Lunatic fringe
I know you’re out there
You’re in hiding
And you hold your meetings
We can hear you coming
We know what you’re after
We’re wise to you this time
We won’t let you kill the laughter.

Lunatic fringe
In the twilight’s last gleaming
This is open season
But you won’t get too far
We know you’ve got to blame someone
For your own confusion
But we’re on guard this time
Against your final solution

We can hear you coming (We can hear you coming)
No you’re not going to win this time
We can hear the footsteps (We can hear the footsteps)
Way out along the walkway
Lunatic fringe
We know you’re out there
But in these new dark ages
There will still be light

An eye for an eye
Well before you go under
Can you feel the resistance?
Can you feel the thunder?

Put the light to the wick(ed) and the whole candle goes into metldown.

Something happened. Somethng SNAPPED. Just now. Did anyalone hear it? Hope is a thin thing, a mere manohfullamental whyre – and one good SSSSWIPE mite been enough to tear it as-under and sling it hence. Midnight isn’t the dark night of the solo, no matter what they say – Fitz was right about sugjesting that it feels more like a very LOOOOOOOONNNNNNGGGGG three Hey Him. Looking forward for a light that isn’t aphereing in the sky, a dawn that isint donning. Maybe this will be it, right, the day the Sun de-sides. Fuck you, I’m not coming out toplay today.

And the dark is out there. No matter how the light shines in here, it’s ALWAYS NIGHT OUT THERE. It’s warm, but only in here – and no matter what you can’t stop thinking and pondering and worrying and fearing the Dark and the Cold. The darkness comprehended it not, but take the Muzzies; they don’t worry about COMPREHENDING what they don’t understand, they prefer to destroy it. And some Goddamn FOOL is getting up and going to the door and they’re about to let It in, let the Darkness in, to freeze us, to put out all our lights, to split that last sthred of hope. Mine’s cut clean, howbout yores. Snow and sleet and anything that’ll freeeeeze or drowwwwn. They’re letting it in, a bit at a time. THAT’s how the light is re-parting us, because nobody bothers to rage against the dying anymore. A little Darkness hier, a little aber THERE, and the whole world woinds up bloind and Leute-less. THE LIGHT IS GOING OUT. and somewhere down the road the man waits with his rucksack full of bloody fingers / up the street the scimitars are being sharperend / at four thrifty on a tuesday afternew the man whips a cigmund in the gutter and spots a site / and the everlastingaze blinks for a split second but it’s just barely enough for the mushroom to sneak through / my heart is trans-unfixed with the black obsidian pain of something I dassn’t name because it hasn’t a name of its own, not really / and the twine of the world has begun to go unraveled, vertical losign touch with horizontal, woof being warped and vice versa / underneath the wheels lie the skulls of every sacrifice made to appease a backasswards moongod that drinks manblood / and the uglies are building up, but not within us, the parasites are real and in the world and they’re going to reproduce their virus if it kills them / or us / and here comes the end can you see it coming like i can?

FOR GODS SAKE HOW LONG DOES THIS GO ON

my god my god why have you forsaken me

We have sinned so many times before
We see no need to turn back now

Cuz we’re the world, the wicked world
Marching to hell
We know what we’re doing and we’re marching to hell

Come and join us, have some fun
Dance in joy beneath the neon lights

Cuz we’re the world, the wicked world
Marching to hell
We know what we’re doing and we’re marching to hell

We’re the world, the wicked world
We do whatever we please
Forget your cares, sow your wild oats
Cuz sin is a wonderful disease
Lie, steal, it’s all right
We have no worries for tomorrow

Cuz we’re the world, the wicked world
Marching to hell
We know what we’re doing and we’re marching to hell

We’re the world, the wicked world
We don’t believe in God
We don’t believe in anything
We find belief to be rather odd

We paint ourselves as our bodies start to decay
We’re getting closer everyday
We have sinned so many times before
We see no need to turn back now

Cuz we’re the world, the wicked world
Marching to hell
We know what we’re doing and we’re still marching to hell.

The speech on Iraq fell short of expectations because of a problem the President has. It’s a problem he shares with most of the Republican Party, where it seems to be endemic: the man simply cannot f__king communicate. His speech did not give the impression that things were going to improve; he failed entirely (in my opinion) to emphasize that our rules of engagement were to change, which I think was the most important part of the whole thing. he inteds to let our troops try and WIN for once, but he certainly didn’t seem eager to say so to us. Instead we all got the idea that he was just sending another 25,000 men into the meat grinder.

If we were to change tactics and make it that much clearer that we were doing so, I think public opinion of the war would significantly improve — I think a lot of Americans agree with the principle on which we’re over there, but they don’t agree with the half-assed methods we’re using to fight it. But too many people, myself included, took away the wrong impression from Bush’s speech: that we weren’t fixing our tactics, just sending more guys in to do the same goddamned thing — the same useless and unsuccessful shit we’ve been trying for the last three years.

Now what?

Eric Berne, the creator of the Transactional school of psychoanalysis, mapped quite clearly the dangerous mindfield of parasitic thought in his books Games People Play and What Do You Say After You Say Hello? Having encountered these books before reading Gagdad’s theories on mind parasites, I now realize what exactly Berne did that I found useful — he was identifying and classifying all the patterns that make up those parasites. He not only explicated the structure of (•), but figuring out what all those •••s are. The games make up the script by which you live.

My own personal theory is that since the first step toward O is brushing off your excessive •, the first increment of the first step is figuring out exactly what your own parasites are — what games you’re playing — and erasing them from the script.

This is just a short list. See if you recognize a parasite of your own:
Why Does This Always Happen To Me? = self-fulfilling prophecy
Let’s You And Him Fight = love triangle
See What You Made Me Do = when you screw something up, blame the person who distracted you; eventually that idiot will learn to leave you alone
Wooden Leg = using your disadvantages to gain leniency for your mistakes; “What do you expect of a guy who’s alcoholic/crippled/mentally ill?”
Now I Gotcha You Son Of A Bitch = when someone screws you over, you have carte blanche to exact revenge, no matter how disproportionate the reaction

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