Becoming “Oi Alvarez”

Analyising carefully the individual factors that make up the social situation in Bungwahl I have come up with a key assertion. Bungwahl needs a hero. Bungwahl need a revolutionary figurehead, a charismatic, emblematic, symptomatic and democratic embodiement of the core Bungwahlian values of Equality, Truth, Laziness and Incest (although the last two often fit together quite well).

I will be that hero. And to reach my full potential as egotistic and idealistic guerrilla leader I will model myself on perhaps the most succesful example that the world has ever had, one who is remembered and revered to this very day. I speak of course of Che Guevara.

There are several points to bear in mind, and so several steps to take if I wish to become a figure in the likeness of the great Che. These were all I could think of.

Free Bungwahl

1. Hair

I must have hair like Che Guevara. As a revolutionary leader, who fights in a tropical wilderness it would make sense to have short cropped hair. On account of stress and bugs and sweat and whatnot. I read this in Frederick Forsyth’s Dogs of War, which is a good book. Four stars.

But the point to such hair goes beyond mere practicality. You hair must be wild and free, like a naked gazelle bounding through the steaming savannahs of Brooklyn. You must be a wild, charismatic and elemental force of nature, you must exude style and power. You must be the raw visceral personification of the revolution.

I'm On A Mule

"I'm On A Mule"

In regards to hair I am succeeding. I haven’t cut my hair in months, and it is wild, free, matted and unkempt. My ex’s step-sister keeps telling me to cut it, but this is silly. I don’t tell her to cut her hair, and she’s a ranga, and everyone knows red hair isn’t half as nice as the smooth jet black hair I possess. Also when I get out of the shower I can make my hair all spiky like an anime/manga character. This also looks cool.

2. Beard

I am capable of growing a beard. This power comes with great responsibility, and I habitually choose to shave my beard as to not intimidate the meeker characters of my community. It is probably also out of a sense of self preservation. Pretty much all of the good famous leftist had/have beards, therefore having a beard broadcasts to the world your politics and intentions. The CIA once tried to slip powder into Fidel Castro’s boots to make his beard fall out. True story.

Fidel Poster

English Translation: My Beard Gives Me Power

Therefore for Revolutionary purposes I will let me beard grow, at least to the level of stubble possessed in the famous picture of him that’s all over those T-Shirts.

3. Learn Spanish

Pretty self explanatory. I’m learning French and German, but there’s no language for revolutionising quite like the old Espanol. It’s also quite a common and useful language given the whole colonisation of South America thingy. “Hasta la Victoria Siempre!”

4. Get Beret

I have a black beret, but it’s more French Resistance rather than Che Guevara. This might be a nice and unique touch, and those Frogleg-munching cyclists where quite badass too.

5. Learn to Fight

I’ll go to Taekwondo to learn how to fight. My legs shall become steel bear-teeth, my arms, steel back scratchers, and my mind a steel trap. I will be able to kick the living shiz out of anyone I see. But only capitalists. In top hats. Their immense bulk will make for an easy victory, but their hired goons may prove a harder nut to suck, leading to my next point.

Taekwondo in Spain

If I Learn Taekwondo In Spain I Can Kill Two Proverbial Birds With A Metaphysical Phone

6. Recruit Comrades

I already have these comrades. Good, solid, stoic men who can grow facial hair if the need comes. I shall preside over them with a sense of heart-warming charisma. We shall become a tight-knit band of brothers through our journey in tropical wildernesses, ritualised Greco-Roman wrestling and late night games of Yahtzee. That may seem homo-erotic, but what’s wrong with a little homo-eroticism? Besides will any of you homophobes be complaining come the revolution? No. And none shall stand in our way.

7. Wear Uniform

I need to wear an emblematic uniform. Not my school uniform. That’s just stupid. It’s too establishment and it’s not even that comfortable. Maybe something vaguely military. I’ll be wearing a beret already, so I won’t wear a striped shirt. Don’t want to be mistaken for a travelling Breton onion-salesman.

'Allo 'Allo

Note To Self. Resist Becoming Stereotype.

