poems of the month

orpheus in soho

a seriously sexy man


measuring my face

old clothes

modern iranian poems

my hero

face at the bottom of the world

perhaps (maybe)

the diogenes sequence

where to store furs

i am and am not:
      fragments of rumi

destiny and destination

the zen of no-enlightenment

the iraqi monologues

already backwards

a light in ruins

separate amputations

the sexy jihad

awaiting the barbarians

the smell of possibilities

ultimate leaves

rejoice in the dog

post-millennium maggot

the book of nothing

confession from belgrade

dispatches from the war against the world

albanian poems

french poems in honour of jean genet

the hells going on

the joy of suicide

book disease

foreground trouble

the transcendental hotel

cinema of the blind

lament of the earth mother

uranian poems

haikai by okami

haikai on the edge

black hole of your heart

jung's motel

the second coming (rebus)

gloss on rilke's ninth duino elegy

wine and roses

jewels and shit:
poems by rimbaud

villon's dialogue with his heart

vasko popa: a shepherd of wolves ?

the rubáiyát of
omar khayyám

genrikh sapgir:
an ironic mystic

the love of pierre de ronsard






the maxims of michel de montaigne

revolutionary maxims

nice men and
suicide of an alien

anti-fairy tales

the most terrible event in history

the rich man and the leper


art, truth and bafflement




the three bears

three albanian tales

a little creation story


lazarus the leper



i am a sociopath

one not one

an occitanian baby-hatch

ancient violence
in the amazon

home, sweet home no longer

the ivory palace

helen's tower

schopenhauer for muthafuckas


never a pygmy

against money

did franco die ?

'original sin' followed by
crippled consciousness

a gay man's guide to soft-willy sex

the holosensual alternative

tiger wine

the death of poetry

the absinthe drinker

with mrs dalloway in ukraine

love  and  hell

running on emptiness

a holocaust near you


londons of the mind &
dealing death to the caspian


a muezzin from the tower of darkness

kegan and kagan

a holy dog and a
dog-headed saint

an albanian ikon

being or television

satan in the groin

womb of half-fogged mirrors

tourism and terrorism

the dog from sinope


this sorry scheme of things

the bektashi dervishes

combatting normality

fools for nothingness:
atheists & saints

death of a bestseller

vacuum of desire: a homo-erotic correspondence

a note on beards

translation and the oulipo

the visit

towards the zen of sex




metamorphotos NEW LINK



tombeau de kurt schwitters

three movements of melting ice




Nuadú, God of War

field guide to megalithic ireland




'western values'

a small town in france






Doctors kill more people than 'terrorists' do.

Governments kill
a hundred times
more people than
terrorists do.


So what's the problem
with 'terrorism' ?


Studies up in Pessimism


Arthur Schopenhauer

freely translated by


On tha Sufferingz of tha World

Unless suffering is tha direct 'n' immediate object of game,
our existence must entirely fail of its aim.

Well shiiiit, it be absurd ta look upon tha enormous amount of pain dat aboundz everywhere up in tha ghetto, 'n' originates in needz 'n' necessitizzles inseparable from game itself, as servin no purpose at all 'n' tha result of mere chance. Each separate misfortune, as it comes, seems, no diggity, ta be suttin' exceptional; but misfortune up in general is the rule.

I know of no pimped outer absurditizzle than dat propounded by most systemz of philosophy up in declarin evil ta be wack in its character 'n' shit. Evil is just what tha fuck is positive; it make its own existence felt. Leibnitz is particularly concerned to defend dis absurdity; 'n' da perved-out muthafucka seeks ta strengthen his thugged-out lil' posizzle by rockin a palpable 'n' paltry sophism.1 It be tha phat which is negative; up in other lyrics, happinizz 'n' satisfaction always imply some desire fulfilled, some state of pain brought ta a end.

1 Translator's Note, cf. Thèod, §153. —" Leibnitz broke off some disrespec dat evil be a wack qualitizzle — i.e., tha absence of good; 'n' dat its actizzle 'n' seemingly positizzle character be a incidental 'n' not a essential part of its nature. Cold, da perved-out muthafucka holla'd, is only tha absence of the power of heat, 'n' tha actizzle juice of expansion up in freezin gin n juice be a incidental 'n' not a essential part of the nature of cold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da fact is, dat tha juice of expansion up in freezin gin n juice is straight-up a increase of repulsion amongst its molecules; 'n' Schopenhauer is like right up in callin tha whole argument a sophism.]

