Full Menu – Menú Completo
Sections of the pantry
Can’t find the butter?
Hot off the oven
- dancing with porcupines – (en)
- what’s wrong with sex? – (en)
- the world, according to casciari (re-re) – (en)
- madagascar – (en)
- spooning leads to forking – (en)
- of nipples – (en)
- a -isms – (en)
- feminismo – (es)
- feminism – (en)
- timeline – (en)
- cronología – (es)
- the african fuckshion – (en)
- el african fuckshion – (es)
- c-word – (en)
- mr. or mrs.? – (en)
- iron man – (en)
- iron man – (es)
- singularity – (en)
- singularidad – (es)
- política vudú – (es)
- voodoo politics – (en)
- 2012 in review – (en/es)
- poor spain – (en)
- por amor a mi país – (es)
- elements: earth – (video) (en/es)
- movies not to be missed – feb 08, 2013 – (en)
- elements: fire – (video) (en/es)
- elements: air – (video) (en/es)
- elements: water – (video) (en/es)
- of love & emptiness – (en)
Whatever, but be creative …
Mixed dishesAfrica Agua Air Aire Alcalde Alcatraz Argentina landscapes Brasil Brazil Breathtaking landscapes bus stop Comisario Commissar Earth Education Elementos Elements Ether Extraño Viaje Fire Forense Fotografía Fuego Geologist Geólogo Humor Korean Movies love Love short stories Mayor Navidad Não-Me-Toque Paisajes Photography politics quiet charm shyness Stereotypes Strangest Travel Tetas Tierra Travel Water Writing Éter
The primary purpose of sex is obtaining pleasure, sensual pleasure, pleasure of the body.
However, in everyday experience, sexuality does not always lead to pleasure, even in the realm of fantasy. Contrary to this, it is usually source of frustration, anxiety, guilt, suffering and loneliness.
Because you have no memory for things that happened ten or twenty years ago, you’re still mouthing the same nonsense as three thousand years ago. Worse, you cling until your last nail breaks to such absurdities as ‘race,’ ‘class,’ ‘nation,’ and the obligation to observe a religion, and repress your sexuality. Thus your ‘normal’ ‘adjusted’ state is too often the abdication of ecstasy, the betrayal of our true potentialities; that many of us are only too successful in acquiring a false self to adapt to false realities.
Because of that, one argument that has been put forward to explain this, at least from an ample sector of progressive authors, is our Judeo-Christian heritage. The argument is based on the repression of non-reproductive sexuality established by the Jewish at the beginning of their story. Note here that this repression of free sexuality had no moral purpose for them, but was primarily aimed to ideological and religious differentiation. Also political and military utility.
The peoples of Asia Minor invaded by the Jews regarded sexual pleasure as a gift from the gods, and fertility rites, orgies, bacchanalias, the so-called sacred prostitution (of both sexes), were an integral part of non-monotheistic religions. Therefore, the fight against other religions (the foundation of the national character of the Jews), acquired characteristics of combating sexual pleasure. That is, the so-called fight against idolatry became the fight against the body, ours and of others.
This does not cost too much to the Jews, since they were the representatives of the first fully patriarchal societies in history. For them obedience, trust in authority, was the highest virtue. To maintain disciplined people, warlike, imperialistic, one of the conditions is to eliminate the free play of sexuality.
Based on this we can understand why the persecution of free sexuality among Jews. It wasn’t to encourage reproduction, but considering that sexual impulse is absorbent, rampant, “not subject to reason” and, therefore, encourages disobedience and disorder.
A society based on family and absolute respect for authority, can not afford the free play of sexual pleasure. Even St. Augustine clearly acknowledges it when he says that sexuality is not bad per se, but must be fought and regulated because it encourages disobedience …
Now we can understand, if we agree with the above discussion, why the Jews were given a repressive sexual code. But what has that to do with the frustrations, anxieties, fears, guilt and dissatisfaction that assail us here and now when we make love with someone or when we don’t? Or when we don’t know exactly what our bodies or the bodies of others want?
What peasant, poor, insignificant and ignorant people, on the borders of the empire, have to do with what we live here every day three thousand years later?
Something, but not too much.
The confusion between Jewish and Christian values, its no-differentiation, like they were the same or a consequence of each other, exempts scholars to analyze why the permissive teachings of Jesus became the repressive morality of the Church, and prevents simultaneously our awareness on the changes and fluctuations that Christian sexual morality has had throughout history. I will not say that the morality of Christ is that of a hippie, but obviously for Orthodox Jews it would seem a spawn of the devil.
And this has a lot to do with what we feel, the way we live our body and that of others: the discourse of the Church on sexuality, from the Inquisition to the Second Vatican Council. A discourse that comes down to what St. Paul said: “Do not be deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor invested, nor sodomites … will inherit the kingdom of God”
Now, the Church is not a stupid, backward and stagnant institution, still stubbornly repeating this “naïve speech” because once was said by St. Paul, St. Augustine, or St. Thomas, much less because Moses has said it.
If the discourse of the Church on sexuality is currently repressive, the phenomenon should be explained by the current conditions, the same way we understand the Jewish moral three thousand years ago by the sociopolitical conditions of the Jewish people three thousand years ago.
If Catholicism and other religions wield in this discourse on sexuality more close to Moses than to Jesus, is not the product of a throwback, but of smart political institutions that want to keep their current status, and obviously they do, since the ongoing importance of religion is quite clear.
In other words, if religious discourse ensures that sex is bad and for the majority of people this is important, is because our society specifically expects that speech, because the existing system needs a religious justification to help maintain its dominance, the order of their privileges, but have to find arguments written three thousand years ago.
With the religious and dogmatic assertion that free sexuality is inherently inhumane, antisocial, animalizing, and repressive, control is justified as a human need, as an inescapable defense reaction or social hygiene, to save civilization and its fundamental institutions. So we talk about sexuality as something demonic, irrational, destructive and chaotic, as a kind of beast that brutalizes and animalizes man who don’t monitors itself, leading to break up the most sacred of human nature.
In short, if we want to know what’s wrong with sex, we should forget to look up embarrassed and simply look at ourselves and our fellowmen, face to face and openly.
If we do this, what we see is that our sexuality, usually, is not expressed or preformed spontaneously, not governed by the laws of personal pleasure, but in fact is almost always repressed, controlled, manipulated and distorted by social power, by the various powers that act directly or indirectly on us.
Sexuality is perhaps the field where the power structure of social relations is most manifest. This manipulation of sexuality has been more clear, especially from the eighteenth century, with the rise of the bourgeoisie as a class in power.
At that point, the monogamous conjugal family (nuclear family) confiscates sexuality, tries to absorb monopolistically the reproductive function, and the question becomes absolutely private. It leaves one recognized place for sexuality, utilitarian and fruitful: the parents’ bedroom. Any sexuality that is or is intended purely out of this place, should be lived as hidden, marginal, sinful, abnormal, unnatural, aberrant and punishable at all levels.
The prevailing sexual morality officially considered licit sexuality only restricted to the relationship penis-vagina between two adult individuals, without violence, with no family ties, both of the opposite sex, in a private setting, in a union consecrated by the compulsory bond of marriage, monogamy, based on love and, in the optimum, intended to sex procreation and not simply pleasure. Outside this framework, any sexual activity, fantasy or desire, is considered illegal, sinful, vicious, abnormal, sickly, morbid or perverse and, therefore, condemnable. Not only by society but also by the individual who has been trained from childhood in this moral code.