8. Get A Short Nickname

“Che” is a short vocal interjection along the lines of “hey” in Argentinian Spanish. The closest resemblance of this in the Bungwahlian dialect of English is “Oi”. So I will become Oi Alvarez. A certain ring nu?

Well that’s pretty much all of it. I could become so lost in my idealism that I come to lose part of my humanity and commit heinous acts in the name of “the Revolution” or I could die a symbolic and futile death surrounded by enemies in despair in some far off region of the world, but both of those will really interfere with my HSC.


We should be more like Vikings.

Vikings were a group of travelling salesman who plied the North Sea waves from the 1960s to early 70s, broadcasting rock music to Yorkshire’s revolutionary youth. Vikings were also aggressive Scandinavian fellows who followed Deng Xiaopang’s Three Point Plan of looting, pillaging, and raping the entire continent of Europe for up to several centuries. Typical communists. There are six important things you should know about Vikings.

Deng Xiaoping

"It Is No Sin To Be A Viking" Deng Xiaoping 1876

1. They had beards. This is the most important thing you should know. If you ever see a Viking without a beard he is not a Viking. He is at best a Pirate and probably a Gypsy. We all know Gypsies should not be trusted. We know this because the letter ‘J’ has always been associated with trickery and tomfoolery. Jordan is a key example of this. It can be either a country or a person. How devious.

Beards are highly important. They are symbols of a rapidly diminishing masculinity in our sad, sad culture. It is all a conspiracy. Probably run by those Gypsies who run America’s banking system. Woman shop more, so the powers that be wish to turn us into women, so we men will shop more and generate more money for their mines of Gypsy gold.  Some men are actually shaving hair that is on their bodies. Others are driving cars that are fairly small. This is symbolic of our society’s deteriation. Eventually men will begin to develop breasts. This gives me strange feelings. I’m not sure whether this is a good thing or not.

2. Vikings like to be violent. Violence! Everyone likes violence! We should be more violent, because violence is masculine. Grr. Masculinity. Vikings used to invade other nations, steal their gold, burn their rooves and shuffle awkwardly around their women. We should also do this. Australia should develop its own raiding fleet, and traverse the seas raiding the opulent and highly irritating coast of California. Maybe we can steal Kim Kardashian and reinstate her as rightful Queen of Armenia.


With Armenia Our Client Kingdom, And Finland As An Ally, Eurovision Will Be Ours.

But really, the time has come for Australia to project it’s naval dominance across the world. We need an aircraft carrier and a hundred longboats to make our presence known across the Asian region. We shall surely be able to decimate the tin-pot navies of Indonesia and Malaysia, and thanks to years of seasonal migration, Bali is an almost an Australian colony, and useful springboard for attacks on the rest of the islands. Only bogans go to Bali, and statistically they have more beards per capita than the general Australian populace, therefore this endeavour is doomed to success.

I shall then move to Bali, grow a beard and bench press Afghani asylum seekers to prove my dominance. Upon this premise I shall become King of Bali, appointing Barnsey as my Chief of Staff, as he would make a good Viking and rally thousands of Bogans to my cause. As soon as I learn to swim, to row and discover the finer points of sailing I will sail to North Korea with my Viking-Bogan fleet. I will sail up the river to Pyongyang, capture Kim Jong Il and Kim Jong Un and transport them to Texas, where they shall be forced to make a demeaning and soul destroying sit-com about their lives.

I will also capture their nuclear weapons. With a nuclear deterrent the newly renamed Bogan Isles will be impregnable to US Invasion. Not that they could organise one anyway, it’d cost way too much, and they are in debt. They are in debt because of their ridiculous foreign policy of occupying foreign nations rather than simply raiding them and return to their home ports, laden with crude oil, frankenscence and hommus. Silly Americans.

Longboat from Poland!

If The Chinese Can Fit Missiles In Their Submarines, We Can Fit Them In Our Longships.

With my powerbase cemented my mind will no doubt grow restless, and my hear yearn for something more honest and wholesome then pillaging the weak, middle class lands of the Earth. I will sail to Armenia, where I previously installed Kim Kardashian as a puppet monarch, and make her my queen. She will no doubt provide engaging conversation about how much economic regulation I should place in my fledgling nation’s economic system, and will be a good shoulder to cry on when the pressures of power become too heavy a burden to bear on my own.