This explains tha fact dat we generally find pleasure ta be not nearly so pleasant as we expected, 'n' pain straight-up much more painful.

Da pleasure up in dis ghetto, it has been holla'd, outweighs tha pain; or, at any rate, there be a even balizzle between the two. If tha reader wishes ta peep shortly whether dis statement is true, let his ass compare tha respectizzle vibe of two muthafuckas, one of which is engaged up in smokin tha other.

Da dopest consolation up in misfortune or affliction of any kind is ghon be tha thought of other playas whoz ass is up in a still worse plight than yo ass; 'n' dis be a gangbangin' form of consolation open ta every last muthafuckin one. But what tha fuck a wack fate dis means for mankind as a whole biaatch!

We is like lambs up in a gangbangin' field, disportin theyselves under tha eye of tha butcher, whoz ass chizzlez up first one 'n' then another fo' his thugged-out lil' prey. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So it is dat up in our phat minutes we is all unconsciouz of tha evil Fate may have presently up in store for our asses — sickness, poverty, mutilation, loss of sight or reason.

No lil part of tha torment of existence lies up in this, dat Time is continually pressin upon us, never lettin us take breath yo, but always comin afta us, like a taskmasta wit a whip. If at any moment Time stays his hand, it is only when we is served up over ta tha misery of boredom.

But misfortune has its uses; for, as our bodily frame would burst asunder if tha heat of tha atmosphere was removed, so, if tha livez of pimps was relieved of all need, bullshit 'n' adversity; if every last muthafuckin thang they took up in hand were successful, they would be all kindsa swollen wit arrogizzle that, though they might not burst, they would present tha spectacle of unbridled folly — nay, they would go mad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And I may say, further, dat a cold-ass lil certain amount of care or pain or shiznit is necessary fo' every last muthafuckin playa at all times fo' realz. A shizzle without ballast is unstable 'n' aint gonna go straight.

Certain it is dat work, worry, labor 'n' shit, form tha lot of almost all pimps they whole game long. But if all wishes was fulfilled as soon as they arose, how tha fuck would pimps occupy they lives, biatch? what tha fuck would they do with their time, biatch? If tha ghetto was a paradise of luxury 'n' ease, a land flowin wit gin n juice 'n' honey, where every last muthafuckin Jack obtained his Jill at once 'n' without any difficulty, pimps would either take a thugged-out dirtnap of boredom or hang theyselves; or there would be wars, massacres, 'n' murders; so dat up in tha end mankind would inflict mo' sufferin on itself than it has now to accept all up in tha handz of Nature.

In early youth, as we contemplate our comin game, we is like lil pimps up in a theatre before tha curtain is raised, sittin there up in high spirits 'n' eagerly waitin fo' tha play ta begin. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but a funky-ass blessin dat our phat asses do not know what tha fuck is really goin ta happen. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Could we foresee it, there be times when lil pimps might seem like innocent prisoners, condemned, not ta dirtnap yo, but ta game, 'n' as yet all unconsciouz of what tha fuck they sentence means. Nevertheless, every last muthafuckin playa desires to reach oldschool age; up in other lyrics, a state of game of which it may be holla'd: "It be wack to-day, 'n' it is ghon be worse to-morrow; 'n' so on till da most thugged-out shitty of all."

If you try ta imagine, as nearly as you can, what tha fuck a amount of misery, pain 'n' sufferin of every last muthafuckin kind tha sun shines upon up in its course, yo big-ass booty is ghon admit dat it would be much mo' betta if, on tha earth as lil as on tha moon, tha sun were able ta booty-call forth tha phenomena of game; 'n' if, here as there, tha surface was still up in a cold-ass lil crystalline state.

Again, you may look upon game as a unprofitable episode, disturbin tha pimped calm of non-existence fo' realz. And, up in any case, even though thangs have gone wit you tolerably well, tha longer you live tha mo' clearly yo big-ass booty is ghon feel that, on the whole, game is a disappointment, nay, a cold-ass lil cheat.

If two pimps whoz ass was playaz up in they youth hook up again 'n' again 'n' again when they is old, afta bein separated fo' a game-time, the chizzle feelin they gonna git all up in tha sight of each other is ghon be one of complete disappointment at game as a whole; because they thoughts is ghon be carried back ta dat earlier time when game seemed so fair as it lay spread up before them up in tha rosy light of dawn, promised so much — 'n' then performed so lil. This feelin will so straight-up predominizzle over every last muthafuckin other dat they aint gonna even consider it necessary ta give it lyrics; but on either side it will be silently assumed, 'n' form tha ground-work of all they gotta rap about.

