My generation has abandoned books. 'tis true, the beastliness of it! Since books don't light up or fire lazers or kill anyone, they are pointless and therefore must be used as doorstops. Well, I say 'No' to that logic. Books are the thing that seperates us from the monkeys. You don't see a monkey or ape or a dolphin casually swiming/running/swinging and reading Dostoevskiy! But any child of a certain age is burdened by the great wisdom of the man's books because we are, after all, are humans and therefore should act like it sometimes. Remember, animals use tools (no matter how primitive)!
Anyway, now that my little rant is fin, I can talk about well.. what can I talk about? Oh yes, the constant need of a thing called 'money'. It aggravates me how people throw out things for which other's kill. Seriously, jeans are jeans, come they from Abercrombie and Fitch or Burlington Coat Factory. The fact that they cover your oversized ass should be enough of a reason to pay money for them, don't indulge in false believes that if they have sparkles, your rear is more attractive. No. By GOd no! If you're fat, you're fat. No amount of cloth can chanegt he fact that you are fucking fat. Call me anarexic nazi, but that's the way life goes on in the REAL world.
And now, a bit of literature to brighten the day.
Tell the white man there’s pearl-shell in some lagoon infested by ten thousand howling cannibals, and he’ll head there all by his lonely, with half a dozen kanaka divers and a tin alarm clock for chronometer, all packer like sardines on a commodious, five-ton ketch. Whisper that there’s a gold strike at the North Pole, and that same inevitable white-skinned creature will set out at once, armed with pick and shovel, a side of bacon, and he latest patent rocker- and what’s more, he’ll get there. Tip it off to him that there’s diamonds on the red-hot ramparts of hell, and Mr. White Man will storm the ramparts and set old Satan himself to pick-and-shovel work. That’s what comes of being stupid and inevitable.
From The Inevitable White Man by Jack London
Anyway, now that my little rant is fin, I can talk about well.. what can I talk about? Oh yes, the constant need of a thing called 'money'. It aggravates me how people throw out things for which other's kill. Seriously, jeans are jeans, come they from Abercrombie and Fitch or Burlington Coat Factory. The fact that they cover your oversized ass should be enough of a reason to pay money for them, don't indulge in false believes that if they have sparkles, your rear is more attractive. No. By GOd no! If you're fat, you're fat. No amount of cloth can chanegt he fact that you are fucking fat. Call me anarexic nazi, but that's the way life goes on in the REAL world.
And now, a bit of literature to brighten the day.
Tell the white man there’s pearl-shell in some lagoon infested by ten thousand howling cannibals, and he’ll head there all by his lonely, with half a dozen kanaka divers and a tin alarm clock for chronometer, all packer like sardines on a commodious, five-ton ketch. Whisper that there’s a gold strike at the North Pole, and that same inevitable white-skinned creature will set out at once, armed with pick and shovel, a side of bacon, and he latest patent rocker- and what’s more, he’ll get there. Tip it off to him that there’s diamonds on the red-hot ramparts of hell, and Mr. White Man will storm the ramparts and set old Satan himself to pick-and-shovel work. That’s what comes of being stupid and inevitable.
From The Inevitable White Man by Jack London