Wimminz – celebrating skank ho's everywhere

May 5, 2016

How does it feel?

Filed under: Wimminz — wimminz @ 11:23 pm

Slade asked this question in 1973, and answered in it 1974 with Far Far Away…

There are many things that you can wonder how they feel, and it is legal to do so, but not legal to find out, not usually anyway.

The obvious choices are how does it feel to kill another human being, and how does it feel to fuck a seven year old, you can’t join the po-po and find out how it feels to fuck a seven year old, well, you probably can, but it’s not like icing some brazilian wop on the tube by emptying your nine millimeter into his head and never actually getting prosecuted or losing your job…

But, if you were determined enough, and did not mind the consequences, you could go out and do either of those things tomorrow, and know the answer to the question, how does it feel?

There are some things you can’t do though, how does it feel to watch the first man walk on the moon, live, on telly?

Well, lots of people did, and probably felt many similar things, and many different things, but to those who came after, the question is pointless, because the answer is meaningless.

The answer is meaningless because nobody who was alive then is here now, sure, some of us are still alive, but we really are not the same people we were back then, nor is the world the same place.

I suspect there is an academic study somewhere, differentiating between the guy who kidnapped and raped and killed 22 different young girls, and the guy who kidnapped and raped one young girl every day for three weeks before killing her.

How did it feel?

It obviously felt different to these two hypothetical (but probably real somewhere, some place, some time) sex offenders.

You get the same thing in real adult sexual relationshits, 99.99% of the cunt I ever had, I never had an interest in sticking my cock in it a second time, once was enough.

How does it feel? OK, but not good enough to want to go back.

Scientifically I can put all that cunt in one pile, and another pile for the cunt I felt like going back to for re-runs, and tell you that there is no physical differences that I am aware of that can explain it.

How does it feel to be Johnny Ace when he recorded Pledging My Love all by his lonesome, with his guitar and his booze and his reel to reel tape deck and his gun, and then to blow your own brains out.

I can sit here and say the song is moving, but I don’t feel what he felt.

“our song” crock of shit, especially when the DJ plays it and five different couples go out on the dance floor thinking it is their song.

The only feelings I can trust were those I experienced when I was physically alone, no other human beings anywhere near, not for miles, and you watch a sunrise or sun set or moon or whatever in solitude, and even then you knew that whatever you were feeling was largely poisoned or influenced and shaped by whatever human interactions you had had in the past week.

How does it feel?

How does it feel to be a wimminz, or a niggerz, or a twenty something growing up in this world?

I can haz no cheezburger, or no concept, of what they feel, and the inverse is equally true.

I have just watched a young wimminz decide she does not like some aspects of her life, start unfriending people of fuckbook, start burning bridges, but of course as usual it is all the wrong people that get un friended and all the wrong bridges that get burst, and the only words I have to describe it is “fucking mental” and “dangerous to be around”.. she is toxic, like almost everyone else in the modern generations….

I could ask her how does it feel but there is no point, I know the answer, she will tell me it feels like shit.

I have a theory for the absolute fucking *explosion* in the levels of popularity with the younger generations of vampire / witch / magic / supernatural / whatever media.

The theory is that like no generations that have ever gone before, they not only feel totally powerless to influence their own lives and destinies, they now have a digital escape route.

rapists be doing it all wrong, don’t grab the bitch by the throat and drag her into the bushes, just giver her a little VR helmet with a 1080p screen showing Buffy slaying some vampires and bury her head in the sand with her ass in the air and you can do whatever you want to it for as long as you want, park your bike in the crack and come back a week later and it will still be there.

My generation had it down man, reality sucked, it was cause by a lack of drugs, and so on, we had it all down.

The thing was the escapism lasted only so long, you could get an hour out of some grass, three hours out of some speed and six hours out of some acid, mix them all together and you could go 24 hours no problem, keep it up and you could do 72 hours at a gig or rally or party or whatever.

But you always had to come down.