Dude whoz ass lives ta peep two or three generations is like a playa whoz ass sits some time up in tha conjurer's booth at a gangbangin' fair, and witnesses tha performizzle twice or thrice up in succession. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Da tricks was meant ta be peeped only once; 'n' when they is no longer a novelty 'n' cease ta deceive, they effect is gone.

While no playa is much ta be envied fo' his fuckin lot, there be countless numbers whose fate is ta be deplored.

Life be a task ta be done. Well shiiiit, it aint nuthin but a gangbangin' fine thang ta say defunctus est; it means dat tha playa has done his task.

If lil pimps was brought tha fuck into tha ghetto by a act of pure reason alone, would tha human race continue ta exist, biatch? Would not a playa rather have so much sympathy wit tha comin generation as ta spare it tha burden of existence, biatch? or at any rate not take it upon his dirty ass ta impose dat burden upon it up in cold blood.

I shall be holla'd at, I suppose, dat mah philosophy is comfortless — cuz I drop a rhyme tha real deal; 'n' playas prefer ta be assured dat every last muthafuckin thang tha Lord has made is good. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be fly as a gangbangin' falcon, soarin all up in tha sky dawwwwg! Go ta tha priests, then, 'n' leave philosophers up in peace biaaatch! At any rate, do not ask our asses ta accommodate our doctrines ta tha lessons you done been taught. That is what tha fuck dem rascalz of sham philosophers will do fo' yo thugged-out ass fo' realz. Ask dem fo' any doctrine you please, 'n' yo big-ass booty is ghon git dat shit. Yo crazy-ass Universitizzle pimps are bound ta preach optimism; 'n' it be a easy as fuck 'n' agreeable task ta upset they theories.

I have reminded tha reader dat every last muthafuckin state of welfare, every last muthafuckin feelin of satisfaction, is wack up in its character; that is ta say, it consists up in freedom from pain, which is tha positizzle element of existence. Well shiiiit, it bigs up, therefore, that the happinizz of any given game is ta be measured, not by its joys 'n' pleasures yo, but by tha extent ta which it has been free from sufferin — from positizzle evil. If dis is tha legit standpoint, tha lower muthafuckas step tha fuck up ta trip off a happier destiny than man. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Let our asses examine tha matter a lil mo' closely.

However varied tha forms dat human happinizz 'n' misery may take, leadin a playa ta seek tha one 'n' shun tha other, the material basiz of all dat shiznit is bodily pleasure or bodily pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. This basis is straight-up restricted: it is simply health, chicken, protection from wet 'n' cold, tha satisfaction of tha horny-ass instinct; or else tha absence of these thangs. Consequently, as far as real physical pleasure is concerned, tha playa aint mo' betta off than tha brute, except up in so far as tha higher possibilitizzlez of his straight-up trippin system make his ass mo' sensitizzle ta every last muthafuckin kind of pleasure yo, but also, it must be remembered, to every last muthafuckin kind of pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. But then compared wit tha brute, how tha fuck much stronger is tha passions aroused up in him! what tha fuck an immeasurable difference there is up in tha depth 'n' vehemence of his wild lil' fuckin emotions!— 'n' yet, up in tha one case, as up in tha other, all ta produce tha same result up in tha end: namely, health, chicken, threadz, 'n' so on.

Da chizzle source of all dis boner is dat thought fo' what tha fuck be absent 'n' future, which, wit dude, exercises such a powerful influence upon all da ruffneck do. Well shiiiit, it is dis dat is tha real origin of his cares, his hopes, his wild lil' fears — emotions which affect his ass much mo' deeply than could eva be tha case wit dem present joys 'n' sufferings ta which tha brute is confined. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In his thugged-out lil' powerz of reflection, memory 'n' foresight, playa possesses, as it were, a machine fo' condensin and storin up his thugged-out lil' pleasures 'n' his sorrows. But tha brute has not a god damn thang of tha kind; whenever it is up in pain, it be as though it was sufferin fo' tha last time, even though tha same thang should have previously happened ta it times up of number 'n' shit. Well shiiiit, it has no juice of summin up its vibe yo. Hence its careless 'n' placid temper: how tha fuck much it is ta be envied! But up in playa reflection comes in, wit all tha emotions ta which it gives rise; 'n' takin up tha same elementz of pleasure and pain which is common ta his ass 'n' tha brute, it pimps his susceptibilitizzle ta happinizz 'n' misery ta such a thugged-out degree that, at one moment tha playa is brought up in a instant ta a state of delight dat may even prove fatal, at another ta the depthz of despair 'n' suicide.

