Topless Kate

Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: & / Personal / Chat /

The duchess sunbathes on a remote beach. Silly: nothing is “remote” in a world with paparazzi, with telephoto lenses, planes, satellites … with greed enthroned: and only token amounts of decency served out, like caviar, very sparingly.

Me, I love discovering the world we were just born into, the world that no one understands, that only a fraction yet sees even a part of. Science fiction training, from before puberty: that’s how you develop those muscles. Self-training. In my day no one assigned it, no one knew what you were doing: or they would have stopped you. (Actually, they tried.)

I’ll never forget the odd thrill I felt when I first discovered that one could go online and look at one’s own house, yard, carport from satellite pictures. The resolution wasn’t that great (then, twenty years ago): it wouldn’t show my bicycle parked in the open, or me standing there scratching my hip, and it didn’t show the inside of the house, there was no super-man-xray-vision for the roof.
Kate could have stood next to me, her in-laws too, all of us stark naked. We would have had to roll together into something the size of an elephant before the satellite pic would notice us. But not any more: much higher resolutions are now available.
Smile everybody, we’re all on TV!
The doctor can’t yet give me a prostate exam via satellite spy photo, maybe next year. Maybe next year any flasher will be able to impregnate Kate with a drone.

When I was arrested the sheriff helped the FBI drag me off to the sheriff’s office: where a staff of dozens was busy printing out pages from a couple of my five domains. were taped up everywhere. The little clerks were smiling at my jokes, one officer was quoting me with fervor: all looked away, embarrassed as they saw that I was there, among them, handcuffed. Then, after the FBI asked me enough questions that the agent had his misinterpretations rehearsed: after Columbine the University of London asked you about it, and you wrote at their web site (and your own) that it was the government putting all the fish in a barrel that made shooting them so easy; now I can tell the judge that that translates as: shoot all the children! With his part understood, the sheriff stepped back and the FBI feeb took me off to jail, still cuffed behind my back.
The ancestors of the same clowns heard Jesus say, Be nice, and translated it as: Murder the emperor! arrested him for insurrection.
a little awkward, i’ll fix later

Those gerbils in the sheriff’s employ knew what they were doing, they didn’t throw themselves between me and the guns: no, they want that pay check, where the state takes money without asking and gives dribs and drabs to the gerbils for helping to betray god, life, truth … That’s how fascism happens: take away natural resources, and everyone will clamor for a dole of what’s monopolized: it’s just tough that the good guys get crucified, while the bad guys call themselves the good guys, and all the tame media agree.
The mistake, too late now, was ever breeding beyond small groups. Mankind isn’t too toxic so long as the Hatfields can’t find the McCoys.

Kate loosens her top and a minute later the whole world is gawking and stepping on its tongue.

I haven’t checked satellite pix since the mid 1990s, maybe they can see into your bathroom now. Maybe the FBI can look up your bum while you’re pooping. I understand that these days the government’s asassins spy on targets in Asia from underground airconditioned comfort in Nevada. Oh, there’s some A-rab, maybe he’s a terrorist, oh there’s the new camera looking into his tent. They see a camel and decide it’s Al Qaeda, park a bomb next to its hip, discover their mistake later but don’t tell anybody.

Oh, I love the idea of all those gerbils, spending all their days listening to stuttered gibberish in phone taps, and watching somebody’s rock hard turd fail to move down the channel. And God laughs and laughs at people too stupid to know when they’re in hell, refusing with violence all (sane) invitations out of that hell.

In our culture the media hold the mirror while the murderers adjust the cosmetics.

PS: Picking on Kate

Of course I hate it. But, any cloud may have a silver lining: here for this N-generation American revolutionary liberal anti-Tory there’s a good side: the royals are not excepted. Actually maybe the royals are particularly picked on. As humans, that’s bad; as symbols, that’s good.

2012 09 17 More headlines, daily. One odd consequence, however causally related, has been that I personally, pk, am noticing this girl, I’m beginning to like her, I’m beginning to like her a lot.

thanx justjared

Saw a pic the other day, the duchess walking in a forest wearing chino pants, and jeez did she look, flatteringly, like my wife looked in the 60s: which was very good indeed.

Hilary on Whitehorse Mountain
Hilary on Whitehorse Mountain, 1968

This pic has faded with age, you can no longer see, not clearly, Lake Louise and its attendant mountains and glaciers behind her: it all looks like clouds.

Normally I don’t like political celebrities to be attractive, I don’t want to be aware of them. But now that I’m aware of Kate, as a fan and admirer, I’m finding it OK: so much so that I’ll say that she’s the best looking royal I can remember: far more attractive than Grace Kelly, and a great deal less annoying in her attractiveness than was her husband’s mother.


About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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