#weenier

So many fucking porn bots follow me >:(

I turned 30 today. I hope everyone can enjoy a picture of my weenier dressed all Christmas style as my gift to you.

All things considered, the century of the end will not be the most refined or even the most complicated, but the most hurried, the century in which, its Being dissolved in movement, civilization, in a supreme impulse toward the worst, will fall to pieces in the whirlwind it has raised. Now that nothing can keep it from being engulfed, let us give up practicing our virtues upon it, let us even manage to discern, in the excesses it delights in, something exalting, something which invites us to moderate our outrage and reconsider our scorn. In this fashion, these specters, these automata, these zombies are less detestable if we reflect upon the unconscious motives, the deeper reasons for their frenzy: do they not feel that the interval granted them is shrinking day by day and that the denouement [the outcome of a complex sequence of events] is taking form? and is it not to ward off this notion that they immerse themselves in speed? If they were sure of another future, they would have no motive to flee nor to flee themselves, they would slow down their cadence and take up residence, fearlessly, within an indefinite expectation. But for them there is not even a question of one future or another, for they quite simply have none whatever; that is the dim, unformulated certainty, rising out of the very panic of the blood, which they dread considering, which they seek to forget by hurrying, by moving ever faster, by refusing to have the slightest moment to themselves. Yet the Ineluctable [inevitable] which that moment masks is what they meet by the very speed which, in their minds, should save them from it. Of so much haste, of so much impatience, our machines are the consequence and not the cause. It is not they who are driving civilized man to his doom; rather he has invented them because he was already on his way there; he sought means, auxiliaries to attain it faster and more effectively. Not content to run, he preferred to ride to perdition. In this sense, and in this sense alone, we may say that his machines allow him to "save time." He distributes them, he imposes them on the backward, the late-comers who may then follow him, even outstrip him in the race to disaster, in the founding of a universal and mechanical amok. And it is in order to assure its advent that he strives so desperately to level off, to standardize the human landscape, to efface its irregularities and banish its surprises; what he wants to establish here is not anomalies but Anomaly, monotonous and routine anomaly converted into a rule of conduct, an imperative. Those who avoid it he accuses of obscurantism or extravagance, and he will not lay down his weapons until he has brought them into the straight and narrow path-into his own errors. Illiterates, first and foremost, are reluctant to fall in with him; then he will force them to learn to read and write, so that, ensnared in knowledge, none may escape the common doom a moment longer. So benighted is civilized man that he does not even conceive the possibility of choosing another confusion besides his own. Divested of the respite necessary to the exercise of irony, to which a simple glimpse of his fate should lead him, he thereby deprives himself of all recourse against himself. He merely becomes more deadly to others. Aggressive and pitiable both, there is a certain pathos about him: we understand why, seeing him inextricably distracted, we feel a certain embarrassment about denouncing and attacking him, not to mention the fact that it is always bad taste to abuse an incurable, however odious he may be. But if we were deterred by bad taste, could we make the slightest judgment on anything whatever?