That is all you need to know about Vikings. Unless you want to be some sort of Viking scholar, who lives in Norway and only eats that type of cheese that has the holes in it, in which case I highly reccomend the Wikipedia article on Vikings and cheese respectively. Good hustle.

A Routine Expedition

I have recently returned from Bungwahl to my secret hovel on the outskirts of Gotham City, and I must say I’ve had much success. Whilst the filming of the propaganda video was not undertaken, some valuable data was gathered and resources acquired.

It was a long hard journey, making my way across the Bridge of Sighs to Tuncurry. The Bridge was named by avid Stamp collector Giovanni Campelli, a man of Venetian extraction, after a bridge in his beloved home city of Miami. It is not, contrary to popular belief, named after the common reaction a potential traveller has when faced with the prospect of entering Tuncurry.

I toiled across that bridge in the fetid warmth of the sun. I had my swag and a keyboard. I was also forced to wear a jacket. It couldn’t fit in my swag, I anticipated cold weather. Like a shrew this one of my many talents. Eventually I came to a bus stop, and thanks to the disgusting corruption of our corporatist regime, was able to get on a bus to Bungwahl free of charge.

Lord Voltron

Many Bungwahlians Are Followers Of The Voltron Heresy. Here St Voltron Poses By Lord Jesus In Their Joint Conquest of the Aztec Empire.

Acquaintances, dyed red from the sun, and rolling around in alcoholic stupour joined me on my vehicle as the journey progressed. They’d recently come from the Harvest Festival, a lovely event in which Australian traditional culture is celebrated. Participants salute the flag, play the banjo, set up Arts and Crafts stalls then engage in a past time known as “getting totz maggot”, the direct translation of which is hard to explain to someone unfamiliar with Australian ethnic folkways.

So as the faithful vehicle wound further, and further into the tractless wilderness I wondered, is the browser Opera prounced “O-pe-ra” or “Oh-prah”, because some girl I was talking to said “Oh-prah” and I though it was kind of funny and picked her up on it, in a non-aggressive manner.

Eventually we reached the outskirts of Bungwahl, a tiny little bus stop surrounded by thick bush, and slowly, I made my way up to Rancheros del Gato. The Ranch of the Cat. Where boarding and lodgings had been arranged by those sympathetic to our cause. The rest of the afternoon and night was spend feverishly debating the plight of the average Bungwahlian, destroying alien scum and taking turns talking about our respective love lives. Mine was conspiciously short.

In the morn we arose and set about immediately to inspect the area. We recruited a kindly yet affectionate dog with promises of equal, fair, frequent elections and a rise in the minimum working age to 18 months. This is highly amusing as now, if any calls us “communist dogs” we can say something along the lines of “Yeah? What of it?”, and all previous arguments will fall to smithereens. Furthermore, the dog in question may or may not be a veteran of the Spanish Civil War.

I Have No Idea What This Is About.

I Have No Idea What This Is About. There's a Wounded Mouse/Dog with a Banjo, and Then There's An Alligator With... No. I Give Up.

Apart from this key achivement we discovered a key bagel deposit, which will prove valuable to the new society which we will shortly form eventually. I hear hipsters love bagels, and hipsters are always cashed up. I don’t know how they get their money, as working as mainstream, and something no self-respecting hipster would do. I suspect that all of them are extremely talented pickpockets.

We then made our way down to the Great Lake, where members of the Bungwahl Militia’s fledgling navy gave us an inspection of their new flagship, Bob. That’s not even a joke. It flies, for now, under the Ethiopian flag, and sometimes the Danish flag, as we do not want to be found and destroyed by the corrupt Australian regime. Though upon further thought, they could identify us either Pirates or Vikings and terminate us on those grounds. Not that I wouldn’t mind be a Viking. I do however abstain from joining their ranks for practical reasons. Firstly they have beards. I like beards but beards are confusing. I don’t like being confused. Or itchy. Secondly is the horns. I don’t know where to find a good set of horns, and I’d be too scared to buy them. It would be kind of like buying condoms. Well, a bit anyway. No the Viking life is not for me.