It should be noted that sexual repression had always failed, from the moment that has never wipe out illicit sexuality, if that had been its only intention. In reality, the forbidden activities and sexual fantasies have always constituted the bulk of the sexual life of any person. But the effectiveness of the repressive moral code is based not only on what is forbidden, but by prohibiting many things -and knowing that they are humanly impossible to avoid- it creates a network of guilt from which no one escapes, and this is much more effective than direct repression itself.
Moreover, as the moral code leads to experience sexuality as an exclusive competence of our private lives, we live these behaviors and feelings of shame and blame as personal problems, as if we were the only ones violating the codes, as if all others lead a holy and pious life, and the only “deviant” and “evil” we were…
But that’s not all. In conducting our sexuality as intimate, individual, as if each of us were an island body, we attack and alienate the very foundation of Eros, which is by obligation and desire the more social, communal and sharing of all human impulses.
This is what’s wrong with our sex life: instead of being at the service of personal pleasure, which automatically is freely shared with all coming into play, it is subjected to codes that tell us what is good or bad to feel, what is good or bad to share, and even communicate, what is right or wrong to do, and with whom, and under what circumstances, and, above all, with what purpose. We have been educated in such a way that we can accept sexuality if and only if our sexual behaviors are means and instruments to achieve nonsexual objectives: Form couples, establish a family, have children, extend the surname, assault, humiliate, catch the husband, survive economically, escape roles, assert ourselves, being in love, get tenderness or pay protection, set dependencies, pay the divorce, demonstrate our power, our techniques, our ability to seduce, our manhood, or our love. The list is in fact endless. And if not, you could analyze yourself.
And the core of our being, which is really and only OUR WISHES, where is it? In the underworld of the repressed, unconscious, unknown, hidden, and pathological culpability. In other words, what really defines us as people, as human beings, unique, irreplaceable, have been thrown into the place of the unrecognized, and we remain firmly there.
Don’t confuse the wishes I’m speaking about with the so-called sexual desire, as that would make a gross caricature of itself, and is just another system trap. Desire is desire to be, to speak out in the real world, making the environment to fit to what we want, to act as we really are, not someone’s desire to possess or be possessed by someone.
So, no matter how active the sex life of anyone is, it won’t enrich him/her. Desire does not seek to multiply coupling acts more or less mechanic. What desire is seeking is pleasure, excitement, not only at the “carnal” level but as total relationship -not in the imperialist sense, but as unlimited-deep, and extensive as well. And with characters not bound to follow a script, but with real people, who are able to auto-recognized themselves as desiring subjects and act accordingly. Desire just looks for the communion between free beings.
Daily relations -public and private- to which we are accustomed, has nothing of this. We relate to each other as actors tied to a character, and get from others the same thing. We are husbands with our wives, parents with our children, children with our parents, chiefs with our subordinates, subordinates with our bosses, teachers with our students, lovers with our lovers, and so on till exhausting the repertoire of social figures.
Sexuality experienced this way is, of course, destructive to oneself and for all. But it is a socially encouraged destructiveness. The system requires that people move, act, think and feel just as a support material for the different social roles. A desiring subject is creative and therefore, unpredictable and messy, in other words, socially maladjusted.
If the repression of desire (and life), generates frustration, aggression and violence, this is handled in a socially useful way, focusing it on the “self-improvement”, the competitiveness, “struggle for life”, the search for individual and selfish success. And if frustration drifts toward self-destruction (suffering, disease, neurosis, alcoholism, drugs, addiction, suicide), it is not a serious problem for society, unless it affects production, but for subjects who live and suffer individually and culpably.
Now, what is the basic mechanism used by our today’s society to achieve we act in this way? This instrument of domination is LOVE. For the love of parents children accept repression, for fear of losing this love they suffer education, to secure love we establish couples, accept dependence, fulfill roles, we wear out chasing unattainable perfection, and suffer and put the blame on ourselves where the ideals fail.
Running the risk of sounding cynical, I would say that this is what’s wrong with sex: that, unfortunately, it’s at the service of love and not pleasure. We are too romantic when we talk and think about sexuality. We require sexuality of things that have nothing to do with it: to give us back the love of our mother, that our mate should be everything to us, and we everything for him/her, that orgasms should be institutional, or even our sexuality should define us as people. I believe, I clearly know, love is just a kind of symptom that arises through the repression of libido.
We, my dear fellowmen, are suffering here a particularly unattractive and discouragingly common affliction called tunnel vision, which, for all the misery it causes, ought to top the job list at the World Health Organization. Tunnel vision is a disease in which perception is restricted by ignorance and distorted by vested interest. Tunnel vision is caused by an optic fungus that multiplies when the brain is less energetic than the ego. It is complicated by exposure to politics. When a good idea is run through the filters and compressors of ordinary tunnel vision, it not only comes out reduced in scale and value but in its new dogmatic configuration produces effects the opposite of those for which it originally was intended.
If desire causes suffering, it may be because we do not desire wisely, or that we are inexpert at obtaining what we desire. Instead of hiding our heads in a prayer cloth and building walls against temptation, why not get better at fulfilling desire? Salvation is for the feeble, that’s what I think. I don’t want any fucking salvation, I want life, all of life, the miserable as well as the superb. If the gods would tax ecstasy, then I shall pay; however, I shall protest their taxes at each opportunity, and if Woden or Shiva or Buddha or that Christian fellow -what’s his name?- cannot respect that, then I’ll accept their wrath. At least I will have tasted the banquet that they have spread before me on this rich, round planet, where all wishes should be fulfilled, the more forbidden, the more delicious, rather than recoiling from it like a toothless bunny. I cannot believe that the most delicious things were placed here merely to test us, to tempt us, to make it the more difficult for us to capture the grand prize: the safety of the void. To fashion of life such a petty game is unworthy of both men and gods.
What’s wrong with sex? – Dugutigui on some ideas from Extrem and some others
I’m out on vacation for the next couple of weeks, without internet, mobile, or underpants … Probably I’ll miss you a little … but I have neither time nor inclination to write a new post at the height of my intelligent audience … so I leave you with a rerun …. and I promise to reply to all the comments … between mojito and mojito.
Addio ragazze e ragazzi, and be good!
I once heard that Argentina is not better or worse than Spain, just younger. I liked that theory, so I invented a trick to calculate the age of a nation based on the “dog system”.
In childhood, we were taught that to know whether a dog was young or old, we should multiply its biological age by 7. In the case of nations, one must divide their historical age by 14, to infer its “human” correspondence. Confusing?
In this article, I come out with some revealing examples.
Argentina was born in 1816; therefore she’s 190 years old. If we divide it by 14, Argentina is about 13 and a half “human” years old. In other words, she’s in the awkward age. Rebellious, bean-flicking, with short memory and rash answering, and has got acne grains all over (is that why they call her the “barn of the world”?).