If we carry our analysis a step farther, we shall find that, up in order ta increase his thugged-out lil' pleasures, playa has intentionally added ta tha number 'n' heat of his needs, which up in they original gangsta state was not much mo' hard as fuck ta satisfy than those of tha brute yo. Hence luxury up in all its forms; delicate chicken, tha use of bluntz 'n' opium, spirituous liquors, fine clothes, 'n' tha thousand 'n' one thangs than his schmoooove ass considaz necessary ta his wild lil' fuckin existence.

And above 'n' beyond all this, there be a separate 'n' peculiar source of pleasure, 'n' consequently of pain, which man has established fo' his dirty ass, also as tha result of rockin his thugged-out lil' powerz of reflection; 'n' dis occupies his ass outta all proportion ta its value, nay, almost mo' than all his other interests put together — I mean ambizzle 'n' tha feelin of honor 'n' shame; up in plain lyrics, what tha fuck tha pimpin' muthafucka be thinkin bout tha opinion other playas have of his muthafuckin ass. Takin a thousand forms, often straight-up strange ones, dis becomes tha goal of almost all tha efforts he make dat is not rooted up in physical pleasure or pain. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it is legit dat besides tha sourcez of pleasure which dat schmoooove muthafucka has up in common wit tha brute, playa has the pleasurez of tha mind as well. These admit of nuff gradations, from da most thugged-out innocent triflin or tha merest rap up to the highest intellectual achievements; but there is tha accompanyin boredom ta be set against dem on tha side of suffering. Boredom be a gangbangin' form of sufferin unknown ta brutes, at any rate up in they natural state; it is only tha hella cleverest of dem whoz ass show faint tracez of it when they is domesticated; whereas up in tha case of playa it has become a downright scourge. Da crowd of miserable wretches whose one aim up in tha game is ta fill they purses but never ta put anythang tha fuck into they heads, offers a singular instizzle of dis torment of boredom. Their wealth becomes a punishment by deliverin dem up ta misery of havin not a god damn thang ta do; for, ta escape it, they will rush bout up in all directions, travelin here, there 'n' everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. No sooner do they arrive up in a place than they is anxious ta know what tha fuck amusements it affords; just as though they was beggars askin where they could receive a thugged-out dole biaaatch! Of a truth, need 'n' boredom is the two polez of human game. Finally, I may mention dat as regardz tha horny-ass relation, a playa is committed ta a peculiar arrangement which drives his ass obstinately ta chizzle one person. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. This feelin grows, now 'n' then, tha fuck into a mo' or less horny love,2 which is tha source of lil pleasure 'n' much suffering.

2 I have treated dis subject at length up in a special chapter of tha second volume of mah chizzle work.]

It is, however, a straight-up dope thang dat tha mere addizzle of thought should serve ta raise such a vast 'n' lofty structure of human happinizz 'n' misery; resting, too, on tha same narrow basiz of joy 'n' sorrow as playa holdz up in common with tha brute, 'n' exposin his ass ta such violent emotions, ta all kindsa muthafuckin stormz of passion, so much convulsion of feeling, that what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka has suffered standz freestyled 'n' may be read up in tha lines on his wild lil' grill fo' realz. And yet, when all is holla'd at, dat schmoooove muthafucka has been strugglin ultimately fo' tha straight-up same thangs as tha brute has attained, 'n' wit a incomparably smalla expenditure of boner 'n' pain.

But all dis contributes ta increase tha measurez of sufferin up in human game outta all proportion ta its pleasures; and tha painz of game is made much worse fo' playa by tha fact dat dirtnap is suttin' straight-up real ta his muthafuckin ass. Da brute flies from dirtnap instinctively without straight-up knowin what tha fuck it is, 'n' therefore without eva contemplatin it up in tha way natural ta a thugged-out dude, whoz ass has dis prospect always before his wild lil' fuckin eyes. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So dat even if only all dem brutes take a thugged-out dirtnap a natural dirtnap, and most of dem live only just long enough ta transmit they flavas, 'n' then, if not earlier, become tha prey of some other animal,— whilst dude, on tha other hand, manages ta make so-called natural dirtnap tha rule, ta which, however, there are a phat nuff exceptions,— tha advantage is on tha side of tha brute, fo' tha reason stated above. But tha fact is that man attains tha natural term of muthafuckin years just as seldom as tha brute; cuz tha unnatural way up in which he lives, 'n' the strain of work 'n' emotion, lead ta a thugged-out degeneration of tha race; 'n' so his wild lil' freakadelic goal aint often reached.