These Are Vikings. We Aren't Vikings.

These Are Vikings. We Aren't Vikings.

But I do like semen. With the salt spray on our faces, and the ropes between our fingers we sailed across the lake, charting key positions and training a whole crew of sailors for our new navy. Considering Australia’s defence funding we should gain nautical superiority by late 2012.

And so after some further debate and sounding out of potential support, I left beloved Bungwahl incognito, bound for the people’s abode with cuts on my feet and smelling slightly of swamp mud. I force marched myself through the driving rain, and cracking lightning in the depths of midnight to avoid orbital surveillance from the regime. When I next return I am sure that the Revolution will occur, and that our resistance will garner the fruits of socialist utopia.

Tsar Wars 5: Return of the Me

I have been most absent from my blog over the past how ever many days I have been absent. My regular readers may have noticed this, as I have recently observed that some do in fact exist. Most surprising. But not surreal. Surreal is a most overused adjective. One has a moral responsibility not to use surreal all that often, so that the word itself does not come benign and cliched, corrupting the work and influence of people like Antonin Artaud, Margaret Thatcher and that Armadillo toting fascist Salvador Dali.

I have been absent due to my examinations. I haven’t really been studying, but preparing myself for studying, and committing myself to not working on my blog to the exam period is over. That said, my own horrid lack of self discipline has meant that I’ve achieved little in the way of actual study. I am quite silly.

But that, like the clear blue liquid that divides the Great Lake’s Twin Towns, is proverbial water under a psychadelic bridge, my brother, and with all examinations finished, I can apply myself to my blog with my usual level of cynical enthusiasm.

Also, the Battle for Bungwahl has begun, and news will be outpouring shortly on the events that happen there.

Na Zdravie! The Vodka Party!

A few of you might have heard of the Tea Party Movement in America. They want to restore traditional American values, those bygone paradigms, written into the Bill of Rights, like a right to own your own personal rocket launcher, fundamentalist Christianity, Islamophobia and a foreign policy based on the Book of Revelations. The Tea Party were named like this because of a momentous occasion in America’s early history, where a group of patriots dressed as (IRONY WARNING!) Indians poured a bunch of tea into Boston harbour. Presumedly, like most Americans, they prefered coffee.

But in far off Boruslavia, the Tea Party’s meteoric and lulfilled rise to prominence has been emulated by another group. These people are the Vodka party, an increasingly powerful player in Boruslav politics, tipped to gain the rural seat of Ostrockzawierz in the upcoming election. This is  their story…

Vodka Kalashnikov
A Vodka Kalashnikov: The Vodka Party Philosophy Made Manifest. One of the VP’s Chief Election Promises Is the Legalisation of These Harmless Educational Tools to All Boruslav Children.
The Vodka Party of Boruslavia was founded in late 2010 by Dmitry Zlokgohzvik, a 1989 Eurovision song contest hopeful and convicted sex offender, although to his credit, the goat however was both an adult and consenting. “Zlokgo” as his adoring fans heckle him, is a devout Christian of the Boruslav Ultra-Orthodox Church, which many Christians see as heretical, for it’s belief that Jesus was a Slav, gypsies are the devil’s people, and that God gave all goats, sheep and ducks the abilities to change their shape and communicate telepathically.
Zlokgo wants a return to the values of old Boruslavia, where men were drunks, women were whores, and children were drunks as well. He wants to do away with political correctness, Russians, traffic lights, gypsies and most large rocks. He considers the electoral process a waste of time, time that can be better spent drinking, whoring, blessing houses against gypsy attack, or all of the above simultaneously.
A madman, you cry! Well, all of you are soft, coffee sipping Western scum if you can’t see hidden somewhere the truth behind Zlokgo and his party! For he is appealing to all Boruslavs, young and old, drunk and tipsy, male and older male, with his platforms of alcoholism, dictatorship and persecution of minorities. Some foreign policy analysts within Boruslavia predict that Zlokgo will be the country’s next Stalin, bringing freedom, truth and economic miracles to all of the nation’s peoples. And gruesome death to any minority groups unfortunate enough to be extant after his inevitable election to office.
Boruslav Capital

Here is the Main Street of Boruslav's Capital Borschtgrad. Notice the Boruslav Flag Flying Proudly Over the Parliament Building.

