I woke up this glorious morning with the person I love. It is Valentine's Day, a day to celebrate love. There is a day of celebration planned: champagne and chocolates, flowers, and exchanges of presents. Sigh. This brings tears to my eyes. I can only hope and pray to Set, the Snake God, that you are as lucky as me: perhaps, luckier. Perhaps, though, you are not lucky at all. Has Set, the Snake God favored you as chef or waiter, or are you entree? Do you find yourself alone, wearing the garland of parsley and anointed with mayonnaise, weeping and waiting for the crushing jaws, the tearing claws, and the bad breath of carnivore? How sad. You look around and everyone you see appears to have the love of the love of their life. Why are you left in the icy cold meat locker on a hook when you should be up front, serving burgers; or better yet, creating new dishes with exciting foodstuffs and exotic spices? This Valentines Day you should look to Set, the Snake God to improve your circumstances. Your neighbors are doing it. Let me witness my Valentine's Day experience ...
Suffering and happiness are just different sides of the axis. Someone has to suffer; and in many cases, their suffering is deserved as they have denied happiness to others. Like me; like the love in my life. We have had relationships in the past. It would make us happier if we knew these others were suffering. This Valentine's Day, I gave the gift of Set, the Snake God to the love of my life: I arranged to have her most hated ex-husband embark on a extended journey of suffering.
You do not have to be an evil hypnotist working in a Library to know that special arrangements can be made. I have a good relationship with my financial planner, a professional money manager at the Bank of Palermo, and he brought my attention to an exciting opportunity for both revenge and profit. The Bank had caught wind of a secret government research project to study stress: the government was going to sabotage a cruise ship and subject the passengers and crew to a few weeks of being adrift in the hot sun. Researchers had been infiltrated amongst the crew and passengers to make observations and keep the stress level at optimum rage. A vast amount of TARP money was offered to the cruise line to buy their complicity. Now, the fine investment professionals at the Bank of Palermo were sharing this opportunity with their Family class investors. Like me, Fenris Badwulf. The problem was who to send on a cruise trip to tropical shit house hell? The answer for me was simple: my girlfriend's ex-husband.
Some weeks ago the ex became aware of an exciting opportunity for a cruise. A telemarketer called him, he did not hang up, he was convinced. The ex is known to take cruises (he took his mistress on one, so his ex-wife, my girlfriend told me; she was in hospital with a difficult pregnancy at the time), so the offer of a cheapo, platinum cruise was but a tasty worm on a hook to a small brained fish. The Bank of Palermo made an effort to fill the cruise with people who deserve to be subjects of secret government research. I did my part and suggested my girlfriends ex. I made sure he had our cell phone number and a cabin with internet access, so we could communicate. We even gave him a camera before the trip.
The engine room had a fire. Yeah, sure. As the researchers noted, nobody actually checked the engine room. They were just told. Power to the ship was turned off (except for where the researchers had their air conditioned lodgings; complete with kitchen, cafeteria, hot showers, and ice for their liquor). We got a panicky text from the ex: told us about the lack of air conditioning, and the stench of shit sloshing around in his private toilet. He was in a private hell. I looked at the love of my life, the smile on her face. A small measure of suffering was making her happy in a large way. I care.
There was food. Sure, the government researchers arrange a good supply of fresh fruits and vegetables. When the toilets fail, that is when you need a bran muffin and instant coffee made from bottled water. To keep their minds off their suffering, the government researchers arranged for the ABBA tribute group to grind through their act time and time and time again. Few went back to their cabins: the corridors were dark, and hot, and after that first guy tripped on a bag of poo and cracked his head, they moved in groups with one of the few flashlights with batteries.
Then the food ran out. Some people are fussy and cannot get by on oatmeal and pickles. The ex sent us a series of snaps of some fat guy fighting a fat broad for one of the last bran muffins. Cut off from familiar foods, there is an epidemic of gastrointestinal upsets. So the ex says. The people with it are treated as pariahs. They have the shits and the healthy run away from them. The ex says that some people with the shits have been locked into rooms or storage closets to keep them away.
You can learn from secret Government research. After only a few hours of subjugation to the tyranny of urine stench in the tropical heat, normal people would turn on those responsible and lynch them. And keep lynching until things get better. But these are not normal people any more. They believed the lies: the toilets will be back on line in an hour. Ha ha ha. No, these are the modern spawn of the progressive system; willing to sleep in a hot, airless room with only the sound of a turd sloshing in the toilet to serenade them; willing to eat bran muffins and pickles; and completely lobotomized to stand up for themselves to either survive or overthrow tyranny. A generation of slaves with their asses eager for their masters fist. Progressives. Me, I know that cutting off a few of the Captain's fingers would help him to find speedy solutions.
The research game. The government guys doing the research think they have a representative sample of society. Nope. The Bank of Palermo stuffed the boat with people who deserve a cruise in tropical shit hell. The subsequent lawsuits will be covered by TARP funds, and the Law Firm Mutual Fund I invested in collects on both sides of all those law suits: attack and defense. And, my girlfriend and I can enjoy the texts and pictures for many Valentine's Day to come. There is a twenty minute gag reel of people slipping on bags of poo as they walk in darkened corridors. There was no mutiny aboard the cruise ship: the captain was not gutted, the mates were not burnt alive, and the ABBA minstrels were not skinned. You can watch the fights for food. And, you can look forward to future foolish policy of government, which assumes they can get away with treating their citizens like slaves. They expect no mutiny, which is why you can still buy knives.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care. I love.