Quiz: What Type of Socialist Are You?

If you’re reading this blog, and I presume you are, I’m automatically assuming that you’re a socialist. If you’re not then just pretend for the duration of the article, because what’s following is not going to be very much use to you. Put bluntly it won’t be very much use to anyone, but that’s life I suppose. Existential angst! Cue non-sequitur.

(Thanks also to Comrade Pedro for some valuable input. Solidarity)

Your favourite type of drink is:

A. Vodka

B. Coffee

C. Beer

Your favourite hat is:

A. A Ushanka

B. A Beret

C. A Helmet

Your favourite type of music is:

A. The Red Army Choir

B. You probably haven’t heard of it.

C. Anything by Wagner

Your economic policy is summed up by which statement?

A. Liquidate the kulaks as a class.

B. Bring down the corporations man!

C. Our companies must be Aryan and guided by the Leader’s will.

What do you do with Germanic Runes?

A. Ban them

B. Wear them around my neck

C. Paint them on the side of my tank.

What type of facial hair do you have?

A. Broomhead moustache

B. Intellectual stubble/beard

C. Toothbrush moustache

Your favourite director is?

A. Sergei Eisenstein.

B. Michael Moore.

C Leni Riefenstahl.

Gulags make you:

A. Hard

B. Disgusted, I hate the architecture.

C. Fearful for the survival of the Master race.

Your favourite way of purging involves:

A. The KGB

B. A good black coffee

C Long knives

Are you racist?

A. No, but death to the Germans

B. No way man!

C. Of course? We are the Master race,

You are the leader of a large socialist power. A smaller neighbouring power begins making decisions that go against your interests. Do you:

A. Invade and kill the intelligentsia

B. Like make peace with the guys.

C Invade and kill the intelligentsia

Who should have won WW2?

A. The USSR. And we did.

B. Cuba.

C. Germany.

Who did you support in Star Wars?

A. The Empire

B. Never watched it.

C. The Empire

What do you think of Rick from the Young Ones.

A. Revisionist filth

B. The People’s Poet

C. Leftist filth

How do you regard America?

A. Imperialist dogs

B. Imperialist dogs

C. Held in thrall by the Zionist Occupational Government.

Who is your hero?

A. Stalin

B. Che Guevara or Michael Moore.

C. Hit- I mean Otto Strasser.

Count up your scores! What option did you score the most! Tally your bananas, because daylight has come, and its time to figure out what socialist you are!

A. You are a Stalinist. You have impressive facial hair and find absolute power orgasmic. You hate the fascistic west, and hope to keep your nation free from its decadence by crushing all dissent. In your free time you travel out to your, sorry, the people’s dacha by the Volga, smoke cigars, drink vodka and reminisce with your old comrade about the civil war. At least those you haven’t ordered be killed.

B. You are a hipster. You wear a beret and a cardigan. You carry around Christopher Hitchens and a coffee thermos in your satchel, Richard Dawkins is your God and America is your Satan. You voted for Obama but are now fashionably dissatisfied with his warmongering regime. You want to destroy all corporation except for Apple, and like nothing more than sitting back with your fellow liberal arts majors and sip lates while reflecting on the coming end of capitalism.

C. You are a Nazi. You are highly strung, racist and ordered in your everyday life. You are clean shaven, even your scalp is bare, except of course for a small toothbrush moustache, which when pressed, you insist is an homage to Charlie Chaplain. You want to name your child, assuming that any woman is insane enough to touch you, Adolf, as you are proud of your German heritage. Your daily energies go towards writing anti-Semitic blog posts and trawling Stormfront for hot Aryans in your area. To unwind you lie about in your underwear, sipping beer or bourbon and watching reruns of Wolverines and Romper Stomper.

Don’t Fear The Primaries

Instead of writing a long and thought out manifesto concerning the current state of the Labor Party, bemoaning the existence and influence of factions, the petty individualism and prideful struggles of it’s leading members, and making a number of cunning puns, I’ve decided to put a whimsical video, symbolising my reaction to political events. Enjoy.