In 1889, on a cold and windswept day in the Baltic port of Jakovecik one of the most climactic, crucial and least known events in Boruslavia’s history occured. It was on a Sunday, and the Russian freighter Bigsky Freightersky Maksimilovich was unloading cask upon cask of cheap Latvian vodka onto the wharves, when young entrepeneur and town drunkard Petr Stanislavski was hit by a most curious thought.
The Russians had been oppressing the Boruslavs for centuries, capitalising on their ignorance, inbreeding and alcoholism. A mountain in Australia, Mount Slok, had been named after one of Boruslavia’s most famous freedom fighters. If that wasn’t significant, what was? But with the tyranny of the Russians, and the ever present and hopelessly insane Germans lingering around nearby, Boruslavia had remained under the Tsar’s unsteady heel.
Petr knew all of this, he understood all of the reasons, but when he saw all that cheap Latvian vodka being rolled out on to the docks, vodka that would corrupt their youth and bring profit only to the Russians, the true meaning of tyranny finally hit him. Boruslavia would never be free until it could make its own decisions, until it could corrupt its own children with its own alchohol! And so Petr got together with a group of friends and decided to take action. Their names would be immortalised in history, and known by every true Boruslav for weeks to come.
In the darkness of midday, Ivan Kosnovov, Mikhail Gestrova, Bor Solidarity and three others climbed aboard the Russian freighter dressed as gypsies. The rationale was simple and effective. Who would dare discriminate against the virtuous and perpetually lauded gypsies? Who would dare question their presence around a busy wharf handling alchohol. This assertion, made in a tavern under the influence of plum brandy and sleep deprivation would prove false. The seventeen fair patriots were spat upon and heckled as they travelled the streets, and arrested and beaten as soon as they reached the docks. They were stripped naked and left on the outskirts of town by Russian authorities.
The next day they returned to the docks, and found that the Russian freighter was still stationary, and with half its cargo still aboard. The going had been slow, as the stevedores unloading had accidentally broken a cask, and refusing to let the alcohol go to waste, began to consume it, and any other casks nearby, that could have been contaminated with splinters. Petr and his gang took their chance and ran aboard the freighter. Immediately they began to drink the vodka.
Petr Stanislavski on Boat

Stanislavksi's Dying Wish Was To be Dismembered and Ferried Around on a Boat for all Eternity. Unfortunately his Relatives Sold his Body for Alcohol and So a Statue Was Made From Melted down Gypy Gold Instead

And there they would have stayed if not for Petr’s fortitude. Halfway through his third cupped-handful of vodka he spat on to the deck, and raised his arms. He proclaimed the vodka “horsepiss” and urged all his fellow Boruslavs to cast the casks off the side. Reluctantly they followed Petr’s orders, for wasting grog, unlike rape, was a captial offence in Boruslavia at the time. But he was after all their favourite cousin. In a stroke of genius however, the patriots donned their gypsy gear, and began their wicked work.
Ever since then, the story has been told countless times, twisted, bent and relaxed, shaken like a crumpled foreskin by the rigorous and collectivised Boruslav rumour mill. Another unforseen consequence is the particularly strong anti-Gypsy sentiment existing in Boruslavia today, setting it at odds with most of Eastern Europe.
With the far-right Democratic Freedom Alliance falling into a backwards slump following leading light Simo Simovich’s alleged homosexuality, and the newly reformed Communist Party of Boats and Hos failing to appeal to a folk-dance obsessed younger generation, the Vodka Party is looking a good chance in the upcoming parliamentary elections. The ruling party, the pro-Western and free market Coca-Cola Amatil McDonalds Emirates Party of California Freedom Apple Pie and John Wayne, is deeply unpopular. This is primarily due to its sell off of the police force and law systems to Japanese Telcom congolmerate, Moshi-Moshi, and it’s consistently bad tastes in music. The big clincher however are the damaging allegations that a junior staffer of the Sports and Recreation Minister’s maternal fifth cousin, twice removed, was cursed by a half-gypsy.
A Gypsy Woman

Would you Trust this Kindly Old Woman? No! She is in Fact a Gypsy!

