Putin Thinks He's Almighty

Pussy Riot charged with

 

blasphemy     blasphemy     blasphemy    

blasphemy.

 

Well, Putin isn't Almighty. Even he doesn't think so himself. And he's afraid others might see through the clearly gay picture that has been painted of him - as Almighty, as a Tom of Finland character, as whatever.

 

Assad is taking Putin for a ride. They are both going down - on each other.

 

 Bedtime       for              DEMOCRACY.

This image is from... you know.

And Madonna loves to watch. She wanted to call her latest album MDNN, but didn't have the balls (no pun... hell, yes). That's why she likes to keep her Putin coloring book in the closet.

 

Souls in Deep Freeze

You don't want to see him.

The Foreign Minister of Finland, a nation of pussies, making haste to edit his remark on #Syria: country's in a war-ish situation, not at war.

He would give away his six months' salary to get a second take on that interview. Or have it deleted at least. But he can't do that. That would be corruption, it would be bribery. Tuomioja has spoken against corruption, very strongly indeed. He would be showing his cards to everyone. And remember, in Finland, there's a free press. They wouldn't swallow that kinda thing.

Or would they?

"Mr. Nikolic once said that Serbia would be better off as a province of Russia than as a member of the European Union."

Finland chose to play it safe. We applied for both.

*

Where was this picture taken?

Ulkoministeri muotoilee Suomen kantaa Syyriaan television uutislähetyksessä. Hän ehtii sanoa, että pakotteet eivät tehoa nopeasti sotatilanteeseen, tajuaa päästäneensä sammakon, nyt Venäjä suuttuu. "Sodan kaltaiseen tilanteeseen", ulkoministeri kiirehtii korjaamaan, silmät selällään kauhusta. 

 

 July 23rd - 25th, 2012

Helsinki

Matti Paasio

Fuss about the Flames

Nysvää liekeissä
[Scroll down for the English version]

Tämä tarina on kesken.

Kannel on sitoutumaton sanomalehti, joka tuo tasapuolisesti esiin eri poliittisten ryhmittymien näkemykset. Kaikkein tasapuolisimmin Kannel uutisoi menneisyyspuolueen linjaukset.

Päätoimittaja halusi, että teen jutun Nysvään kylästä. Hän aikoi käyttää paikkakuntaa esimerkkinä yhteisöstä, joka selvisi ylivoimaisilta vaikuttavista vastoinkäymisistä tekemällä töitä: koko kylä veti härkäpäisesti yhtä köyttä. Jonka toisessa päässä oli hirttosilmukka, ajattelin, ja siinä joku huono-onninen ressukka. Hyvä niin, jos siten saatiin kaikille parempi mieli. Ajattele positiivisesti. Ihmettelin miksei päätoimittaja maalaillut, kuinka Nysvää puhalsi yhteen hiileen. Ketään ei jätetä yksin, hän innostui ja läimäytti kirjoitusalustaa. Hän hymyili niin että hampaat välkkyivät.

Päätoimittaja halusi, että käyn poimimassa kylästä suomalaisen menestystarinan.

“Lähet sinne ja tuot sitä mitä mä tilaan”, hän sanoi. “Sofistikoitua propagandaa. Ymärrätkö? Etkä yritä yhtään mitään.” Hän kohotti etusormeaan varoittavasti. “Mä tunnen sut, Stalinisti-Salla. Muista.”

Tuhotyön tekijä on edesmennyt, opas sanoo. Hän oli päihdeongelmainen, opas sanoo. Ennen tuota syyskuun yötä – jona nuorimies oli omien sanojensa mukaan ihan pihalla viinasta, lääkkeistä ja huumeista – hän oli ollut hiljainen 25-vuotias, väärille teille eksynyt, mutta ei suinkaan toivoton tapaus edes sosiaaliviraston mielestä. Sitten hän teki virheen, jota ei voinut painaa villaisella.

Maalaukset olivat mielestäni kaameita. Älkää ymmärtäkö väärin. Jos olisin itse piirrellyt irronneita profeetan päitä tuohon tyyliin, olisin haljennut ylpeydestä ja esitellyt tuotoksia jokaiselle vastaantulijalle. Niinhän Nysvääkin kiistämättä teki. Toisella taitelijalla oli sopimus Disneyn kanssa. Hän piirteli bambeja.

Maalauksista ei ollut ohjaamaan Suomi-laivaa selvemmille vesille. Paanukatosta – rakennettu käsityönä, talkoovoimin – oli kirjoitettu niin paljon, että siitä sai tikkuja silmiin. Tarvitsin jotain parempaa, jotain omaa.

