradation--offered the Transformers their chance for Revenge, and they have taken it with gusto. Never before have anti-global finance opinion articles been so easy to write; never in history have anti-corporate bon mots tripped so easily off the tongue.

Bay's film (his first, I believe) considers these developments in light of the sassy and irrepressible Nada M., a dedicated Transformer who is herself transformed over the course of the film from conscientious but morally paralyzed wall flower into no-holds-barred critiquing machine. Audiences will shudder with approval as, by the film's third act, Nada is spitting in Alan Greenspan's soup, lecturing World Bank dictator Robert B. Zoellick about the evils of compound interest, and--in the film's stand-up crowd pleasing moment--kicking Donald Trump in the balls. Whoops--I probably should have put a SPOILER ALERT before that last one!

Anyway, the film is directed with calm, steady hand, and the performances--especially that of Nada S. as Nada M.--are lively and transgressive. Four Stars!


My Rating: Four Stars

Readers' Rating: Three Stars


UPDATE: One of my readers has sent me the following rude and inaccurate message: "Why are you writing a review of a film that you obviously haven't even seen? Isn't that unethical? The film has nothing to do with global finance; it is based on a line of toys from the 1980s, and is about cars that "transform" (get it, putz?) into giant robots. Are you a pathological liar, or is it just a fun hobby for you?"

Well, leaving aside this person's vulgar and thimble-rigging tone, I wish to say that I most certainly have seen the film, but, at the same time, I admit that I probably should not have attempted to write the review without having my notes from the film to hand. Let me just go over them now, to see if I can add anything of substance to the above review.

Well yes, I can see here that there was a toy which, I think, transformed into a car and then . . . later on, I believe, it, erm, transformed into a robot. Yes, yes, now I recall, it transformed into a very large metal robot. And then into a toy. Well come to think of it, this movie may not have been quite as good as I initially claimed it was; I'm taking away one of the stars. Three stars.

And then, lets see here . . . there was also, whats this? oh god, now I remember--an explosion that lasted for twelve minutes. That sounds dreadful. I'm taking away all of the stars. Zero stars. Do not see this film.

My Rating: Zero Stars

Readers' Rating: Three Stars


UPDATE: Irritating reader G.B. has written again and is still unsatisfied with the review: "What is wrong with you? Can't you just admit the review is phony? Or why don't you go and actually see the film and then write a real review? P.S.--there was certainly not a "twelve minute explosion," although that would most definitely have rocked."


Well, G.B., you've got me. I didn't see the film. Until yesterday I had never even heard of the film.

You might recall, G.B., that I AM ATTEMPTING TO ATTRACT MORE READERS TO THIS SITE SO THAT I CAN MONETIZE IT. You might recall that. So yes, I did a computer search of popular things that lots of people are interested in, and this film was near the top, along with a fellow name Lindsay Lohan (sounds like a rear-admiral, doesn't he?) and penis enlarging. I thought it not unreasonable to conclude that many people on the internet would come to my site if I wrote a review of this popular film. Well, to further set the record straight, I actually do know who Michael Bay is, and I would sooner sit through a ten-hour prayer breakfast at the Club for Growth than watch another of his flaming shit-kabob "films." Hence, I wrote a concise and intellectually engaging review of a film that ought to have been made under the title Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen. And lest you are tempted to mount your high horse yet again, G.B., I pretty much tipped my hand when I wrote that Bay directed the film with "a calm and steady hand"! Didn't that clue you into my little scheme? BECAUSE MICHAEL BAY USES THE CAMERA LIKE A RETARDED TEENAGER WITH STAGE 5,000 PARKINSON'S DISEASE. ZERO STARS.

My Rating: Zero Stars

Readers' Rating: IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT MY READERS THINK BECAUSE THEY ARE OBVIOUSLY A BUNCH OF PUERILE FAN-BOYS WHO NEARLY HAD A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN TRYING TO DECIDE WHETHER TO MASTURBATE TO MEGAN FOX OR OPTIMUS PRIME DURING THE MIDNIGHT PRE-SCREENING THEY ATTENDED.

Update!

Well, it looks like things have finally settled down. Enjoy the interview; sorry about there not being any pictures of genitals; and I'm pretty sure that I don't yet have any alert readers, and if I did, they wouldn't be called KF. That about covers it. I'm going to bed.

By the way, once I start getting more readers, I'm completely ready to MONETIZE this site. So that's something to look forward to.

Update

Now the Lawyers tell me that I'm not allowed to pretend that I have an "alert reader KF." Evidently I am not allowed to insinuate in any way that the middle-class moderate-liberal Mickey Kaus, whose blog is called Kausfiles (KF), and who frequently gives shout-outs to various "alert readers," is a reader of this blog.

Update!

Alert reader KF notes that there never actually was a photograph of anybody's genitals posted on this site. Not Tom Hanks' genitals. Not my genitals.

But even he can't deny that the interview is still up!

Update!