But the most telling and perhaps obvious sign of the Vodka Party’s success is its name. It contains in it the words “Vodka” and Party”. And if the grand council votes in favour of a recent proposal to introduce the words “goat-friendly and “Russian-gypsy hating” into the party title, they will be almost assured of an electoral victory.

How To Start Your Own Personality Cult

So. You want to be known. You want to be loved, no, you want to be adored by the masses, for them to worship your every footstep, for them to wash and kiss your toes, perhaps even erotically. If you swing like that. Ew. You want money, you want power, you want the pleasures of a flesh and a dramatic boost in your ego, perhaps damaged by a feckless woman or tragic childhood. Well heck! I’ve got the solution for you! Generate your own Personality Cult! Pfff! You say! That’s ridiculous! And there are far too many exclamation marks in this post for the author to be anywhere nearing sanity! Well, sanity and all logic does not matter dear friend, not where personality cults are concerned. So discard these middle class virtues, and let me teach you how to be successful!

What is a Personality Cult? A personality cult, or as Wikipedia likes to call it, a “Cult of personality”, is when an individual person creates an overwhelmingly positive idyllic perspective of him or herself, through bucketloads of praise and flattery. Examples of personality cults include those happy little gophers Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot, Mao and a couple of Egyptian pharoahs who weren’t cats.

Rudd Is Held Aloft By Proletarian Masses

Kevin Rudd's Efforts to Construct a Personality Cult Worked Well at the 2007 Elections

But they’re all dictators! You shriek. Well chicken little, there’s a reason for that. Dictators are famous, and appear prominently in both Wikipedia articles and neo-Nazi forums, hence my use of them. Also, dictators, particularly the brutal kitten killing type, often need a cult of personality to keep themselves in power, and stop the masses from realising what on Earth is actually happening and sticking molten implements up certain orifices mediaeval style. Unpleasant but true.

The cult of personality however is not merely restricted to the nasty guys of history. The cousin of CoP, as it shall now be known, is hero worship, and heavily related and incestuously entwined with another rotten example of our capitalist society, the adorations of celebrities. While once you had to kill inordinate amounts of people and worm your way to the top in a bloodsoaked game of chess, the wonders of social networking and the interweb means one Youtube video can bring you similar sense of fame and adoration that 1960s Chairman Mao had in 1970s China.

So. To business. Here is my two step plan that may or may not propel you into personality cult status.

1. Obtain Media Machine.

Get some sort of system that will broadcast one-sided opinions of yourself across the target base. The target base can be your family, school, office, local electorate, nation or EVEN THE WORLD! Get a communications satellite onside and you can even begin to indoctrinate hypothetical space aliens! The message itself does not need to have much substance. It doesn’t even need to be true. Try for something emotive, something that will push people’s buttons. Like a picture of yourself holding a cute little cat on a hill of rolling grass, with captions along the lines of “OUR GREAT LEADER CARES FOR EVEN THE SMALLEST OF HIS SUBJECTS.” Make sure you do it in capitals though. Repeat the message as much as possible, with plentiful variations from a number of different angles. Look at the techniques of modern day advertising companies for extra tips.

Putin Stalks Bare-chested Through The Steppe

Unlike Most Autocrats, Russian President Vladimir Putin Creates His Homo-Erotic Cult of Personality Without Outside Help

2. Become Tyrant (Optional).

Now that you’ve spread your message that’s pretty much it. If you’re as good as Goebbels at propagandering the entire world should be fawning at your feet by now. But we all know, because of Spike Milligan, that Goebbels had not testicles to speak of and was utter scum. The only additional step to take is to make sure that your version of ‘the truth’ is the only version that circulates. The quickest, most efficient and easiest way to do this, apart from provoking nuclear armaggedon and mass extinction it to become a tyrant. Simply destroy all television and radio stations, newspapers and the internet, use or do not mercy according to your own personal preference. Pass your propaganda around in pamphlet form to every household. With the target bases’ children now being brought up from birth with your view on life alone, your status as demi-god is looking more and more assured.