Almost all Latin American countries are the same age and, as always in such cases, they join in gangs. The MERCOSUR gang is formed by four teenagers who have set a rock band. They rehearse in the garage, make plenty noise, but have not released an album yet… Venezuela, already with budding tits, is about to join them, as the choir. In fact, like most girls her age, she’s dying for sex, in this case with Brazil, who is 14 and (has) the largest member of the gang. Mexico is also a teenager, but with Indian ancestry. That’s why he laughs little and doesn’t smoke even a harmless joint, as the rest of his buddies do; instead, he chews peyote, and joins the United States, a mentally retarded of 17, who is devoted to bully starving 6 y. o. kids in other continents.
At the other extreme of the rope is the ancient China. Dividing her 1,200 years by 14, we get a granny of 85; conservative, with a funky cat pee smell, which spends her days eating rice because she has no money -yet- to buy a false denture. China has an 8 y. o. grandson, Taiwan, who makes her life miserable. She is long divorced of Japan, an old grouch which coupled with the Philippines, a young girl of dissolute life, always ready for any aberration in exchange for cash.
Then there are countries that have just turned the age of majority and go for a ride in the father’s BMW. For example Australia and Canada are the typical countries that grew under the protection of pop England and mom France, with a strict and snobbish upbringing and now they are acting fool. Australia is a tart just over 18, which practices topless and has sex with South Africa, while Canada is an emancipated gay who, at any time, could adopt baby Greenland to form one of those alternative families actually in vogue.
France is a 36-year separated woman, more slutzoar than the hens, but well respected in professional fields. She has a son, just 6 y. o.: Monaco, which is poised to be a hustler or a dancer … or both. She is the sporadic lover of Germany, a rich truck driver who is married to Austria, who knows she is being cheated on, but couldn’t care less.
Italy has been a widow for long. She lives for caring of San Marino and the Vatican, two catholic sons identical to the Flanders’ twins. She was married twice, the second with Germany (they did not last long, but got a baby: Switzerland), but nowadays she wants nothing with men. Italy would like to be a woman like Belgium, a lawyer, independent, wearing pants and talking politics face to face with men (Belgium sometimes also fantasizes on knowing how to prepare spaghetti).
Spain is the most beautiful woman in Europe (probably France could overshadow her, but she loses spontaneity because she is using way much perfume). She shows off the boobs a lot and almost always goes drunk. Frequently she gets screwed by England and then makes a complaint. Spain has children everywhere (almost all 13) which live far away. She does love them much, but she is not happy when they are hungry and come home to spend some time and raid the fridge…
Another who has children scattered everywhere is England. He sails at night, he screws around and nine months later a new island appears somewhere in the world. But he doesn’t ignore them. In general, the islands live with the mother, but England pays the child support.
Scotland and Ireland, England’s siblings living on the upper floor, are always drunk and they can’t even play soccer! They are the shame of the family.
Sweden and Norway are both 40 and both lez, have nice bodies regardless their age, but give ball to none. Just screwing and working, as they are graduated in something. They sometimes do a threesome with Holland (when they need a joint); other times, they become hysterical with Finland, which is an average androgynous of 30 years, who lives alone in an unfurnished attic and spends his time talking on the phone with Korea
Korea (the one in the south) spend her time watching out her schizoid northern sister. They are twins, but the northern one took a sip of amniotic fluid when she left the womb and ended up quite dense. She spent her childhood playing with guns and now, that she’s living alone, she is capable of anything. United States, the 17 year old dumbbell, monitors her closely, not for fear, but because he wants to take the guns away from her.
Israel is a 62 years scholar who has got a shitty life. A few years ago Germany, the truck driver, didn’t see him and run over him. Since that day Israel went ape. Now, instead of reading books, Israel spends the day on the terrace, throwing stones at Palestine, a girl who’s washing clothes in the house next door.
Iran and Iraq, both 16, were making their living by stealing bikes and selling parts, until the day they stole a truck’s part from the wrong guy, the U.S., and that was the end of their business. Now they are eating their snots.
The world was fine that way, until the day Russia joined (without wedding) the Perestroika and had as a dozen or so of children. All flimsy, some Mongols, most schizophrenics.
A few weeks ago, thanks to mayhem with bullets and corpses, serious people around the world have learned that there is a country called Kabardino-Balkaria. A country with a flag, president, anthem, flora, fauna … and even with people!
It makes me a bit scared that countries that young appear so suddenly. That we find out about them overhearing on next table conversation and then you have to put a face like “we already knew”, not to seem illiterate.
And I wonder: Why do countries continue to be born, if all of them are still not functioning?
The World, According To Casciari – Hernán Casciari (Buenos Aires, 1971)
This post is a tribute to a place that has been a highlight of my life as a traveler. The idea comes after checking the world visitor’s map on this blog, in which, amazingly -for me, nobody from this country has paid a visit to it. I guess a typical story of love … and indifference.
I was working in Johannesburg a year before Spain won the World Cup. My contract in this country was coming to an end so we were already making plans to escape the vuvuzelas and the South African winter. I had been to Madagascar in the past, but this time I wished to tour the island, or part thereof, from another perspective, so we booked our bunks in a dhow to take us to Nosy Be -the largest island of an archipelago off the northwestern tip of Madagascar. In this occasion I was traveling with my two daughters, and I must confess I had my doubts as this part of the World was not for everyone. On other hand, my two girls, aged twenty-eight and twelve, are extremely active -read rowdy- and putting them onto a traditional dhow with strangers sounded like the makings for a perfect storm. My daughters have spent many years in Africa following his father’s wandering through this vast continent -even my little daughter, Julia, was born in Africa, in the midst of Liberia’s civil war- and have done more than their fair share of sailing in our boat on the Mediterranean sea, but how would they cope with bucket showers and pillows that we heard were like lumps of coral rag? Then there were the politics. Madagascar has had 16 coups in 40 years and the new leader -a 34-year-old ex-DJ from Antananarivo- had not been playing happy democratic tunes. And in addition to tummy bugs, sand fleas and malaria, I knew first hand of pickpockets and crime.
My fears were washed away, as they so often are, by the first experience on the island. We were bewitched by the beautiful blue waters, the primal forests, the scents of ilang-ilang, the sight of large-humped zebu oxen and the strange sounds of foreign tongues. We were strangers in a strange land, and we were delighted. At Helle-ville, the harbor town of Nosy Be, our taxi -a 40-year-old Renault 4- deposited us on a grimy wharf where we were met by the South African co-owner of the dhow, his Malagasy partner, and the three Malagasy men and one woman who would be our guides and crew for the next six days. Our dhow, the Va-Waka -literarily “the canoe people”-, was a beautiful craft with a wooden hull and deck, a lateen-rigged sail and a comfy chilling-out area on the fore deck that was covered with shade cloth. Mohammed, the Malagasy partner, built it, we were told, using wood from the local forest and primitive techniques with just a saw, adze and hand drill. The dhow was equipped with a fridge of cold Three Horses beers and Cokes, a flagon or two of island rum, big bags of unpolished rice and other basic provisions. Two sturdy rods with Rapala lures stuck out from the bow, and these we were told would provide a good supply of fresh fish. My daughter Barbara, a fishing fanatic from her most tender childhood, had her eyes out on stalks. As we set off across the unreal pale blue ocean, with Va-Waka’s diesel engine thumping in the bowels and massaging away any worries that might have remained, I knew there was nowhere else on earth that I’d rather be. Over fresh coffee, bread and marmalade, we were soon getting along with the rest of the group.
