Karnal wrote on Sep 3
rd, 2021 at 6:28pm:
Covid is the good old "evolutionary blowtorch". It separates the wheat from the chaff and shows us how to live.
Cripples, retards and old people need to make way for the Superior Man, he on the "narrow path to success".
It's a simple plan, where the chodes with their fat, butt-ugly wives, make way for the guy in the limo, driving in the fast lane, his hot-babe filly by his side, her mane blowing in the breeze.
Rich, successful and in great shape, the Superior Man speeds past the chodes in their Priuses, who make way for his tight butt, his can-do vibe and positive male EnErGy, not so much a man as a God.
The chodes could take a page out of the Superior Man's book and try some good old herd mentality, but they instinctively love lockdown, failure and inertia. You can't tell the chodes anything. Lives of pure garbage, the lot.
You?
Thank you, Bbbwian. Or is it gweggy? Parables are instructions, innit. One doctorate or two?
Are you and Eloi or a Morlock?
H. G. Wells’s “The Time Machine.” The scenario is this: The Time Traveller, a scientist and inventor in nineteenth-century London, builds a time machine and leaps forward eight hundred thousand years. He finds the Eloi, large-eyed, elflike beings who wear fey garments, eat only fruit, and sleep in crumbling stone halls built by some previous civilization. They sleep on piles of silk throw pillows and make playful love on grassy knolls.
The Time Traveller first believes that the Eloi are the only people who remain on Earth: that we’ve evolved to a simple communal life. It’s only through the white “ghosts” he glimpses, the Eloi’s fear of “dark nights,” and, eventually, his excursion into a well to recover the time machine that he discovers the existence of the Morlocks—canny, subterranean carnivores, the descendants, he thinks, of Britain’s working class. Owing to vestigial impulse, the Morlocks still feed and clothe the Eloi, their once masters—thus the silk garments, the tables heaped with fruit—but they also harvest and eat them.
The Eloi adorn themselves with flowers, dance, and sing in the sunlight—utopia, Wells suggests, except for the Morlocks. But I wonder if we can blame them for eating the Eloi; there’s not much other meat around, because horses, cows, pigs, and sheep have all gone extinct, and the cooked haunches that the Traveller sees in the Morlocks’ underworld have a pleasantly heavy smell. Indeed, when he returns from his journey his dinner companions are shocked by how ravenously he falls upon his meat.
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