Joshua Folly

Thoughts / Musings / Epiphanies

A treaties on the profound delinquency and general disgust, elicited by the situation of the modern blue berry. A retrospective.

Don't get me wrong, I really like blue berries. With a title like “A treaties on the profound delinquency and general disgust, elicited by the situation of the modern blue berry. A retrospective. ” you would be justified in assuming this article is about GMO's or the industrial agricultural system that surrounds winter delivery of blue berries. That is not, however, what this article is actually about .

Or maybe !... just, maybe this article is about an event, since syntactically I have “chosen” to spell it in two words instead of the contemporary single word spelling.

Unfortunately, you would be wrong again, this article is not really about that. It is , however, about something and the Author would be so bold as to suggest it is worth the not so long a read. Maybe the more engaged reader will venture that this article must be about the deep lack of creativity in the culinary field towards the common blueberry, since we only see it in two or three forms; mushy jam like stuff, dried, or in it's natural whole state. What the hell is that all about right ?

My more daring side wants to attempt an even bolder route, a real plunge into the abstract with a lengthy exposé of all the situations blueberries are not associated with, found in or appropriate for; for instance native american pow-wows; Deep sea fishing boats; end of conflict treaty signings or executions by that french head choppy thing... the”Guillotine”; thank you

It would be really weird to see blueberries at a french head chopping party, come to think of it, seeing them passed around on expropriated silver plates, served with fresh whipped cream, would be bizarre, carnival like. That would elicit one of those out of body moments like when you almost get hit by a car that won't slow down at a crosswalk. (Little does that asshole driver know, if he had sped up and cut me off, the sequence would have worked out so that he would have arrived in time to see his girlfriend leaving his best friends house with a fresh dollop of cheat-sauce on her eyebrow, as it is, they are still in a happy relationship, you're welcome.)

Do you know what would be really weird? What would really break the frame? The type of thing that makes you flip a table and yell at levels barely audible to the ears of all these torch wielding, metal swinging revolutionary anarchist co-fucks. What would really churn my butter is, if no one offers any blue berry and whipped cream to the head-choppies. This is in my opinion, the most egregious of mistakes by modern society. That, in our ultimate, conclusive and total power to deliver a pizza ( or a missile) to some kid in Afghanistan, from the comfort of a sofa made in chine out of literal blowjob lips, we could not have the decency to live stream Epstein's cell, or at the least a Cast of his tasting a delicious bowl of un-poisoned blueberries and whipped cream. This generation lacks imagination and is missing out on and entire genre of life experience. The common material taste of the elite and the poor alike tend to be vulgar and shallow. The words rapture does not explain any single mass comodified, state approved experience. Even now, Ghislain Maxwell skulks in her “cell” wearing satin underwear and drinking a specially delivered coffee blend because she “would simply die” if she had to drink regular jail coffee, all without once being offered a nice room temperature bowl of premium organic blueberries from the wind swept , sea driven, hills of my native Newfoundland.

I mean, think about the personality change that could happen here, or could 'ave 'append to Epstein, if instead of being driven by guilt to hang himself with toilet paper , he and his cabal were served a nice bowl of “cream'd blue” by the power of crowd source. We could make an event out of it, a ceremony, a collective religious live stream of compassion. What a contrast to the regular hum drum routine of jail life.

Put your shoes inside yourself feet, for her a moment. No that’s not right. Put your shoes inside, her feet for a moment. Nope. Shoe, your feet, inside her a moment,put for ? Nevermind, you know what I mean.

Here you are ,Ghislain Maxwell, kid-pimp. Mac-daddy of two year olds. Grand Vezeer of Penis Island. Worrying about the naked dagger in the night, the stray bullet on the way to the court house, whether the guards are Black, and therefore sleeping. Imagine you have all this going on, and then a knock at the cell door. The door opens, creaking qith that regular creak all jail doors seem to make, (because all doors must make a noise, or else, are they even there ?) when suddenly, instead of a jail guard or a lawyer or a reporter or a High class fluffer sent by “them” for a job well done....It's Elon Musk's Mom, of all people, just rocketed in from some charity event where no kids were fucked,imagine, delivering a neat little package of high end blue berry whipped cream parfait, courtesy of the collective masses that wishes her a long and healthy life.

She, Elon's grey haired super-mom, even takes a bite out of the parfait, with the class and dignity and super mom powers that at once remind you of all the high end parties you'll never see again and the of whispers of parental love you only know in abstract non real terms, all this reassures you, Ghislain, it's totally not poisoned. (Seriously she's perfect for it. ) You eat, and relish and compare and contrast against all the past experiences and all the future fears. It breaks reality, tares down the thin veils between us and the geometric entity at the end of the universe, revealing and forgiving all sins, in exchange for a single moment of all encompassing pain... and then Grace.

What a contrast the collective will could impose. Imagine the confusion of officials when torch bearing , courthouse burning rioters demand only one thing, that some “whip and blue” be delivered to her along with a live stream of the feeding ceremony. They will have no choice but to either refuse the ridiculous low cost request or suffer greater costs. This is not a call to anarchy or to riot, but to the contrary, an organized and measured surgical lancing of the boil. With all the precision of a doctor, let us drill out the festering cavity of non-stop drama and bad news, get together, for one hour, although separated by our fear induced “ShambaLones”, our deliveries for one, our Quadrantines, cut off, digitized and corralled, and for one instance take part in the joy of another who thoroughly does not deserve it. Even the Germans don't have a word for the joy of seeing your enemy enjoy a tasty desert. There truly has been as yet, no description of the experience, but I would not exchange it for a hundred million “Likes”.

This is the height of morality is it not ? To be so nice to your enemy, their shame coagulates into a character unto itself, one that breathes and lives and smells with every breath. Win Win Win Winning.

There are four natural currents of life ( in general) from which to draw on. Rage, Love, Ignorance and the one the Un-named God uses, the path of the a blue berry whipped cream desert, served in a jail cell to pedo-dealers and above the law 'garchs, explicitly delivered from the shadows of the Anon-nym.

To relish in a kindness so profound the paranoia drives out their sleep. Winning win won.

It could have been your sister, your trafficked nephew, your alienated cousin , the one who never quite fit in but whom you loved, the one who out of innocence , naive hope or subjective despair chose the unbeaten path away.

It could have been they, and not some African, Haitian or Asian pauper approached by the power-elite. It might very well be your daughter, your cousin, you, that the lords demand their lawful rights from, next time, if we don't show the depth of our commitment. If we don't share the holy sacrament of the delicious blue berry and whipped cream, stream to enlightenment.

The Author is a professional living in a small quiet suburb just like you , he enjoys hikes with the love of his life, his two children and toy poodle companion. His hobbies include the occasional ski holiday and miniature model painting. For comments and to purchase the authors published works please contact Penguin Publishing Co . London. or visit your local quiet bookstore.

Artificial life, like all art, is communication from past to present. If still around, I bloody hope I'm at least in the Heritage building class of structures.

A result of excellence, form, aesthetics, like all art it should not be surprising if we see heights of beauty and ugliness made manifest.

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Great gratitude to @mikestone and for bringing Libre and open source services like this with good values, portability and minimalist design, to my attention.

“Freedom taste good.” and it is good to be in good company.