The first day on the boat was about a four-hour sail, but on average we would only spend about two or three hours a day out at sea. The kids watched flying fish and dolphins, chatted to our guide -the only one who spoke much English-, made friends with the other kids and soon forgot about their Facebook and blogs back at home. They took turns pulling in the mackerel that frequently took the lures, and were lulled into tropical stupor by the views and the incredibly clear Indian Ocean. Whenever there was a whisper of boredom, we simply leaped overboard into the iridescent blue water. The temperature in mid-June was a pleasant 25 degrees C, both in the water and out. We were on a six-night itinerary, spending two nights each in three different camps: Russian Bay -with simple wooden A-frame bungalows on a hill overlooking a bay of mangroves-, Mahalina -where versions were on the edge of a quintessential fringe of white sand, complete with gently rolling surf and rows of coconut palms-, and Kalobe -where we spent our last two nights in stilted tents on a secluded beach-. Each was built by Mohammed, to what he envisaged were what vazas -white people- expected. They were all very basic, with bucket showers -except at the last camp where there was a hose shower with cold running mountain water-, rudimentary toilets -some had seats, some were just holes-, comfy beds, mosquito nets and an A-framed dining room, which had a rough plank as a seat. We all felt very much like Robinson Crusoe.
Snorkeling was the highlight of the trip for all of us, and we visited one or two great sites each and every day. The coral and smaller fishes were prolific, but you can’t help feeling fishermen have depleted most of the original underwater splendor. It was intact at the Nosy Tanikely Marine Reserve -a spectacular garden of colorful soft and hard corals, where we stopped on our penultimate day, joining hawksbill turtles, fusiliers, batfish, moray eels, surgeon fish and dozens of others all floating in a seemingly painted, pale blue ocean. You can’t help bumping into weird creatures on this fascinating island. We were visited by giant chameleons, watched by frigate birds overhead and looked up to by weird snakes and giant tortoises. We also ticked off endemic fish eagles, egrets, beeeaters, kingfishers and myriad other species that exist nowhere else on earth. We heard the sounds of lemurs in the forest and saw their tiny prints on the beaches, but to see them up close we needed to go to a lemur sanctuary on Nosy Komba. Our guide attracted these very unmonkey-like primates out of the forest with bits of banana and simple calls of “monkey, monkey.” The unique Madagascan animals seemed so happy with the deal that they used our delighted kids’ heads as their eating platforms. As we sailed back into Helle-ville at the end of our trip, I looked round the dhow. We were brown, strong, unwashed, unshaven, crusted with salt, and our hair was bleached from the sun. How a week on the dhow had changed us all. We had become a tribe. The shift out of our comfort zones had been an essential part of the adventure. In retrospect, the only real problem in Madagascar was eventually having to leave it all behind. This island holiday was also a highlight of my life as a dad.
Life changing family vacations to exotic destinations don’t need to cost a fortune. Turn your back on luxurious travel and board a traditional dhow for a week of coastal exploration in Madagascar. You won’t regret it.
Madagascar – Dugutigui
I’m adding food blogger to my resume alongside other niceties you already know, and we may start with a consideration:
The repetitive phases of cooking leave plenty of mental space for reflection, and as I chop and mince and slice I think about the rhythms of cooking, one of which involves destroying the order of the things we bring from nature into our kitchens, only to then create from them a new order. We butcher, grind, chop, grate, mince, and liquefy raw ingredients, breaking down formerly living things so that we might recombine them in new, more cultivated forms. When you think about it, this is the same rhythm, once removed, that governs all eating in nature, which invariably entails the destruction of certain living things, by chewing and then digestion, in order to sustain other living things. In “The Hungry Soul” Leon Kass calls this the great paradox of eating: ‘that to preserve their life and form, living things necessarily destroy life and form.’ If there is any shame in that destruction, only we humans seem to feel it, and then only on occasion. But cooking doesn’t only distance us from our destructiveness, turning the pile of blood and guts into a savory salami, it also symbolically redeems it, making good our karmic debts: Look what good, what beauty, can come of this! Putting a great dish on the table is our way of celebrating the wonders of form we humans can create from this matter -this quantity of sacrificed life- just before the body takes its first destructive bite. This why, on the table, after all them end: “Good appetite”, I invariably add: “Unfortunately”.
So. Whether you’re an accomplished chef or attempting to make your very first meal, this post is chock full of inspiration to fuel your culinary creations. Here’s my first recipe:
“Spooning leads to forking”
Utensils and ingredients:
1 Chopping board (up to king size)
2 Persons of opposite sex (irreplaceable ..)
1 Papaya (not very wrinkled)
1 Plantain (to taste)
2 Oranges (grapefruit can be used)
200 gr. Stamina
Hugs and Kisses (to taste)
How to prepare:
Get the two Persons into the Dark quarter. Place them on the Chopping board like little spoons in a drawer, leave them mix for 20 to 30 minutes at room temperature and sprinkle the Hugs and Kisses (Oranges are just decorative so it’s recommended to choose the best looking). When properly seasoned, the Papaya is filled with the Plantain and then you should stir the Eggs vigorously for 15 to 20 minutes (that’s where the Stamina is applied) until it forms nougat and get very hard. Once hard, pour the residue into the Papaya and remove the Plantain, or what remains of it. Allow the mixture to stand for 9 months in the oven, and, once well spongy, the meal could be removed and cleaned the mold. If you want another service, let the mold repose additional 40 days before making another.
Note: If you enjoy cooking just for pleasure wrap the Plantain with a plastic cover to leave no residue.
Dear Lord, please bless…oh never mind, even You wouldn’t bless this slop!
Spooning leads to forking – Dugutigui
It was hot outside. It was hot inside. I was at a bar nursing a beer. My nipple was getting quite soggy. I was hot. So I’ve given myself a haircut. And I was at a bar nursing a beer. I then saw a bald woman sweating. What’s up Mr.? I said, my nipples. It was 100 F outside. It was getting pretty soaked now. I offered to tweeze her eyebrows. We were at a bar nursing some beers. She accepted and was so grateful that she offered to trade lipstick with me. It was hot everywhere. She said, I got nipple rings ($)($). I said, good idea. You can now jump car batteries without cables. Still I got hard like I’ve just seen some nipple on Beyoncé, no disrespect to Hov, but if I didn’t I’d be beyond gay. And in remembrance of that special bonding moment, I still wear her red lipstick over my right nipple. Her tweezed eyebrows in my shirt pocket.