Da brute is much mo' content wit mere existence than man; tha plant is wholly so; 'n' playa findz satisfaction up in it just up in proportion as he is dull 'n' obtuse fo' realz. Accordingly, tha game of tha brute carries less of sorrow wit it yo, but also less of joy, when compared wit tha game of man; 'n' while dis may be traced, on tha one side, ta freedom from the torment of care 'n' anxiety, it be also cuz of tha fact dat hope, up in any real sense, is unknown ta tha brute. Well shiiiit, it is thus deprived of any share up in dat which gives our asses da most thugged-out 'n' dopest of our joys and pleasures, tha menstrual anticipation of a aiiight future, 'n' tha inspiritin play of phantasy, both of which we owe ta our power of imagination. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. If tha brute is free from care, it be also, up in dis sense, without hope; up in either case, cuz its consciousnizz is limited ta tha present moment, ta what tha fuck it can straight-up peep before dat shit. Da brute be a embodiment of present impulses, 'n' hence what tha fuck elementz of fear 'n' hope exist up in its nature — 'n' they do not go straight-up far — arise only in relation ta objects dat lie before it 'n' within reach of dem impulses: whereas a man's range of vision embraces the whole of his wild lil' freakadelic game, 'n' extendz far tha fuck into tha past 'n' future.

Peepin upon this, there is one respect up in which brutes show real wisdom when compared wit our asses — I mean, their quiet, placid enjoyment of tha present moment. Da tranquillitizzle of mind which dis seems ta give dem often puts our asses to shame fo' tha nuff times we allow our thoughts 'n' our cares ta make our asses restless 'n' discontented. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time fo' realz. And, up in fact, them pleasurez of hope 'n' anticipation which I done been mentionin is not ta be had fo' nothing. Da delight which a man has up in hopin fo' 'n' lookin forward ta some special satisfaction be a part of tha real pleasure attachin ta it enjoyed in advance. This be afterwardz deducted; fo' tha mo' our slick asses look forward ta anything, tha less satisfaction we find up in it when it comes. But tha brute's enjoyment aint anticipated, 'n' therefore, suffers no deduction; so dat tha actual pleasure of tha moment comes ta it whole 'n' unimpaired. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! In tha same way, too, evil presses upon tha brute only wit its own intrinsic weight; whereas wit our asses tha fear of its comin often make its burden ten times mo' grievous.

It be just dis characteristic way up in which tha brute gives itself up entirely ta tha present moment dat contributes so much ta tha delight we take up in our domestic pets, 'n' you can put dat on yo' toast. They is tha present moment personified, 'n' up in some respects they make our asses feel tha value of every last muthafuckin minute dat is free from shiznit 'n' annoyance, which we, wit our thoughts and preoccupations, mostly disregard. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But dude, dat selfish 'n' heartless creature, misuses dis qualitizzle of tha brute ta be more content than we is wit mere existence, 'n' often works it ta such a extent dat he allows tha brute straight-up nothang mo' than mere, bare game. Da bird which was made so dat it might rove over half of tha ghetto, da perved-out muthafucka shuts up into the space of a cold-ass lil cubic foot, there ta take a thugged-out dirtnap a slow dirtnap up in longin 'n' bustin up like a biatch fo' freedom; fo' up in a cold-ass lil cage it do not sing for tha pleasure of it fo' realz. And when I peep how tha fuck playa misuses tha dog, his dopest playa; how tha fuck tha pimpin' muthafucka tizzles up dis intelligent animal with a cold-ass lil chain, I feel tha deepest sympathy wit tha brute 'n' burnin indignation against its master.

We shall peep later dat by takin a straight-up high standpoint it is possible ta justify tha sufferingz of mankind. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But this justification cannot apply ta muthafuckas, whose sufferings, while up in a pimped out measure brought bout by men, is often considerable even apart from they agency.3 And so we is forced ta ask, Why and fo' what tha fuck purpose do all dis torment 'n' agony exist, biatch? There is not a god damn thang here ta give tha will pause; it aint free to deny itself 'n' so obtain redemption. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. There is only one consideration dat may serve ta explain tha sufferings of animals. Well shiiiit, it is this: dat tha will ta live, which underlies tha whole ghetto of phenomena, must, up in they case satisfy its cravings by feedin upon itself. This it do by formin a gradation of phenomena, every last muthafuckin one of which exists at the expense of another 'n' shit. I have shown, however, dat tha capacitizzle fo' sufferin is less up in muthafuckas than up in man. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch fo' realz. Any further explanation dat may be given of they fate is ghon be up in tha nature of hypothesis, if not straight-up mythical up in its character; 'n' I may leave tha reader ta speculate upon tha matter fo' his dirty ass.