Replace the word “reaper” with “primaries”. It makes a little more sense that way. Well not much sense really. I just wanted to link the song to current events. If you want some actual information about the Labor Party and reformation (but really?) I might write an post on it at a later date. If you need your Labor fix now, why not read this short enlightening, yet slightly outdated article in the mean time?

I’m Forming A Gang!

The headline was alarmist. It’s a lot more complex and tasteful than that. Basically, I have a utopian vision for this year. It’s my New Year’s Resolution. I want to come together with my comrades here and form a glorious syndicate of awesomeness, in our ultimate year of high school. To not waste this precious time, this time of growth and youthful power, and begin already the sort of Nieztchian transformation from socially backward, kind of spindly, teenagers to supermen, warrior-poets in the tradition of Che Guevara, Conan the Barbarian and Doctor Who. Rawr. And play the songs as you read the paragraphs. It helps to create mood. Wow. This is so arthouse.

Firstly we shall become fit in terms of a physical sense and that. We shall go down to the gym centre and train in the arts of boxing and lifting heavy objects, such as shops. Hah. Combined with Taekwondo and constantly attacking each other with blunt objects, this training system will make us invincible fighting machines capable of incapacitating rabid dogs and massaging them until they feel a little better, than training them, through a positive reinforcement system, to become entirely loyal to us, whereupon we shall release them on unfortunate hipsters who’ve migrated here, like bearded bespectacled, little hat wearing geese from the freezing dystopia of Melbourne. In self-defence of course.

Apart from dog training, we shall participate in apolitical Long Marches, trekking through forests rugged and wild, across vast dunes of crystals sands and through thick fetid swamps that may or may not be haunted by the ghosts of Elvin warriors. Probably not though. We shall become one with the esoteric universality of nature, exchanging our individualities for a pantheistic group consciousness and becoming attuned to the natural rhythm and reverberation of Mother Earth. This will probably help build rock hard thighs and attract chicks.

Added to this will be a band. A post punk leftist ska fusion outfit called, the Ancient Tongues of Isis or Deadly Supermarkets Breed Discontent. We’ll play gigs and sing of deep rooted psychological angst, the inherent corruptedness of the societal order and a group of ducks that live in a little pond by Sydney University, the one right across from Broadway, and the Portuguese chicken shop.

But the two best features will be our vehicles, for that features most prominently in my vision. About a half dozen of us, riding in either a Lada Niva, or the back of a Kombi, all decked up in either suits and bow ties, or leather jackets, armed with bows and arrows and with Pendulum and Presets blaring loud over the speakers. We shall be able to take on any reactionary louts with our weapons, training and numbers, and we shall be irresistible to the opposite sex with our deadly combination of style, intelligence, masculinity, and sheer resplendent glory. Cue next song…

From there on we shall ride into eternity, myths and legends set against a melancholy sky, defining our own existences and riding out the oncoming apocalypse with panache. It may seem far-fetched, it may seem like so much smoke in front of those mirrors at carnivals that distort things and make you look humorously fat, but I’m putting this proposal to the lads tomorrow. Hopefully when I next speak the transformation will be underway.

Keyboard

I have a keyboard. Or, should I say, the people have a keyboard, that is currently being used and being kept under the stewardship of myself and immediately relatives at this current moment in time, because private property and all that shiz is totes inefficient and whatnot.

I obtained this keyboard, that is to say, it passed into my stewardship, on the night of the First of September, a(n) historic day, as it is the day that Spring was first invented by Big Brother in 1956. It was a dark and stormy night, and I will relay to you the means in which it appeared…

OMG! KEYBOARD!
Alles Der Deustche Seiten Sagt Diese Casiotone Keyboardenzeit Ist Echt Cool!

Thunder rolled through the sodden clouds, a bitter wind cut through the air, the sound of vaguely Arabic folk singing sounded off in the background. Deep in the castle of Ozeano del Sur, a dialtone rang out…

“Yes?” Replied a hooded figure, cowled fingers pressing the device to his skull.