People who get implants (+)(+) It’s so depressing. People. I don’t know. The route of that, you know, maybe they want more love or attention, or what it is, but they always go for the most obvious place. Here. Well if you really want more attention, why not get them in your eyes? And then move you eyes down to where you nipples used to be, put you breasts up on your head, everybody will pay attention. She said, opinions are like nipples, everybody has. Some have firm points, others are barely discernible through layers, and some are displayed at every opportunity regardless of whether the audience has stated “I am interested in your nipples” or not. I thought her a vacuum with nipples. I said, why don’t you go back to that doctor and have him suck the fat out of your head? Why don’t you smart little bastard? I was at a bar nursing a beer. My nipple was getting quite soggy. Ending up an atheist wasn’t my fault. My unwed teenage mother’s religion forced her to breast feed me like a crack-addicted baby after coating her nipples (@)(@) with juice from a habanero pepper. I’m so unlucky that if I was to fall into a barrel of nipples I’d come out sucking my thumb. Mr., you’re drunk again. No Max, I’m just exhausted because I’ve been up all night drinking. Max again, this can be a great opportunity for you and her to bond. Bond… James Bond. I’ll do it. It has always been about morality and the freedom to decide my character’s fate, even projecting my own demeanor onto my hero. If that doesn’t float my boat, there’s always the limitless sex, marriage and the option to cheat on my wife. I still wear her red lipstick over my right nipple. That doesn’t make any sense. I’m a weird man… when I get mad, I get in the oven. It’s you Americans. There’s something about nipples you hate. If this were Germany, we’d be romping around naked on the stage.
It was hot outside. Hot inside.
Of nipples – Dugutigui
Lulled by stupefying illusions, my world was asleep in the cradle of infancy, dreaming away the hours from surrounding absolutism. It was an irrational universe, an absurdism. My parents were not interested in justice, they were interested in peace and quiet. For them all was academicism, with some nuances of accidentalism. They believed in something, and not lived it, a kind of acosmism, with naked adamitism for religious reasons.
How is it possible that our parents lied so much? Let’s see: “Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, umm … God. You’re the prettiest kid in school. This wont hurt a bit. Your face will freeze like that…” and the biggest one: “Everything’s going to be alright.” All this adevism, this naked adoptionism, the underhanded and perverted animism, damage the children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair … A lot of their stories were highly suspicious, in my opinion. There was the one that ended when the two good children pushed the wicked witch into her own oven … Stories like this stopped people thinking properly, I was sure. I’d heard that one and thought, Excuse me? No one has an oven big enough to get a whole person in. Believing the unbelievable … Come on! This anthropomorphism, with our big brains, our tiny hearts, I doubted and overthought and hesitated, I measured the oven, and my theological indifference became adiaphorism, my moral principles turned to aestheticism, my love into agapism. Their belief in the ultimate triumph of good despite evil means, their agathism, their annihilationism, tanned my soul with agnosticism, my heart with anthropotheism. The real question of life after death isn’t whether or not it exists, but even if it does what problem this really solves.
I worshiped G. Carlin. “Religion: If this word offends you, welcome to the world of sane and realistic critical thought. More harm has been done to the collective human psyche by religion than by all the fucking and cocksucking since the dawn of time. By the way, many religious people (including the ordained) fuck and suck each other’s cocks all the time”… Back to myself, so far, about morals, I know only today that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after. I don’t have any beliefs or allegiances. I don’t believe in countries, I don’t believe in religion, or a god, and I don’t believe in all these man-made institutional ideas. Don’t ever call me mad. I’m not mad. I’m just … well, differently moraled, that’s all. You could call it antinomianism, but for me is more anarchism with a layer of asceticism. Still, I don’t believe in apocalypticism, neither in autotheism, but is clear to me that there is no salvation, not even autosoterism. It’s also clear to me that the two big mistakes were the belief in a sky god -that there’s a man in the sky with 10 things he doesn’t want you to do and you’ll burn for a long time if you do them- and private property, which I think are at the core of our failure as a species. That’s atheism. That’s aspheterism. That’s today’s me. That’s the source of my indignation, my dissatisfaction, however it comes out from time to time. I feel betrayed by the people I’m part of, these creatures, these magnificent creatures.
In fact, may the forces of evil become confused on the way to my house, I believe in no isms.
A -isms – Dugutigui
Sucede que me gusta cuando las feministas atacan a las amas-de-casa-culo-gordo que piensan que no hay nada más en la vida que sentarse en la sala al teléfono, tomar café, ver televisión y bombear un bebé cada nueve meses. P-poom, p-poom, p-poom, p-poom, p-poom … ¿siete serán suficientes Virgilio? … P-poom, p-poom. Pero ¿cuál es la alternativa? ¿Cuál es la alternativa al bombeo de una unidad cada nueve meses? ¿Arribismo sin sentido? Arribismo sin sentido … ¿Ponerse un traje de hombre hecho a medida, con hombreras, e imitar todo lo peor del comportamiento de los hombres? ¿Es esta la cosa más noble que las mujeres pueden pensar? ¿Conseguir una poltrona en un sistema político rapaz que está vendiendo el país a las grandes corporaciones y empobreciendo a los ciudadanos a través de los impuestos? ¿Aceptar un trabajo en una empresa criminal que está envenenando el medio ambiente y roba a los clientes su dinero? ¿Lanzarse en paracaídas en Irak o Afganistán para asesinar gente y venderles nuestra democracia Acme? ¿Es esta la cosa más digna que se les ocurre? ¿No hay algo más noble que puedan hacer para ayudar a que este planeta se cure? No oye uno mucho acerca de esto en las reivindicaciones de estas mujeres de clase media -me he dado cuenta que la mayoría de estas feministas son blancas de clase media. Les importa una mierda los problemas de las mujeres negras. No se preocupan por las mujeres latinas. Lo único que le interesa es su propia libertad reproductiva … y sus bolsillos, se trata simplemente de una variante de la clase alta y la política del auto-privilegio.
Yo pienso que la responsabilidad con uno mismo significa negarse a permitir que otros fabriquen tu forma de pensar, o hablar … esto significa insistir en que aquellos a los que usted da su amistad y amor sean capaces de respetar su mente. La responsabilidad con uno mismo significa que usted no se deje tentar por soluciones superficiales y fáciles – ideas y libros predigeridos … Significa que usted se niega a vender barato sus talentos y aspiraciones … Significa que usted insiste en una vida de trabajo con sentido, insiste en que el trabajo sea tan significativo como el amor y la amistad. Esto se traduce, como consecuencia, en el valor de ser “diferente”… Si me preguntasen quiénes son mis heroínas favoritas en la vida real, diría que las mujeres de Afganistán, Irak e Irán, las que arriesgan sus vidas y su belleza para desafiar la inmundicia de la teocracia. Ayaan Hirsi Ali y Azar Nafisi, esas son mi modelo femenino ideal.
A mi modo de ver, en lugar de “tener los huevos más grandes”-los huevos son débiles y sensibles-, si quieres ser realmente mujer, “haz crecer tu vagina” -estas cosas aguantan mejor los golpes. De todos los resultados desagradables predichos sobre la liberación de la mujer no hay otro más alarmante que la sugerencia de que las mujeres, con el tiempo, llegarán a ser justamente como hombres. Y creo que esta es una de las principales razones por las que el feminismo no es tomado en serio por la mayoría de los hombres. Lo que nosotros -los hombres- estamos viendo es una copia de nosotros mismos, de nuestra peor imagen, pero con vagina, por lo que es vano esperar ninguna virtud de mujeres que son, en cierta medida, igual que los hombres.
Antes yo solía pensar en Él. Si hay un Dios, yo estaba convencido de que Él sería él, porque ninguna mujer podría o querría alguna vez joder tanto las cosas. Hoy creo sinceramente que Ella bien podría ser Dios. Tan triste como pueda parecer, ocurre que no hay más una mente femenina. Que el cerebro no es un órgano con sexo. Sería como hablar de un hígado femenino. Muchos de nosotros esperábamos algo más, algo mejor que saliese de este movimiento, pero al final está claro que los hombres son de la Tierra, las mujeres son de la Tierra y ¡hay que lidiar con ambos!