Olisi pitänyt aloittaa matka Pohjanlahdelta, Porin jatseista vaikka, kulkea hitaasti yläjuoksulle, pimeyden sydämeen. Joko tulet tutuiksi kauhun kanssa tai… Ulvila. Pudota pommi, tapa kaikki. Ei ollut aikaa, kiire. Lukijat äänestivät jaloillaan.

Arkistojen tonkiminen vie aikaa ja on ikävää. Löydät parin omaisen nimet ja mietit, onko vaivan arvoista repiä tikit auki juuri kun läheiset alkavat toipua kolmen vuoden takaisesta huipentumasta. Tekijä oli pysynyt hiljaa. Käsiini oli jäänyt vain kaksi sanaa, joiden saattoi uskoa olevan kaverin suusta, ja niistäkin ensimmäisen autenttisuus oli epävarma: “aivan pihalla”.

Oikeudenkäyntien jälkeen tekijä oli pitänyt päänsä kiinni. Hän halusi kadota. Hän toteutti tahtonsa viimein 12 vuotta virheensä jälkeen, entisöidyn kirkon avajaisten kunniaksi. Uusi kirkko, entinen mies. Olihan oppaalla jotain kerrottavaa.

Tekijän tahtoa tuli kunnioittaa. Jenkeissä oli perustettu oma liike edistämään tekijöiden toiveita, Kill Author nimeltään. Harmittavan usein tekijät Venäjän ja muiden diktatuurien ulkopuolella kuitenkin joutuivat hoitamaan asian itse.

“Tiedätkö mikä sä oot?”

“Niin?”

“Sä oot sormi joka osottaa kuuta.”

Päätoimittaja näytti nielaisseen kimpaleen kakkaa. “Jaaha. Zeninisti-Salla.”

“Risto-kulta. Kuuntele nyt. Sä kuulutat kaikille, että kattokaa kuinka hieno, pullea valkea sormi. Ja kansa katsoo sun sormea ja hymisee.”

“Niin?”

“Ei mitään. Ei muuta, loppu.”

Pomo puristi kätensä nyrkkiin ja asetteli ne kirjoitusalustalle.

“Väitätkö sä”, hän sanoi hampaitten välistä, “että sä menit Nysvääseen, vietit siellä kaksi yötä? Etkä löytäny mitään.”

“Painamisen arvoista. Siis lehteen”, virnistin.

“Älä vittuile!”

“Rauhoitu, Risto. Ei tää oo henkilökohtaista. Ota asia ammatillisti, hyvä mies. Minkälaista Suomi-kuvaa edistää, että kun Norjassa, Nato-maassa herranen aika, poltetaan kirkkoja sen takia kun saatana elää ja on voimissaan, meillä syynä on se, että Jeesus muutti ensin veden viiniksi, sitten viinin verekseen ja lopulta taikoi koko paskan taivaan tuuliin?”

Päätoimittaja tuijotti.

“Unohda. Ei maksa vaivaa.”

“Sun urasi on ohi.”

“Se taisi olla ohi jo sinä iltana kun sä tulit mun juhlamekolle ja meijän pikku juttu oli ohi. Mä tiedän että mulla on epäterve tarve etsiä vanhemmista miehistä jotain isähahmon kaltaista turvaa, mutta mä tiedostan sen. Mä teen töitä sen eteen, että mä toivun.”

“Painu helvettiin.”

“Kiitos mielihyvin.”

Otin laukkuni ja nousin.

“Sitä paitsi, ihan vain ammatillista kehitystä silmällä pitäen tiedoksi: mä menin sinne väärästä suunnasta.”

Hän oli saanut suunsa auki, ääntä ei vielä tullut.

Laitoin käden hänen kallisarvoiselle kirjoitusalustalleen. “Ammattitaitoa, Risto. ‘Opiskele aiheesta kaikki mahdollinen ja käytä sitä.’ Jos sä halusit että mä kaivan kaverin esiin, kaikelle kansalle, sä oisit lähettäny mut sinne mereltä. Ja mä oisin varmaan tehny sen. Mutta sä säästit. Meidät. Siltä. Ehkä sä olet vielä ihminen, Risto. Toivoa on yhä.”

Ehdin huoneen ovelle ennen kuin hän puhui.

“Rehellisesti, Salla – eikö se poika sun mielestä ollut uhri?”

“Ei. Hän ei ollut yhtään mitään omasta mielestään. Ja sitäkö meidän pitäisi ylistää?”

P is for Peace... A for My Ass


MOSCOW - A rare display of loyalty and passion by a politician took place here on Sunday, 20th November 2011.

As the Prime Minister of Russia Vladimir Putin entered the ring at a martial arts event to introduce a local athlete - a real hero, a Russian hero, he kept saying, waiting for the word to become flesh - and was cut short by a storm of fierce and highly unexpected booing, Paavo Arhinmäki, 34, from Finland, stood up.