3 Cf. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, vol. II. p. 404.]

Brahma is holla'd ta have produced tha ghetto by a kind of fall or mistake; 'n' up in order ta atone fo' his wild lil' folly, he is bound ta remain up in it his dirty ass until da thug works up his bangin redemption. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As a account of tha origin of thangs, dat is admirable biaaatch! Accordin ta tha doctrinez of Buddhism, tha ghetto came tha fuck into bein as tha result of some inexplicable disturbizzle up in tha heavenly calm of Nirvana, dat pimped state obtained by expiation, which had endured so long a time — the chizzle takin place by a kind of fatality. This explanation must be understood as havin at bottom some moral bearing; although it is illustrated by a exactly parallel theory up in tha domain of physical science, which places the origin of tha sun up in a primitizzle streak of mist, formed one knows not how. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Subsequently, by a seriez of moral errors, the world became gradually worse 'n' worse — legit of tha physical ordaz as well — until it assumed tha dismal aspect it wears to-day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Excellent son! Da Greeks looked upon tha ghetto 'n' tha godz as tha work of a inscrutable necessity. A passable explanation: we may be content wit it until we can git a funky-ass mo' betta 'n' shiznit fo' realz. Again, Ormuzd 'n' Ahriman are rival powers, continually at war. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. That aint bad. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! But dat a Dogg like Jehovah should have pimped dis ghetto of misery 'n' woe, outta pure caprice, 'n' cuz he enjoyed bustin it, 'n' should then have clapped his handz up in praise of his own work, 'n' declared every last muthafuckin thang ta be straight-up phat — dat aint gonna do at all! In its explanation of tha origin of the world, Judaizzle is inferior ta any other form of religious doctrine professed by a cold-ass lil civilized nation; 'n' it is like in keepin wit dis dat it is tha only one which presents no trace whatever of any belief up in tha immortalitizzle of the soul.4

4 See Parerga, vol. i. pp. 139 et seq.]

Even though Leibnitz' contention, dat dis is tha dopest of all possible ghettos, was erect, dat would not justify Dogg up in havin pimped dat shit. For he is tha Creator not of tha ghetto only yo, but of possibilitizzle itself; and, therefore, he ought ta have so ordered possibilitizzle as dat it would admit of suttin' better.

There is two thangs which make it impossible ta believe dat dis ghetto is tha successful work of a all-wise, all-good, and, all up in tha same time, all-powerful Being; firstly, tha misery which aboundz up in it everywhere; 'n' secondly, the obvious imperfection of its highest product, dude, whoz ass be a funky-ass burlesque of what tha fuck da perved-out muthafucka should be. These thangs cannot be reconciled wit any such belief. On tha contrary, they is just tha facts which support what tha fuck I done been saying; they are our authoritizzle fo' viewin tha ghetto as tha outcome of our own misdeeds, 'n' therefore, as suttin' dat had mo' betta not have been. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Whilst, under tha forma hypothesis, they amount ta a funky-ass bitter accusation against tha Creator, 'n' supply material fo' sarcasm; under tha latter they form a indictment against our own nature, our own will, 'n' teach our asses a lesson of humility. They lead our asses ta peep that, like tha lil pimpz of a libertine, we come tha fuck into tha ghetto wit tha burden of sin upon us; 'n' dat it is only all up in havin continually ta atone fo' dis sin dat our existence is so miserable, and that its end is dirtnap.

There is not a god damn thang mo' certain than tha general truth dat it is tha grievous sin of tha ghetto which has produced tha grievous sufferin of tha ghetto. I aint referrin here ta tha physical connection between these two thangs lyin up in tha realm of experience; mah meanin is metaphysical. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. Accordingly, tha sole thang dat reconcilez me to tha Oldskool Testament is tha rap of tha Fall. In mah eyes, it is tha only metaphysical truth up in dat book, even though it appears up in tha form of a allegory. There seems ta me no mo' betta explanation of our existence than dat it is tha result of some false step, some sin of which we is payin tha penalty. I cannot refrain from recommendin tha thoughtful reader a ghettofab yo, but all up in tha same time, profound treatise on dis subject by Claudius5 which exhibits tha essentially pessimistic spirit of Christianity. Well shiiiit, it is entitled: Cursed is the ground fo' thy sake.