Feminismo – Dugutigui
I happen to like it when feminists attack these fat-ass housewives who think there’s nothing more to life that sitting home on the telephone, drinking coffee, watching TV and pumping out a baby every nine months. P-poom, p-poom, p-poom, p-poom, p-poom …will seven be enough Bob? … p-poom, p-poom. But what’s the alternative? What’s the alternative to pumping out a unit every nine months? Pointless careerism? Pointless careerism? Putting on a man-tailored suit with shoulder pads and imitating all the worst behavior of men? This is the noblest thing that women can think of? To get a chair in a rapacious political system that’s selling the country to big corporations and stealing citizens through taxes? To take a job in a criminal corporation that’s poisoning the environment and robbing customers out of their money? To parachute in Iraq or Afghanistan to murder people and sell them our Acme democracy? This is the worthiest thing they can think of? Isn’t there something nobler they can do to be helping this planet heal? You don’t hear much about that from these middle-class women. I’ve noticed that most of these feminists are white middle-class women. They don’t give a shit about black women’s problems. They don’t care about Latino women. All they’re interested in is their own reproductive freedom … and their pocketbooks, it is simply a variant for of upper-class politics & self-privileging.
Responsibility to yourself means refusing to let others do your thinking, talking … it means insisting that those to whom you give your friendship and love are able to respect your mind. Responsibility to yourself means that you don’t fall for shallow and easy solutions–predigested books and ideas … It means that you refuse to sell your talents and aspirations short… It means that you insist on a life of meaningful work, insist that work be as meaningful as love and friendship. It means, therefore, the courage to be “different”… If you ask me who are my favorite heroines in real life? The women of Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran who risk their lives and their beauty to defy the foulness of theocracy. Ayaan Hirsi Ali and Azar Nafisi are my ideal feminine model.
To my way of thinking, instead “growing some balls” -balls are weak and sensitive, if you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding. Of all the nasty outcomes predicted for women’s liberation none is more alarming than the suggestion that women would eventually become just like men. And I believe this is one of the main reasons feminism is not being taken seriously by men. What we men are seeing out there is a copy of ourselves, our worst image, but with vagina, so it is vain to expect virtue from women till they are in some degree same as men.
Before I was thinking of He -if there is a God, I was convinced He is a he, because no woman could or would ever fuck things up this badly. Today I believe that She could heartily be God. As sad as it could be there is no female mind anymore. The brain is not an organ of sex. As well speak of a female liver. Many of us were expecting something else, something better coming out of this movement, but at the end is clear that men are from Earth, women are from Earth. Deal with them!
Feminism – Dugutigui
¿Qué le hubiera costado a Dios que todas fueran unos yogures? Así cada uno tendría el suyo y nunca hubiera ardido Troya. Pero si todas fueran bonitas y todos inteligentes ¿quién cuidaría la tienda de la historia?
La mujer. En un lejano pasado, en cuanto a mí y la Lola, después de mil estratagemas que tanteé, delineé, ideé, planeé y puse o no en práctica, como la construcción de un túnel a través de la calle para llegar hasta ella, y en lo cual fracasé debido a que mi escasa herramienta, una cuchara y un peine, fueron insuficientes para romper las obras de drenaje que nos separaban; o el envío de gallinas mensajeras de una azotea a otra, gallinas que ya fuera por falta de experiencia o por la escasa densidad del aire se enredaban siempre en los alambres de la luz; surgió e amor. Supongamos que se trató de una boda vespertina y que después hubo una recepción. Los novios se retratan brindando. Yo diría hoy lo siguiente: “Con aire de triunfo, con la sonrisa en los labios, mirando al futuro con una confianza completamente injustificada, el novio le pasa el brazo por el talle a la novia, sin darse cuenta de que ella, con cara agria y ganas de que se acabe la fiesta, retira de sus labios la copa de champaña contrabandeada y se prepara para decirle por primera vez al recién casado: ‘No bebas tanto’.
En un pasado más cercano, a la mañana siguiente, cuando yo me despertaba y me desperezaba un poco, sentía algo inquietante y como duro en medio de los dos y por lo regular era un tomo de alguna novela, o hasta de Cervantes.
En un muy presente pasado cercano. Tal vez por la literatura, mi mujer tenía amantes, me engañaba con cualquiera allí mismo. Ella.— ¡Por favor, Carlos, por favor, ten prudencia! (se arremanga el vestido y le muestra las piernas.) ¡No, no, las piernas no! ¡No me mires las piernas! Carlos… ¿Crees que todavía luzco guapa? Él.— ¿A tu edad? ¡Vamos, querida, que son cuarenta años! Luces lo mismo que siempre, querida, lo mismo que siempre. Ella.— ¡Y ahora nuestros hijos van a cumplir veinte años! Él.— Menos mal que no los tuvimos. Ella.— Menos mal. Pero en el bosque, mis bastardos fueron testigos. Cuando nos separamos regó orines y sal por toda la casa y ¿qué hizo la justicia? confiar mis niños a su madre. ¡A su jodida madre!
Ayer. Así el hijo: —El niño ya confesó —el teniente echó el humo por la nariz—. Nos dijo que mató al lechero porque lo había violado. Yo, el papá del niño mata-cuajadas leyó la absurda versión del agente. El relato estaba escrito en un estilo de nota negra mezclada con pornografía sadomasoquista. Todo era puesto en labios del declarante, incluso expresiones tan naturales como ‘aviesas miradas’ y ‘concúbito anal’ y ‘miembro erecto’ … Yo le señalaba al milico una serie de errores obvios, y como respuesta, el este me conectó un puñetazo en el estómago que me dejó sin aliento. Aquí la verdad es lo que diga este animal, razoné, cuando inventa una historia la vuelve real a hostiazos. En eso le gana a los escritores. Me dejaron visitarlo. Llegó el muchacho como ebrio mentando madres. Traía la jeta, primo, rota en dos, estaba totalmente desfigurada, hinchadísima, y eran manchas moradas con blancas, de todos colores. Era el pobre todo un arco iris, como si se le hubiera caído un payaso encima. Suspiraba, echaba pujiditos, hacía pastosas gárgaras con un bonito nombre de mujer: ‘Guadalupe’. Me acorde de cierta fábula, una oveja revolucionaria fue fusilada: Un siglo después, el rebaño arrepentido le levantó una estatua ecuestre que quedó muy bien en el parque. Y en el futuro, cada vez que aparecían Ovejas Negras eran rápidamente pasadas por las armas para que las futuras generaciones de ovejas comunes y corrientes pudieran ejercitarse también en la escultura.
En el futuro, ya pretérito, me hizo un tango por teléfono. Me dijo fíjate nada más que me estoy muriendo, tengo un dolor en la vesícula. Ah, no, en la boca del estómago. Parece que se me acaba de reventar una de mis úlceras y fíjate que estoy desesperada, me estoy muriendo … encuéntrame una enfermera muy barata, porque no puedo estar sola y la clásica fulana, aquí, la Madre Abadesa dijo no, óyeme no, vete a casa de tu hijo … Yo creo que la cabrona me acababa de hablar desde la esquina de mi casa, del locutorio, porque ya había llegado. ¿Y sabes cómo llegó? Con sus ceniceros, con sus cuadros de pared, con sus pomadas y todos sus aditamentos, de plano, para venir a establecerse. De veras, mi mamá es un chiste. Un chiste. Se murió al tropezar con un trailer…, iba leyendo. ¡Descanse en paz!