Then a Presidential candidate of the Left Alliance, nowadays just the party's leader and poster boy, Arhinmäki raised his head high above the hoodlums and addressed the mob. Just like Mayakovsky in his prime, I thought, one among many. Before he shot himself. Mayakovsky, not Arhinmäki.

“When talking about the Taliban,” Arhinmäki thundered, “cutting people’s heads off, we should look into the crimes of Bernie Madoff… With an AK-47, shirtless and shooting…"

He held a pause, swallowed saliva, then shrieked,

“Everyone against us and our lord Putin!”

Arhinmäki fell silent, the audience fell to their seats, ashamed and defeated, afraid of another gas attack, perhaps, and then everybody watched some kung fu. Everyone was young again. Everyone was happy. And the happiest of all, thousands of miles away, were the Taliban.

They had refined their heroin so it could be injected as words, and Paavo Arhinmäki was the head pusher of the new product in Auresia.

*

Presidential candidate Paavo Arhinmäki, an Ostrich and a broken sewer pipe, shown here inhaling his own fumes.

I like hip hop... I like football... And I like Putin.

Writing, drawing and photography:
Matti Paasio

Such a child.

Preach Peace and Support Taliban:
DONATE NOW!

The White Trash Way

Julia Cameron appeared inside a cloud with a golden lining and whispered these sweet words in my ear:

Obsession is the flip side of frustration.

To be applied to all of them except compulsive drinking: 1) Obsession is your horse. Treat it well. 2) Harness obsession in front of your bank account, not the other way around. Make it sweat for you.

Be Alert! In time, your horse will wear itself out. At the first sign of fatigue, abandon it, jump on another. To quote Alec Baldwin, "ABC - Always Be Closing."

Then the cloud burst as Heath Ledger poked his head through, snarling,

They are schemers! They wouldn't know an obsession if it KICKED THEM IN THE ASS!

He withdrew, sat down, and added, as his hands fluttered away,

I am not a schemer. I just... DO... things. 

JA SUOMEKSI:

 Pohjasakan tie luovuuteen

Sovellettavissa kaikkiin paitsi juomisen pakkomielteeseen.
1) Pakkomielle on hevosesi. Kohtele sitä hyvin.
2) Valjasta pakkomielle pankkitilisi eteen äläkä taakse.

~

Hopes Completely Dashed

Citizens are assembled in Mexico. And I don't mean that they are demonstrating or something, they are built there.

Parts arrive from the far side of the border, Paradise, where the finished product as well as the junk is rushed asap to overflow the shelves of the malware state.

However, if you want to move your item, it has to take that detour to South. There's nowhere like day care. And Mexico is day care.

"Your infant should be baptized in the fountains of horror!" one minister (see: a Servant of the Lord) bellowed, while I was trying to sleep.

"Or else you can kiss your fort goodbye. Not to mention your old lady, those whining kids and your own skinny ass! Wasting all ammo on ghosts."

He lowered his voice a bit. "These people," he said, before becoming one with the vapors of the night.

"They are savages!"

@

It is quite a dangerous game, outsourcing the Evil is. In the end, you might drag a Monster out of its slumber. A different kind from the one you had in mind, but a beast just the same.

She said I should have told her. Told her what, exactly? That I'm a pervert and a degenarate? Oh, allegedly. That's the word that does wonders in these circles.

Get Mother of Goo converted, and I promise you, it's a date.

The title of this entry is from the most illuminating review I have ever read of anything. You can find it here.

How Sarajevo Saved Me

The mailwoman brought me a book, and made me shut up, for a while at least.

PUTTING EVERYBODY DOWN, VERBALLY OR OTHERWISE, IS JUST ANOTHER SAD SYMPTOM OF DEPRESSION - WORSE THAN SAD. IT'S PATHETIC.

If I'd stumbled upon this book a little bit earlier, maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. Then again, maybe they would.

John Falk tells a true and touching story about a battle with a beast that appears in different forms in different worlds. Depression plays havoc usually in countries with a relatively high standard of living, while war rips apart everyone in its path, especially the poor.

A single memoir, Hello to All That, manages to produce firsthand testimony from both frontiers, witnessed by the same guy.

One morning at the age of 12, Falk woke up with only one desire left in his body: to go back to sleep. And the feeling - of nothing, which enfolds him so that he very nearly becomes nothing - won't go away.

His family gets worried, of course, and does everything in its power to help. To no avail. The boy sees no point in doing anything. For a while Falk grinds his teeth and goes through the motions, pretending everything is dandy. Finally, he really is incapable of doing anything. He spends most of his hours in a supine position, reading at night, sleeping the day away.