Well, as you can see the photo is down again, this time for good. The Lawyers threatened to sue me if I didn't take it down, even though I admitted that it was a photo of MY genitals, and not Tom Hanks' genitals. I'm actually not sure what legal grounds they had to force me to take it down, but the one Lawyer I talked to was pretty adamant that he did not want that photo on the internet anymore.

Update!

Well, as you can see the photo is still up, but the Lawyers tell me that I can no longer refer to it as a photo of Tom Hanks' genitals. It is actually a photo of my genitals.

Anyway, its a pretty good photo.

Update!

It's back up! Turns out that Tom Hanks WAS over 18 when this photo of his genitals was taken. ENJOY!!

Update!

Ha! Just got the green light to put the interview back up. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like I will be able to re-post the photo of Tom Hanks' genitals.

Update!

Well, the lawyers got to me. Had to take down the interview and the photo of Tom Hanks' genitals. Hope you caught them.

An Interview with Tom Hanks

I wish my remaining readers to know that I have taken the decision to alter the nature of this blog. Although I remain a marxist intellectual, and would prefer that my public discourse continue to focus on intellectual topics, I simply gots to get paid. The sad fact is, there are presently very, very few journals which publish the types of pieces which I would prefer to produce. I recently submitted an important article to one of these, LM, which used to be called Living Marxism. Only then did I discover that the journal formerly knows as Living Marxism had folded in 2000, and that LM is now Liposuction Monthly. Fortunately, the editor agreed to publish my piece with the sole stipulation that every instance of the term "corporate greed" be replaced with the term "sagging buttocks." The result is surprisingly readable.

Despite these minor successes, however, I have come to the painful realization that there is very little money to be made in speaking truth to power per se. Per se. I must be, I am told, an entertainer.


So be it.


The following is a transcript of my interview with the American screen actor Tom Hanks, with whom I caught up recently at the Aspen Ideas Festival.

Me: Tom, do you think that Peter Scolari spends all of his time in a dimly lit room, incessantly flipping a coin and muttering "it could just as easily have been me. It could just as easily have been me?"

Tom Hanks: This interview is over.

Me: Because when you really go back and watch Bosom Buddies, the person who really deserved to be a breakout star was Wendie Jo Sperber.

Tom Hanks' Empty Chair: (says nothing).

Me: But of course she had to deal with issues of fat acceptance. Not a cause that you ever really championed, is it? Fat acceptance. (Here I coughed, but made the cough sound like the word "Aids"). Aids acceptance, but never fat acceptance.

Tom Hanks' Empty Chair: (says nothing).

Me: This interview is over.

Note to Lawyers: This interview did not take place and was conducted in a satiric and parodic manner, just like that fake Campari ad where Jerry Falwell had sex with his mother.

Speaking Truth to Power

Since our initial posting, a number of our "friends" have come forward to offer their "friendly" (undoubtedly! undoubtedly!) advice concerning the future direction which this site ought to take. I am obliged to announce that the advice of some of these "friends" has hit rather wide of the mark. A few have told me that the language employed here is not derived from the lexicon of the people; that the people are therefore unlikely to read it; and that those who do read it may--indeed!--form a rather inaccurate understanding of the requirements and desires of the people (!). One fatuous gasbag went so far as to suggest that, in tone and content, the initial posting evinced an "alarming degree of narcissism." (And in case you are still wondering, Dr. Klein, yes, that will be our last session!) Can we treat these suggestions otherwise than as the impotent bleatings of a small faction of time-serving, thimble-rigging, deviationist wreckers? In just one word: it would be inadvisable for us to do so.

This site will continue to do the work of the people. It will employ the language of the people and address the concerns of the people. To demonstrate the firmness with which our finger presses itself upon the pulse of the people, we will now speak to the issue which is at this very moment roiling the waves of public opinion. I speak of the question of whether The Rockford Files (seasons 1-3) are a realistic representation of the life of a private investigator in the 1970s.

Perhaps you wonder why our inquiry must be limited to the first three seasons of the show; any fool could tell you that the show ran for six seasons, from 1974 to 1980. Yes, my friend, but from the very nature of the question you reveal precisely the sort of bourgeois parasite that you are. Cruel Spartans such as yourself can well afford the $180 it would cost to purchase the entire series on DVD. The Helots of this world--and we are 99.999% of it--must trudge four miles to our public library in order to view this program, via a public computer terminal, on Hulu. And Hulu only has the first three seasons available. This is my reality. Deal with it.

Thus we have spoken to the vital question of why we have limited our considerations to the first three seasons of the Rockford Files. We now speak to the question of the show's realism. After repeated viewings of each episode we are prepared to offer some preliminary thoughts. First of all, everyone must agree that if the show is to be viewed in the light of "the real," then we must conclude that Jim Rockford is the best private investigator in the world. How else could he have survived all of those adventures? And yet he lives in a trailer. Is this realistic? Yes, we reply; in the world that our corporate masters have created, competence is punished. How else can my horrific job interview at S---- (see the above post) be explained?