Hoy. Soñar, soñar la noche, la calle, la escalera y el grito de la estatua desdoblando la esquina. Correr hacia la estatua y encontrar sólo el grito, querer tocar el grito y sólo hallar el eco, querer asir el eco y encontrar sólo el muro y correr hacia el muro y tocar un espejo, el deseo de que hubiera un dios más democrático en la distribución de la belleza femenina. Digan lo que dijeren, el escritor nace, no se hace. Puede ser que finalmente algunos nunca mueran; pero desde la Antigüedad es raro encontrar alguno que no haya nacido. (Entre paréntesis te contaré que en cierta ocasión una señorita me preguntó, para un periódico, si en lo que escribo hay algún mensaje. Yo le contesté que sí, que en todo lo que escribo hago llamados a la rebelión y a la revolución, pero desgraciadamente en una forma tan sutil que por lo general mis lectores se vuelven reaccionarios).
Cronología – Dugutigui. Ensayo libre sobre varias ideas de geniales autores mejicanos.
I found myself -your conspicuous mandatary- at the mercy of an hospital in Monrovia waiting for treatment of a middle area infection produced by small arachnids like ticks, but smaller. This condition has the distinction of bringing the patient to an extreme state of unrest, and because of the irresistible itching, I had already broken four times the glass of water that is required in the bedside tables. Aware of this situation, Dr. Samuel Garnahweh, head of the “carnal” diseases, ordered in writing to get me a plastic cup.
Something down there was asking me to start being a bit more selective. With those dark scullions with dyed blond wigs, one pound lower lip and four of gum, leopard color velvet pants, perfumes of maid, high heel shoes with worn soles, black rice peel between the teeth, fallenchoots, megahineys, my account didn’t add up. I felt like the sadistic of whom a writer was speaking, that is not, but a tortured masochistic torturing himself by not torturing a supposed masochistic. The latest the true sadist, enjoying the other into believing that he is what he is really not. And all this by myself, while also thinking that those plump souls dwelling in the African Fuckshion, should be concentrated in a strange building of massive proportions -to fit their pieces of ass, and once you have entered all that meat, close the doors properly and spit thick jets from the walls with muriatic acid and carbon tetrachloride. That would result in several barrels of high quality oil, and less tiny ticks. I mean, what I saved with third degree whores, Dr. Samuel got it.
Although better thought, some blame should fall on the opera. That Margherita Bellino, the beautiful singer who got to learn English to Giacomo Justerini, from the land of the spaghetti Bolognese, back in 1749. Long you want to borrow, you may think, for my unwanted tenants were tickling me in this summer of our Lord 1998, but that was the year Giacomo traveled to London, to stay, and as something has to be done for living, he didn’t think any another thing but to invent the ‘usquebaugh’ -or the J & B, as information to sober or uneducated, forgive me the redundancy. If not for the evil and liquid legacy of Ms. Bellino, I would have captured the nuances. The misguided souls of Fuckshion brothel resembled pigs, I mean: fat, dark, cynical and rude. They rose from the table with their faces a bit congested, and not by a long shot were able to say ‘I’m coming’ or ‘permission, I’m going to cut daisies’ or even ‘excuse me because I’ve to go to the bathroom’. No. Their phrase chosen was inevitably a tribute to vulgarity:
- ‘Gudbai, I’m going to poop’.
Coarseness to which I joined:
- ‘Go al diablo’
- ‘Yo love you!’
- ‘God bendiga yu. Muleteers we are and on the calle we’ll meet’.
Finally the nurse came in with a ointment in her hand and a grin on her mug. She snapped unceremoniously, an intimacy harvested given my assiduity to the clinic:
- ‘Is that really fornication? I thought it was something else, something like who knows… that I would practice every day, but mostly do not. You see, because my ignorance’.
- ‘What things you can imagine,’ -I replied-, ‘don’t forget, madam, that today everyone is fighting over peace and myself, at night, I wrestle hand-to-hand.’
But her sixty years well spent, and her mocking gaze, made me realize suddenly that I will always be an Adam who dreams in paradise, but always wake up with the ribs intact. Albeit with crabs. Be realistic: Let’s accept in principle that the hare is a cat.
The African Fuckshion – Dugutigui
Encontrábase vuestro conspicuo mandatario -un servidor- en un hospital de Monrovia haciéndome tratar una infección del área media producida por pequeños arácnidos semejantes a las garrapatas, aunque más pequeños. Este padecimiento tiene la particularidad de llevar al enfermo a un estado extremo de intranquilidad. A causa de mis irresistibles picazones, ya había roto cuatro veces el vaso de agua que es obligatorio en las mesitas de noche. Enterado de esta situación, el doctor Samuel Garnahweh, jefe del área de enfermedades “carnales”, ordenó por escrito que me pusieran un vaso de plástico.
Algo abajo me decía que debía empezar a ser más selectivo. Con aquellas pinches oscuras con la peluca teñida de rubio, medio kilo de labio inferior y dos de encía, pantalones de terciopelo color leopardo, perfume de criada, zapatos de tacón alto con las suelas gastadas, cascarilla de arroz negro entre los dientes, chichicaídas, nalgainmensas, no me salían las cuentas. Me sentía como el sádico del que alguien habla, que no es tal, sino un masoquista que se tortura no torturando al supuesto masoquista. Este último el verdadero sádico, pues goza haciéndole creer al otro que es lo que realmente no es. Y todo esto yo mismo, cuando también pensaba que a aquellas orondas almas que moraban en el African Fuckshion, habría que concentrarlas en algún extraño edificio de ingentes proporciones –para que les entrase el culo, y una vez que hubieron entrado todas sus carnes, cerrar bien las puertas y que las paredes escupieran gruesos chorros de ácido muriático y tetracloruro de carbono. Habría como resultado varios barriles de petróleo de primera calidad, y menos garrapatas diminutas. Vamos, que lo que me ahorraba con putas de tercer grado, se lo llevaba Don Samuel.
Aunque bien pensado, algo de culpa tendría la ópera. Aquella Margherita Bellino, la guapa cantante que hizo aprender ingles a Giacomo Justerini, de la tierra de los espaguetis a la boloñesa, allá por el 1749. Largo me lo fías, pensareis, pues mis indeseados inquilinos me estaban haciendo cosquillas en este verano de nuestro Señor 1998; pero aquel fue el año en que Giacomo viajó a Londres, para quedarse, y como de algo tendría que vivir, no se le ocurrió otra cosa que inventar el ‘Usquebaugh’, o el J&B, para mayor información de los sobrios o los incultos, valga la redundancia. Si no fuera por el diabólico y líquido legado de la Bellino, habría captado los matices. Las erradas almas del Fuckshion se asemejaban a los cerdos, es decir, gordas, morenas, cínicas y maleducadas. Se levantaban de la mesa con la cara un poco congestionada, y ni por asomo eran capaces de decir ‘ahora vuelvo’ ni ‘compermisito, voy a cortar margaritas’ ni siquiera ‘excúsenme que voy al baño’. No. La frase elegida era inevitablemente un homenaje a la ordinariez:
- ‘Gudbai: voy a hacer caca’.