These kids don’t, the skank I was mentioning earlier, during waking hours barely two hours would go by without a fuckbook update, the fantasy infused the reality, the six foot high rabbits chasing my mate as he rode his motorcycle down the lanes one evening, terrified and exhilarated at the same time, nobody else could see that, I only knew he could see that because he told me later, what I saw was something shapeshifting and mythical that scared all the shadows in the hedges back into their lairs.

For the skank and all her contemporaries they all share a common delusion, she thinks she has checked in at burger king on the high street, and everyone else thinks she has checked in at burger king on the high street, you know the place, it’s just around the corner from keyser soze’s bistro on east street, of course you wouldn’t know that, you can’t check in there on fuckbook, because as far as fuckbook is concerned it doesn’t exist.

It’s like the  stingray man, and I don’t mean no Troy Tempest, I mean the always active cell tower spoofing one, warrants to intercept pizza thief’s my hairy ass, best use for that is hiding keyser soze’s bistro in plain sight, or the united fruit bubblegum company, a spook that you can see clearly in daylight in the church cannot be a spook, case of mistaken identity bro…

These are not the droids you are looking for, nor was anyone else here in the 12 hours before the bomb went off an operative, oh no, and these guys here, well, they never even went near the burger king where the bomb went off, they were around the corner in keyser’s bistro.

How does it feel, to live in a world where so much of reality is obscured by the digital model?

WE live in a world where someone with root access to a sufficient number of systems, a number that is dropping as the interlinks and dependencies rise, can warp reality to such an extent that nobody else has to know that it is all a horrible lie, not the police, not the courts, not the prisons, not the newspapers, not the neighbours, nobody needs to know it is a lie, only me, and the root hacker, and for me it may as well be true, because ultimately anything that any of the above, or anyone else, can read off a computer screen will be accepted by them as being the truth if they trust that particular screen or system, or are paid to trust them.


How does it feel to be a murderer… clickety click

How does it feel to be a child molester… clickety click

How does it feel to be an isis suicide bomber… clickety click

How does it feel to have no money… clickety click

How does it feel to elect Trump… clickety click

How does it feel to end the use of cash… clickety click

How does it feel to be at war… clickety click.

How does it feel, to remember a world where the worst that a computer hacker could do was wipe your files or pwn your website or buy loads of blow and hookers on your credit card?

How does it feel, to remember a world where it was easier to kill someone than it was to successfully frame them for a murder they did not commit?

How does it feel, to remember a world where you could cross the county line and escape whatever data was held about you in the police computer, or simply move address and escape whatever records the bank had about you, and open another account, and get another cheque book with 2o blank cheques and a cheque guarantee card that was good for 50 quid so you could in theory burn £1,000 at each address.

How does it feel, to remember a world where a “reference” was something hand written or typed on company headed paper from your last employer, that was worth more than gold itself.

How does it feel, to remember a world where your wages were paid to you in cash every week, because salaries paid monthly were things that only happened to company directors and ex-pats.

How does it feel?


I dunno, for you, I’m far far away….

I’ve seen the yellow lights go down the Mississippi
I’ve seen the bridges of the world and they’re for real;
I’ve had a red light of the wrist without me even gettin’ kissed
It still seems so unreal.

I’ve seen the morning in the mountains of Alaska
I’ve seen the sunset in the east and in the west;
I’ve sang the glory that was Rome,
And passed the hound dog singer’s home;
It still seems for the best.

And I’m far, far away
with my head up in the clouds
And I’m far, far away
with my feet down in the crowds
Lettin’ loose around the world
But the call of home is loud still as loud

I’ve seen the Paris lights from high upon Montmartre
And felt the silence hanging low in no mans land;
And all those Spanish nights were fine,
It wasn’t only from the wine;
It still seems all in hand.

I’ve seen the yellow lights go down the Mississippi
The grand Bahama island stories carry on;
And all those arigato smiles
Stay in your memory for a while;
There still seems more to come.

And I’m far, far away
with my head up in the clouds
And I’m far, far away
with my feet down in the crowds
And I’m far, far away
But the sound of home is loud still as loud.


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