“Of course. The revolution requires such things! Obtain it!” The figure cried, shrieking in awkward enthusiasm. “With He on our side the inevitability of the global revolution is doubly, nay Tripoli, assured!” The call was ended, a bell tolled. The deathly figure began to laugh madly…

<ARTISTIC INTERVAL>

This is not exactly what happened. There are no castles in Australia.

Actually I think there is one, or maybe two. There’s a replica off in the mountains somewhere and my family was going to buy it before the sudden and shocking realisation that we have no money. Instead we rented a flat in Surrey Hills.

The actual story was, that one of revolutionary associates, the ubiquitos Pablo, obtained the keyboard at a local anarcho-syndicalist material exchange collective, also known as “The Markets”.

After brief and momentary exchanges of textual messages the keyboard was brought to my luxurious hovel by Pablo in one of his heavy duty vehicles he captured off the Malaysians during their brief border war with Indonesia. I carried it through the seething rain for hours, only to find there were no batteries.

Immediately I cursed the world and all reality for dealing me such a fickle blow. Then mum bought batteries. Once powered with the charge of eldritch electricity, my keyboard sung it’s digital heart out, pumping out eighties music fit to make the Human League cry. But they make emotional music about girls with their synthesisers, so they’re probably not real men anyway.

So now I take it everywhere, except for the toilet. I’m going to dress up as a homeless person and travel down to Sydney to play minimalist Kraftwerk style synthpop for the unwashed masses. Yes. The Revolution is assured. The Keyboard has made it so.

Deployment

To Whom It May Concern

As of approximately midday Australian Eastern Daylight Savings Time I, Commandate ‘Oi’ Alvarez will be taken off passive duties and deployed to the dense jungles of Bungwahl for reconnaissance, training and other classified purposes.

Nothing fills my nascent revolutionary heart more than being at one with the wilderness and fighting alongside my eleven toed revolutionary comrades in the pursuit of peace, equality and procrastination. However these activities also mean that I may not be able to respond to communiques sent to me for an indefinite period, most likely the next few days.

The illegal occupation and repression of Bungwahl that communications are limited, and even then, are hardly secure. But do not despair, oh loyal comrades! My return will bring with it a detailed report concerning soft power projection and local foliage density that will no doubt have all of you in a state of utter rapture. But until that moment, rest assured in the knowledge that Whoopi Goldberg farted on live TV, and that the Kardashians have adopted a homeless man that has few if any teeth, and now keep him as a pet.

You Say Gang, I Say Subculture

I am currently typing from the Bieber-bedecked bedroom of my tweenage cousin, in a particularly unremarkable suburb of Sydney. I’m itinerant like that. A sort of nomad who travels by bus and peak hour trains. Most nomads don’t really do that, granted. I mean they sort of get about using in yurts and Bactrian camels across wide tractless steppe, Tuvan throatsinging ominously into the star filled skies. But I’m not really that cool. I’m a twenty first century nomad who travels by freezing buses and interstate trains that smell of cigarettes and vomit. I get my food from monolithic fast food franchises and small shops near suburban railway stations. And I can only do basic throatsinging.

Naturally this series of unfortunate events have driven me to a state of deep existential angst, where my primal desires for something real, a sense of community and probably sex have made me become disenfranchised with society. What shall I do? Listening to the Safety Dance at ear damaging levels, growing my hair long and frequently procrastinating have only lead to several appointments with the local doctor and the quiet disdain of some of my teachers. I must do something more drastic. I must form a gang.

Why not become a Lad? Suggests some complete idiot whose probably related to me. There’s plenty of them, they’re totes tough and they already have a reputation for acting like dickheads and episodes of random wanton violence. That’s all very well, I counter, except it goes against all of the values I have, and everything I hold dear. Seriously, if I wanted to turn my body into advertising space for multinational corporations and attack passers-by, I’d become a billboard or a violent schizophrenic. If anything I want to form a gang that goes against the Lad concept. Anti-materialist and mutual defence rather than recreational violence. If you’re not from Australia and have no idea what I’m talking about check this informative video. Or this short unrefined video that contains lots of fighting and stuff for all of you troglodytes out there.