Enter doctors, enter shrinks, enter antidepressants, which, after many attempts, seem to take effect.

But the damage is done. The boy has lost over a decade of his life. "There had been a point in my life when my biggest ambition was simply to make it to the next minute", Falk writes.

He needs to live. He needs to reconnect with the world, with people. So he packs his bags, cooks up a story about being a correspondent for NBC Radio and boards a plane to Sarajevo.

It is August 1993.

___


Somehow, today, unable to bear one more piece of news about the financial crisis, I appreciate Falk's move even more. Also, there's the story of Anthony Shadid, which I stumbled upon yesterday.



Hello to All That: A Memoir of Zoloft, War, and Peace
By John Falk
Picador, 2005



http://www.amazon.co.uk/Hello-All-That-Memoir-Zoloft/dp/0805072187/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327005405&sr=8-1

Swimming to the Mud Island

Waiting, waiting. Postponing the inevitable. I can't write shit. There are the covers, of course. I said it, I'm a chanteuse. A songbird in a cage of my own device, lovelorn fool under your empty balcony. Heat some oil, pour it.

How grey can a landscape get? The sun has the good sense of going down. Observe yourself, your reactions. What I've been doing all of my life. You need coolin'. I'm going to swim.

Baby, I ain't foolin'. I've done it before. The first one is for fun, the second?

The dusk. The tugboat the only colour - too bright - in this lovely place. The noise it makes, that angry little insistence, an ode to the poor white trash. Forgotten, not gone. Lurking in the shadows. Ready to jump your back. The wave. Now what the fuck is that?

A barge, alright. As deep as sorrow. Foti, cautious as ever, picking up the boombox, so it won't get wet. Good thinking. Good lad. See you another time, Mud Island.

The plane must have landed.

Another pic

Goofy Got Wasted

Was there a girl of 21? A blonde, I never learned her name. I asked her to repeat it, and it escaped my mind again. Her mother wanted to speak to me, she was pleading with me. She brought up how young her daughter was. Oh, I thought she was younger, I replied, suddenly interested. The girl looked at me and came to. She called a cab.

She asked for my cell number. I gave it, didn't ask for hers. I knew I didn't stand a chance with her. She said I was a nice guy and closed the door.

A week later, while cleaning the flat, I found a black scarf. She had left it on the couch. I was amazed that she had really existed, entered the apartment, taken something off. I pressed my face against the wool. There wasn't much of a scent left. Regardless, the scarf saved my day.

The next day, it enforced my sense of utter failure in every field I'd tried my hand at, and in those I hadn't tried and wouldn't try to boot - for me, a failure was as certain as the dusk that wrapped each day in its toxic embrace. I liked the dusk. It informed everybody that soon we could all be put to sleep.

Am I a pedophile now?

Disneyland Nazi Parents Bring Me Down

I was supposed to talk about something else, something serious. Well, I'm out of words.

IED is what I need, but I can't improvise.

Lying Sadist Junkie

" - "

He gotta be! How on Earth = in Hell would a Man otherwise accept such a lousy, measly pay?

He wouldn't. He wouldn't. Unless he were a...

And here we go again.

They are the same people who see sexism everywhere.

It is the Apocalypse, all right. But I still don't think my noggin would make anybody's lawn awfully picturesque.

http://www.health.com/health/gallery/0,,20428990_2,00.html

They Say I'm Depressed

I'm Odell. I'm an addict and a surrogate father in Jonestown. I was, of course. Before I lost my faith and, as they say, everything with it.

How do you recover from that?

To be honest, I didn't have much of a faith to begin with - except for the nurse with whom we went looking for the survivors. To bring them back to the armed guards and the spiked Kool-Aid. That was the plan, at least. But I thought that in the end, we would improvise.

Well, we didn't. 

I wanted to say something. Now I can't seem to remember what it was.

Wait a second. Hold on. Stay tuned and drop dead. I've made some notes, but they are of no use to me now:

http://invaasio.nettisivu.org/devil/

As they stepped beyond the crossbows, Odell realized that he would have to kill the nurse. Fortunately, she instructed him to look in one building while she searched the other. Odell entered the nursing office and made his way to the back of the building, where there was a senior center; most of the people there were bedridden.

"Are you the man who is going to take us up there?" an old woman asked.

"You know what they're doing up there?" Odell said.

"We know."

"I'm not the man to take you."

- Tim Cahill, "In the Valley of the Shadow of Death: Guyana After the Jonestown Massacre". Rolling Stone, January 25, 1979.

http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/news/in-the-valley-of-the-shadow-of-death-guyana-after-the-jonestown-massacre-19790125?print=true