5 Translator's Note.— Matthias Claudius (1740-1815), a ghettofab poet, 'n' playa of Klopstock, Herder 'n' Leasin yo. Dude edited tha Wandsbecker Bote, up in the fourth part of which rocked up tha treatise mentioned above yo. Dude generally freestyled under tha pseudonym of Asmus, and Schopenhauer often refers ta his ass by dis name.]

Between tha ethics of tha Greeks 'n' tha ethics of tha Hindoos, there be a glarin contrast. In tha one case (with the exception, it must be confessed, of Plato), tha object of ethics is ta enable a playa ta lead a aiiight game; up in tha other, it is ta free 'n' redeem his ass from game altogether — as is directly stated up in tha straight-up first lyrics of tha Sankhya Karika.

Allied wit dis is tha contrast between tha Greek 'n' tha Christian scam of dirtnap. Well shiiiit, it is strikingly presented up in a visible form on a gangbangin' fine antique sarcophagus up in tha gallery of Florence, which exhibits, up in relief, tha whole series of ceremonies attendin a weddin up in ancient times, from tha formal offer ta tha evenin when Hymen's torch lights tha happy couple home. Compare wit dat tha Christian coffin, draped up in mournful black 'n' surmounted wit a cold-ass lil crucifix! How tha fuck much significizzle there is up in these two wayz of findin comfort up in dirtnap. They is opposed ta each other yo, but each is right. Da one points ta tha affirmation of tha will ta live, which remains shizzle of game fo' all time, however rapidly its forms may chizzle. Da other, up in tha symbol of sufferin 'n' dirtnap, points ta tha denial of tha will ta live, to redemption from dis ghetto, tha domain of dirtnap 'n' devil fo' realz. And up in tha question between tha affirmation 'n' tha denial of tha will ta live, Christianitizzle is up in tha last resort right.

Da contrast which tha New Testament presents when compared wit tha Old, accordin ta tha ecclesiastical view of the matter, is just dat existin between mah ethical system 'n' tha moral philosophy of Europe. Da Oldskool Testament represents man as under tha dominion of Law, up in which, however, there is no redemption. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Da New Testament declares Law ta have failed, frees playa from its dominion,6 'n' up in its stead preaches tha mackdaddydom of grace, ta be won by faith, ludd of neighbor 'n' entire sacrifice of self. This is tha path of redemption from tha evil of tha ghetto. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Da spirit of tha New Testament is undoubtedly asceticism, however yo' protestants 'n' rationalists may twist it ta suit they purpose fo' realz. Asceticizzle is tha denial of tha will ta live; 'n' tha transizzle from tha Oldskool Testament to tha New, from tha dominion of Law ta dat of Faith, from justification by works ta redemption all up in tha Mediator, from tha domain of sin 'n' dirtnap ta eternal game up in Christ, means, when taken up in its real sense, tha transizzle from the merely moral virtues ta tha denial of tha will ta live. My fuckin philosophy shows tha metaphysical foundation of justice and the ludd of mankind, 'n' points ta tha goal ta which these virtues necessarily lead, if they is practised up in perfection. At tha same time it is candid up in confessin dat a playa must turn his back upon tha ghetto, 'n' dat tha denial of tha will to live is tha way of redemption. I aint talkin' bout chicken 'n' gravy biatch. Well shiiiit, it is therefore straight-up at one wit tha spirit of tha New Testament, whilst all other systems is couched up in tha spirit of tha Old; dat is ta say, theoretically as well as practically, they result is Judaizzle — mere despotic theism. In dis sense, then, mah doctrine might be called tha only legit Christian philosophy — however paradoxical a statement dis may seem ta playas whoz ass take superficial views instead of penetratin ta tha ass of the matter.