Sing Describing Lads

Lads. How Bloody Wonderful.

Tall order? You ask sceptically, and why do you keep asking rhetorical questions? Luckily I watched a French documentary about a socialist street gang in the ‘70s last night. So I now have all the know-how and motivation to do it. I will outline my method so perhaps you can replicate it, and share this rich and wholesome experience with the collection of associates our vain materialistic society conveniently labels friends.

1. Get tough and whatnot.

Real gangs possess a sort of physical strength and presence that me and my ‘friends’ simply don’t have. The answer: Get tough. We’re going to start going to the gym, and bench pressing scantily clad women and exercise bikes with a previously dictated selection of our ten fingers. I said this because that’s pretty much the only things I’ve found at my local gym that are heavy enough to lift and look tough doing. We’ve already organised. Me and me mates are going to do boxing, running on the beach, stretches and shiz and cage fighting juvenile bears. Also taekwondo. By the end we should be so damn awesome we’d be able to take on any of the other measly gangs and groups that operate in our little town with contemptuous ease. We’ll also be able to take on the Lads, depending how many of them there are. I hear they hang outside shopping malls searching for brand name clothing and funny looking people to abuse. We’ll put a stop to that. But being tough and whatnot is only a small part of being a gang. The other part is collectivism. Yay! Collectivism!

2. Look

The coolest gangs wear clothes and stuff that marks them out from all the common wimpy bourgeois mainstream folk and the other gangs. I’m thinking practically, as I always do. It’s going to be based upon plain clothes, things easy to obtain like a White T-Shirt and jeans. We’d also wear a vintage coat or something, coz vintage is cool, and a little accessory, like a red sash or button to go over the top. We’ve got to look tough, yet sophisticated, yet also resplendent. We also need a hair style. I’m going to make it longish hair because I’ve got longish hair and I can’t be bothered cutting it. I might not even worry about the hair. I’ll ask me mates about it. Any which way it doesn’t matter, we can’t look as ridiculous as Lads. Rats tails and singlets? It’s like being Bogan without Cold Chisel, which is almost impossible and defeats the purpose of the Bogan.

Bogan on a Can

Cold Chisel Is Playing In the Background

3. Music

We need a distinctive style of music to listen to. The mods had New Wave, the punks had… punk and the skinheads had ska and then stupid reactionary rubbish about hating foreigners. In sharp contrast the new ‘Lad’ subculture cannot be said to have anything resembling music at all. At the moment I’m split between dubstep and Celtic punk. We might have to fuse both. We can also write our own music, giving us more street cred, money and women. Ok, that may go against my values, but I’m allowed to be hypocrite right?

4. Name

We need a good gang name a stirring, emotive name that’s easy to say and is imbued with hidden verbal power. Like a domesticated ferret, our gang name must have the power to both threaten and comfort the elderly. Having the definite article (for all of you fools out there that means ‘the’) does make you seem bold and definitive, but also risks making you sound like a band from the 1950s. That’s bad, because the Beatles are from the 1950s, and as much as I appreciate their music, they spelt the word ‘beetle’ wrong, and that is unforgivable. I’m thinking ‘Fraternity’ or ‘Collective’. Sounds kind of sci fi. Oooh. Sci fi. Neeow!

I was going to add a ‘reason to be’, or for you fancy Francophile hipsters raison d’etre but you really don’t need a reason to hang around and do stuff with people, at least I never have. This whole thought process is probably some sort of psychological reaction prompted by the culture clash a good old country boy like me gets when he comes to the city. I’m probably threatened by all the buildings and dirty air and people, and foreign people and foreign cars and foreign basketballers. Is that a word? I don’t know. Damn foreigners. I trust most of them around here, because very few have moustaches, especially the women. That said, I’m determined to make this last, and form a kickass gang society in the Great Lakes and bust that unwanted flab faster than you can say 49.99!