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3G Is A Dog, And Other Truths
naylorjs writes: "This is an interesting article from the BBC about the technological future, in particular broadband and wireless. What makes it more interesting is the comments about nation states and such like. A certain amount of lateral thinking in use here, something that we don't see enough of in the technology field. IMHO."
Are you kidding me?
That's like Americans reporting on CULTURE...
how can you report on something you have no clue about?
Oh sure... Q in the James Bond movies is all the techno-guru...but the rest of the country is in an awfully sorry state!
--Huck
"Just Smile and Nod." --Huck
When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of
his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and
solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart
changed,--and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the
sun, and spake thus unto it:
Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for
whom thou shinest!
For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have
wearied of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine
eagle, and my serpent.
But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow
and blessed thee for it.
Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much
honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.
I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become
joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches.
Therefore must I descend into the deep: as thou doest in the evening,
when thou goest behind the sea, and givest light also to the nether-world,
thou exuberant star!
Like thee must I GO DOWN, as men say, to whom I shall descend.
Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the greatest
happiness without envy!
Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out
of it, and carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss!
Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again
going to be a man.
Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.
2.
Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him. When he
entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood before him an old man,
who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thus spake the old man to
Zarathustra:
"No stranger to me is this wanderer: many years ago passed he by.
Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered.
Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thou now carry
thy fire into the valleys? Fearest thou not the incendiary's doom?
Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh
about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer?
Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one is
Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers?
As in the sea hast thou lived in solitude, and it hath borne thee up.
Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body
thyself?"
Zarathustra answered: "I love mankind."
"Why," said the saint, "did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it
not because I loved men far too well?
Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man is a thing too imperfect for me.
Love to man would be fatal to me."
Zarathustra answered: "What spake I of love! I am bringing gifts unto
men."
"Give them nothing," said the saint. "Take rather part of their load, and
carry it along with them--that will be most agreeable unto them: if only
it be agreeable unto thee!
If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms, and
let them also beg for it!"
"No," replied Zarathustra, "I give no alms. I am not poor enough for
that."
The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spake thus: "Then see to it that
they accept thy treasures! They are distrustful of anchorites, and do not
believe that we come with gifts.
The fall of our footsteps ringeth too hollow through their streets. And
just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before
sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: Where goeth the thief?
Go not to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not
be like me--a bear amongst bears, a bird amongst birds?"
"And what doeth the saint in the forest?" asked Zarathustra.
The saint answered: "I make hymns and sing them; and in making hymns
I laugh and weep and mumble: thus do I praise God.
With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is my
God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift?"
When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said:
"What should I have to give thee! Let me rather hurry hence lest I take
aught away from thee!"--And thus they parted from one another, the old man
and Zarathustra, laughing like schoolboys.
When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: "Could it be
possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that GOD
IS DEAD!"
3.
When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, he
found many people assembled in the market-place; for it had been announced
that a rope-dancer would give a performance. And Zarathustra spake thus
unto the people:
I TEACH YOU THE SUPERMAN. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What
have ye done to surpass man?
All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want
to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast
than surpass man?
What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the
same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame.
Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still
worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of
the apes.
Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and
phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants?
Lo, I teach you the Superman!
The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman
SHALL BE the meaning of the earth!
I conjure you, my brethren, REMAIN TRUE TO THE EARTH, and believe not those
who speak unto you of superearthly hopes! Poisoners are they, whether they
know it or not.
Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of
whom the earth is weary: so away with them!
Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and
therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the
dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the
meaning of the earth!
Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was
the supreme thing:--the soul wished the body meagre, ghastly, and famished.
Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth.
Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the
delight of that soul!
But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your
soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched self-
complacency?
Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted
stream without becoming impure.
Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that sea; in him can your great
contempt be submerged.
What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great
contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto
you, and so also your reason and virtue.
The hour when ye say: "What good is my happiness! It is poverty and
pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify
existence itself!"
The hour when ye say: "What good is my reason! Doth it long for knowledge
as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-
complacency!"
The hour when ye say: "What good is my virtue! As yet it hath not made me
passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty and
pollution and wretched self-complacency!"
The hour when ye say: "What good is my justice! I do not see that I am
fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel!"
The hour when we say: "What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on
which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion."
Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that I had
heard you crying thus!
It is not your sin--it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto heaven;
your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven!
Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy
with which ye should be inoculated?
Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!--
When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out: "We have
now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time now for us to see him!"
And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who
thought the words applied to him, began his performance.
4.
Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake
thus:
Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman--a rope over an
abyss.
A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a
dangerous trembling and halting.