So, use that advice for good and evil, and when you do become Great Leader of the New World Order, please do cite this post, or at least don’t hunt down and terminate its author.

Full Marx

Deep in a pile of half discarded books, in a lacklustre suburban library far from the bright lights of the chich inner city there sat a book. It was alone. It was an old book, a Penguin Classic, yet despite its prestigious pedigree it had been rejected from its place amongst the library’s collection, to be sold to the general public for a mere price of 50c. Perhaps it was the stained plastic contact which lay over it’s surface, the decaying binding, or the graphite lines which underlined much of its pages. Perhaps it was the small print. Perhaps a newer, shinier more user friendly version of the same book had arrived to replace it. They were all viable options. But equally viable was the possibility of conspiracy. Conspiracy most fowl.

For this book was controversial. It was radical. Extremist. It had been written in a time of tumultuous change by a bearded German journalist, and another bloke who was also German, probably a journalist and probably bearded too. It was the Communist Manifesto…

Hurrah! It seems I have obtained, that is to say, the people have obtained, a copy of the Communist Manifesto. It was written in 18 somethingty-something by those twin German spunks Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. They probably wrote in a coffee shop. I’m pretty sure they did actually, in London. Amongst all the workhouses, pickpockets and other cliches, minds fixed on how to create a system of government that was perfect, utopic and would provide them with a bucketload of sex. Well, perhaps if you are a fan of Freudian psychology, and if sex was measured in buckets. If anyone’s is I’d be impressed in an unsettled way.

Marx is Petrified!

Troll or Gorgon? Marx Was Turned To Stone Here In Chemnitz in 1989, When He Glimpsed His Own Reflection In a Mirror.

Reading through the manifesto, which has a foreword and series of prefaces longer than the manifesto itself, I realised I wasn’t half as clever as I thought I was. To fully comprehend what these blokes were saying, I had to read the words aloud and slowly, pausing every couple of paragraphs to think, relating what they’d said to today’s society, my own experiences, and other totally random things that burst into my thoughts. Like fairy bread. Strange.

As of now I haven’t finished reading it. TV requires much less effort to concetrate on, and bearing in mind time, space, mood and the presence of an omnipresent deity that may or may not be insectoid in fashion,  just as productive and valuable. What I have noticed so far is the context of it. It was written in the late 19th century, when people in Western Europe actually worked in factories that made things. Crazy right? I know. Many of the predictions and assumptions made rely upon things that seemed evident at the time. For instance it doesn’t take into account the existence of aliens. A fatal oversight in my humble opinion. It also does not go into detail much about hippies, Indians, hedgehogs, sheep, radical fundamentalism, music and other stuff which I thought about, but have since forgotten. It’s also too sure of itself.

This Cat Rails Against Communism

Cats Are Often Elitist in Outlook, And Are the Enemies of the People. Marx Prefers Ferrets

I, for instance, cannot commit to anything. Except relationships. I’m really good at committing to relationships. And complimenting women. I’m a quite nice guy, I give to charities when I have spare change, I’m not fat and I like short walks on the beach, where I stare wistfully out into the horizon, contemplating existentialism and whatnot. If that interests you, my email’s on my Gravatar thingy. Get in touch.

Apart from relationships, I can’t commit entirely to many things. I cannot consciously believe in that many things with every iota of my being like some people can. That’s why I’m not religious. It’s also why I’m not an atheist. Additionally it is why I am not a Marxist. Whilst I may agree a lot with what that chubby bearded lovecat may spout, and share many of his sentiments along with a vague Rheinish heritage, I cannot say I’d agree with every bit of his doctrine. I’m sorry but it just won’t work.

And that is why, although I’m reading his seminal work (sounds vaguely dirty doesn’t it?), and I’ve bought his book it does not mean I’ll undergo a wholesale and pentecostal conversion to Communism, waving little red flags around, calling people Comrade who I don’t actually know, and keeping a small yet virile mongoose under my bed for uses “come the revolution”.