Now for the crux of the matter. We agree that Jim Rockford must be the best private investigator in the world. As such, he must be an expert at spotting "tails" (I have no time to explain the technical jargon to those who are scratching their heads at this moment). And yet Rockford's methodology--upon observing a car in his review mirror, he announces "We are being tailed"--is highly suspect. As you can well imagine, I am no stranger to the problem of unwanted surveillance. Hated by corporations, governments, and world religions, I have spent my entire life dodging those who would learn my secrets. I was once pursued around a Denny's parking lot for four hours. So I speak with monumental authority when I say that not every car in your rearview mirror is following you. Some of them--some of them--just happen to be on the road at the same time.

And if Rockford's "tail" methodology is less than realistic, what can be said of his relationship with his Lawyer, Beth Davenport? Rockford lives in a trailer, he's getting a bit jowly, and--lets face it--he's not getting any younger. And yet he refuses to marry Beth Davenport, who is beautiful and successful. Is this realistic? No, because I would jump at the chance to fuck her every night. Now this is important: note the irrationality of your response. I have employed the language of the people to express an opinion of the people--and you are offended. And yet, if I had offered to hire Beth Davenport for $7.00 an hour without benefits, you would say, "Indeed, what a respectable thing to say, Mr. Madoff." Acknowledge the panopticon, bitches.

The librarian-stooge is beginning to importune me, so we will have to return to this topic at a later time. I will be commenting next on the upcoming G-20 farce, and then I will hopefully have time to delve into the weightier questions of Rockford's relationship with his father, and the prevalence--or lack thereof--of land scams, oil scams and water scams in 1970s California. And, if all goes well, I might even be able to post some first-rate fan fiction that I'm working on as a sidelight, in case my upcoming rebellion fizzles. In just one word: I really think it's turning out well, and there's a very hot sex scene featuring Beth Davenport.

What is our view?

The headlines of the bourgeois press thunder "Panic! Fear! Uncertainty!"; and from the boardrooms of Wall Street the cry rings forth "Save us! Help us! Give us Succor!" But these nattering windbags know not what they are about, and so the question echoes from every tongue, "What do the people think? What is their opinion of the 'Unemployment Problem?'" At every lecture which I deliver, whether it be from atop the steps of the Trade Winds Motel, or from the very corner of Yacht Club Blvd. and N.E. 26th Street, the question eternally recurs: "What is your view on the 'Unemployment Issue?'"

I will answer this question in just one word: Yes, I am unemployed, but so are a lot of other people, and it's really not my fault.

And what, in this era of bourgeois parliamentarianism, do our rulers mean to convey with the word "unemployment?" They mean just this, that, while I certainly am employed at various tasks, I am not employed at at task from which I will receive the remuneration of starvation wages. I am employed, and I starve. They wish me to be "employed," and starving.

But it would take the cold genius of a Malthus--the cruel ingenuity of a Ricardo--to conclude from what I have just said that I have not sought "employment." Because I totally have sought employment.

Can you imagine the scene? I walked into the "human resources" office of a large retailer. I will not divulge which one, but this particular corporation's name begins with an "S" and ends with an "ears." I applied for the position of salesman. Jim, the labour aristocrat who performed to perfection the obnoxious duties assigned to him by the Bosses, wondered if I had qualifications. I replied that I held a doctorate from the University of Heidelberg, and that my dissertation had been on none other than Democritus. It quickly transpired that Jim was unable to conceive of the advantages which my background would bring to the "bottom line." Adopting the pseudo-avuncularism which modern wage relationships enforce upon even the most unpretentious of men, I informed Jim that without Democritus, his customers might very well be uncertain as to whether the items which they contemplated purchasing might not be hazy phantasms. Jim appeared to be staring past my left ear.

"Also," I added, "I am an excellent salesman."

He smiled and handed me a plastic pen. "Are you? Sell me my pen." My stern features rigidly concealed the fact that I was experiencing a brief moment of near-psychotic rage. My mind screamed: "Sell you your 'own' pen, eh? And someday soon you will learn that it is not your own pen--that it doesn't 'belong' to you at all! Yes--and sooner than you think!" I said: "This pen has many excellent features, as well as a few major drawbacks. Which would you like to hear about first?"

Jim took back "his" pen, and informed me that they would keep my application on file. I knew this to be the "lingo" of the corporate bosses, and that this labour aristocrat stooge was going to throw my application in the rubbish bin. "I must tell you something, my friend," I said as I was ushered to the door. "I will say it in just one word: You may not care about Democritus, but, I assure you, Democritus cares about you." I need not dwell on the mortifying denouement of this music-hall farce. Suffice it to say that Jim, after inquiring whether Democritus was "slim" and "normal," agreed to pass his cell number along to that gentleman.

You have demanded to know our view of the unemployment problem, and we have answered boldly. Can the people find employment while those who would hire them are the most reactionary and lumpen of the entire reactionary and lumpen labour aristocracy? The people answer in just one word: "Possibly, but you really need to be qualified for the job you are applying for, and you can't really fake the interview like you could in the 90s."