Vulgaridad a la que yo me sumaba:
- ‘Go al diablo’
- ‘Yo amo you!’
- ‘God bendis yu. Arrieros semos y on the road andamos’.
Finalmente entró la enfermera, con una pomada en la mano, y una sonrisa socarrona en la jeta. Me espetó sin miramiento, producto de una intimidad cosechada dada mi asiduidad a la clínica:
- ‘¿De veras eso es fornicar? Yo creí que era otra cosa, que era algo así como quién sabe. Eso que usted practica quisiera hacerlo todos los días, pero no más lo hago. Ya ve usted, la ignorancia’.
- ‘Que cosas se le ocurren’ –repliqué-, ‘no olvide usted, señora, que ahora que todo el mundo está peleado por la paz yo, por la noche, lucho cuerpo a cuerpo’.
Pero sus sesenta años bien vividos, y su burlona mirada, me hicieron comprender de golpe que siempre seré un Adán que sueña en el paraíso, pero que siempre despierta con las costillas intactas. Y a veces con ladillas. Hay que ser realista: Aceptemos en principio que la liebre es un gato.
El African Fuckshion – Dugutigui
Unless it’s already out of the news forefront, you’re probably aware that in the wake of last Sunday night’s Academy Awards, the official Twitter of news-satire website The Onion fired off a tweet (since deleted), the crux of which was declaring that Quvenzhané Wallis -the 9 year-old Best Actress nominee for Beasts of The Southern Wild- was “kind of a cunt, right?”.
The questions of comedy and its limits (or lack thereof) is endlessly interesting -to me anyway. So, alright, let’s talk about the Cunt.
Geoffrey Hughes wrote in his book Swearing, there were many such colorful names, but “the days when the dandelion could be called the pissabed, a heron could be called a shitecrow and the windhover could be called the windfucker have passed away with the exuberant phallic advertisement of the codpiece.”
Indeed we are in a time when few formerly naughty words still pack a potent punch, but “cunt” still holds a unique position. The C-word is one of the few remaining monosyllables in the English language with a genuine power to shock. In a BBC study of the most offensive words, it ranked No. 1, ahead of motherfucker, fuck, and even nigger.
Has that word always been so patently offensive? The answer is definitely: No! The word became offensive over the centuries.
Why has cunt become so much more taboo than, say, snatch or pussy? The main reason may simply be that it’s blunt. Linguists note that, unlike those other words for the female genitalia -whose origins are all Latinate, euphemistic, or diminutive- cunt is plain and Anglo-Saxon. There is also the sound of the word. Many of the most taboo words are monosyllables with short vowels, such as shit, piss, fuck, and cock. These are considered more offensive than words of the same meaning, like poopy, pee, screw, and willy. In fact, one of the only other words to share many of these characteristics is twat, which is also often considered highly offensive.
So … here is, in a ludicrous affectation of delicacy, my free translation of a poem from William IX, Duke of Aquitaine, also known as “the Troubador”, as my contribution to the vindication of the word “CUNT” -with sarcasm and humor.
Comrades, I’ve been all torn up, all fuck up and so upset
I can’t do any other song, and for sure I’ll regret
as I want no one to know what I usually secret.
And my thought I will soon tell you what is all about on this:
I don’t like camouflaged cunts nor more than lakes with no fish
or the praise of the wicked acting out their disbelief.
Lord God, who’s in the world the master and is of the world the king,
at the first to kept the cunt, how was chastened not condign?
Neither official nor guard ever came with such hoodwink.
But I tell you right away what is the law of the choot
as a man who has done wrong there, but also was there put:
With the use all is depleted, but improves instead the cunt.
And to whom won’t are to understand my,
go to see it in the forest, in a clear you would find it:
for every tree that is felled, always sprout two or three.
And when the forest is felled stronger is growing back,
and the owner loses there no interest, no gain, nor reward,
but he is unreasonable weighting about a later charge.
Wrong to mourn the logged forest as there won’t be any charge.
You could find here infinite uses of another colorful word: Enjoy “FUCK” !
C-word – By Dugutigui and the -spiritual- collaboration of William IX, Duke of Aquitaine
My first computer was a Radio Shack TRS-80 Model I (1979) and I fall so fond of “her” as for spending almost all night keeping in touch with (or talking asleep about my great plans for becoming a clever programmer)… that my wife started feeling really jealous … One day we both have agreed in referencing the computer as: “AnnE” … And I added whispering to myself: “My love”… Nowadays computers (eunuchs) are, uh, neuter.
So – “If Computers had a gender, would they be Mr. or Mrs.?”
Here are some answers from the net, based on ‘some’ logic.
A group of women concluded that computers should be referred to in the masculine gender because:
They’re heavily dependent on external tools and equipment.
They periodically cut you off right when you think you’ve established a network connection.
They’ll usually do what you ask them to do, but they won’t do more than they have to and they won’t think of it on their own.
They’re typically obsolete within five years and need to be traded in for a new model.
Some users, however, feel they’ve already invested so much in the damn machine that they’re compelled to remain with an under powered system.
They get hot when you turn them on, and that’s the only time you have their attention.
Size does matter.
Big power surges knock them out for the night.
The lights are on but nobody’s home.
They are supposed to help you solve your problems, but half the time they ARE the problem.
In order to get their attention, you have to turn them on.
The best part of having one is the games you can play.
They’ll do whatever you say if you push the right buttons.
It is always necessary to have a backup.
They look nice and shiny until you bring them home.
They have a lot of data but are still clueless.
They are constructed out of cold, hard steel. They exude raw power from every orifice, and occasionally defend themselves with electrical shocks when you get too close.
They hear what you say, but not what you mean.
As soon as you commit to one, you realize that, if you had waited a little longer, you might have had a better model.
Men, on the other hand, decided that computers should definitely be referred to in the feminine gender because:
They just sit there blinking dumbly at you.
Despite your best efforts to prevent it, they continue to permit unauthorized entries.
Sometimes, try as you might, you can’t turn them on particularly if you already have a pen in.
Smalltalk is important.
If your pen drive has a virus, you can be $@#$@# sure your computer will get it.
The message “bad command or file name” is about as informative as: “Well if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you.”
Even your smallest mistakes are stored in long-term memory for later retrieval and will be brought up out of nowhere just to annoy you.
They break down for no apparent reason.
Whatever you buy for them, there will always be a newer version that they want.
Rules are absolute and there is no possibility of compromise.
Upgrades react badly to things left behind by previous versions.
They reveal all your secrets to anyone who wants to know.
Incorrectly worded commands are completely ignored, or worse, taken literally.
Miss a period and they go wild.
Even after you’ve turned them on, they just sit there waiting for you to make the next move.
Sometimes it’s difficult to find their on/off button.
Can produce incorrect results with alarming speed.
They are impossible to figure out -no one but their creator understands their internal logic.
The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
Always turning simple statements into big productions.
You do the same thing for years, and suddenly it’s wrong.
They make you take the garbage out.
They have motherboards inside them.
They’re oh so picky, picky, picky.
As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.