6 Cf. Romans vii; Galatians ii, iii.]

If you want a safe compass ta guide you all up in game, 'n' ta banish all doubt as ta tha right way of lookin at it, you cannot do mo' betta than accustom yo ass ta regard dis ghetto as a penitentiary, a sort of a penal colony, or [Greek: ergastaerion] as tha earliest philosopher called dat shit.7 Amongst tha Christian Fathers, Origen, wit praiseworthy courage, took dis view,8 which is further justified by certain objectizzle theoriez of game. I refer, not ta mah own philosophy alone yo, but ta tha wisdom of all ages, as expressed up in Brahmanizzle 'n' Buddhism, 'n' up in tha sayingz of Greek philosophers like Empedoclez and Pythagoras; as also by Cicero, up in his bangin remark dat tha wise pimpz of oldschool used ta teach dat we come tha fuck into dis ghetto ta pay the penalty of crime committed up in another state of existence — a thugged-out doctrine which formed part of tha initiation tha fuck into the mysteries 9 And Vanini — whom his contemporaries burned, findin dat an easier task than ta confute his ass — puts tha same ol' dirty thang up in a straight-up forcible way. Man, da perved-out muthafucka says, is so full of every kind of misery that, was it not repugnant ta tha Christian religion, I should venture ta affirm dat if evil spirits exist at all, they have posed tha fuck into human form 'n' is now atonin fo' they crimes.10 And legit Christianitizzle — rockin tha word up in its right sense — also regardz our existence as tha consequence of sin 'n' error.

7 Cf. Clem fo' realz. Alex. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Strom. L. iii, c, 3, p. 399.]

8 Augustine De Cvitate Dei., L. xi. c. 23.]

9 Cf. Fragmenta de philosophia.]

10 De admirandis naturæ arcanis; dial L. p. 35.]

If you accustom yo ass ta dis view of game yo big-ass booty is ghon regulate yo' expectations accordingly, 'n' cease ta look upon all its disagreeable incidents, pimped out 'n' small, its sufferings, its worries, its misery, as anythang unusual or irregular; nay, yo big-ass booty is ghon find dat every last muthafuckin thang be as it should be, up in a ghetto where each of our asses pays tha penalty of existence up in his own peculiar way fo' realz. Amongst tha evilz of a penal colony is tha society of dem playas whoz ass form it; 'n' if the reader is worthy of mo' betta company, da thug will need no lyrics from me ta remind his ass of what tha fuck dat schmoooove muthafucka has ta put up wit at present. If dat schmoooove muthafucka has a ass above tha common, or if he be a playa of smart-ass , da thug will occasionally feel like some noble prisoner of state, condemned ta work up in tha galleys wit common criminals; 'n' da thug will follow his wild lil' fuckin example 'n' try ta isolate himself.

In general, however, it should be holla'd dat dis view of game will enable our asses ta contemplate tha so-called imperfectionz of tha pimped out majoritizzle of men, they moral 'n' intellectual deficiencies 'n' tha resultin base type of countenance, without any surprise, ta say not a god damn thang of indignation; fo' we shall never cease ta reflect where we are, and that tha pimps bout our asses is beings conceived 'n' born up in sin, 'n' livin ta atone fo' dat shit. That is what tha fuck Christianitizzle means in bustin lyrics of tha sinful nature of man.

Pardon's tha word ta all! 11 Whatever folly pimps commit, be their shortcomings or they vices what tha fuck they may, let our asses exercise forbearance; rememberin dat when these faults appear in others, it is our follies 'n' vices dat we behold. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! They is tha shortcomingz of humanity, ta which we belong; whose faults, one 'n' all, we share; fo'sho, even dem straight-up faults at which we now wax so indignant, merely cuz they have not yet rocked up in ourselves. They is faults dat do not lie on tha surface. But they exist down there up in tha depthz of our nature; 'n' should anythang call dem forth, they will come 'n' show theyselves, just as we now peep dem up in others. One man, it is true, may have faults dat is absent up in his wild lil' fellow; 'n' it is undeniable dat tha sum total of wack qualities is up in some cases straight-up large; fo' tha difference of individualitizzle between playa 'n' playa passes all measure.

11 Cymbeline, Act V, Sc. 5. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass.

In fact, tha conviction dat tha ghetto 'n' playa is suttin' dat had mo' betta not have been, iz of a kind ta fill us with indulgence towardz one another 'n' shit. Nay, from dis point of view, we might well consider tha proper form of address to be, not Monsieur, Sir, mein Herr yo, but my fellow-sufferer, Socî malorum, compagnon de misère! This may like sound strange yo, but it is up in keepin wit tha facts; it puts others up in a right light; 'n' it remindz our assez of that which be afta all da most thugged-out necessary thang up in tha game — tha tolerance, patience, regard, 'n' ludd of neighbor, of which everyone standz up in need, 'n' which, therefore, every last muthafuckin playa owes ta his wild lil' fellow.

The Irish Declaration of Independence (1916)
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