What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is
lovable in man is that he is an OVER-GOING and a DOWN-GOING.
I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are
the over-goers.
I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows
of longing for the other shore.
I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going down
and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth
of the Superman may hereafter arrive.
I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know in order that
the Superman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own down-going.
I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he may build the house for the
Superman, and prepare for him earth, animal, and plant: for thus seeketh
he his own down-going.
I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to down-going,
and an arrow of longing.
I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for himself, but wanteth to be
wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus walketh he as spirit over the
bridge.
I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: thus, for
the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or live no more.
I love him who desireth not too many virtues. One virtue is more of a
virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one's destiny to cling
to.
I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not give
back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself.
I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then
asketh: "Am I a dishonest player?"--for he is willing to succumb.
I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds, and always
doeth more than he promiseth: for he seeketh his own down-going.
I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past ones:
for he is willing to succumb through the present ones.
I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: for he must
succumb through the wrath of his God.
I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through
a small matter: thus goeth he willingly over the bridge.
I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself, and all
things are in him: thus all things become his down-going.
I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: thus is his head only
the bowels of his heart; his heart, however, causeth his down-going.
I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark
cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and
succumb as heralds.
Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the
lightning, however, is the SUPERMAN.--
5.
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and
was silent. "There they stand," said he to his heart; "there they laugh:
they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears.
Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their
eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do
they only believe the stammerer?
They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that
which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them
from the goatherds.
They dislike, therefore, to hear of 'contempt' of themselves. So I will
appeal to their pride.
I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is
THE LAST MAN!"
And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people:
It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ
of his highest hope.
Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor
and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.
Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his
longing beyond man--and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!
I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing
star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.
Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any
star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no
longer despise himself.
Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.
"What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?"--so
asketh the last man and blinketh.
The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man who
maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the
ground-flea; the last man liveth longest.
"We have discovered happiness"--say the last men, and blink thereby.
They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth.
One still loveth one's neighbour and rubbeth against him; for one needeth
warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily.
He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men!
A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much
poison at last for a pleasant death.
One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the
pastime should hurt one.
One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still
wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd, and one herd! Every one wanteth the same; every one is equal:
he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse.
"Formerly all the world was insane,"--say the subtlest of them, and blink
thereby.
They are clever and know all that hath happened: so there is no end to
their raillery. People still fall out, but are soon reconciled--otherwise
it spoileth their stomachs.
They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures
for the night, but they have a regard for health.
"We have discovered happiness,"--say the last men, and blink thereby.--
And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, which is also called
"The Prologue": for at this point the shouting and mirth of the multitude
interrupted him. "Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,"--they called out-
-"make us into these last men! Then will we make thee a present of the
Superman!" And all the people exulted and smacked their lips.
Zarathustra, however, turned sad, and said to his heart:
"They understand me not: I am not the mouth for these ears.
Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much have I hearkened
unto the brooks and trees: now do I speak unto them as unto the goatherds.
Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they
think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests.
And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me
too. There is ice in their laughter."
6.
Then, however, something happened which made every mouth mute and every eye
fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope-dancer had commenced his
performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the
rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the
market-place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little
door opened once more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon sprang
out, and went rapidly after the first one. "Go on, halt-foot," cried his
frightful voice, "go on, lazy-bones, interloper, sallow-face!--lest I
tickle thee with my heel! What dost thou here between the towers? In the
tower is the place for thee, thou shouldst be locked up; to one better than
thyself thou blockest the way!"--And with every word he came nearer and
nearer the first one. When, however, he was but a step behind, there
happened the frightful thing which made every mouth mute and every eye
fixed--he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over the other who was in
his way. The latter, however, when he thus saw his rival triumph, lost at
the same time his head and his footing on the rope; he threw his pole away,
and shot downwards faster than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the
depth. The market-place and the people were like the sea when the storm
cometh on: they all flew apart and in disorder, especially where the body
was about to fall.
Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside him fell the body,
badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while
consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra
kneeling beside him. "What art thou doing there?" said he at last, "I knew
long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to hell:
wilt thou prevent him?"
"On mine honour, my friend," answered Zarathustra, "there is nothing of all
that whereof thou speakest: there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul will
be dead even sooner than thy body: fear, therefore, nothing any more!"
The man looked up distrustfully. "If thou speakest the truth," said he, "I
lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal which
hath been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare."
"Not at all," said Zarathustra, "thou hast made danger thy calling; therein
there is nothing contemptible. Now thou perishest by thy calling:
therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands."
When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but he
moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.
slashdot is going down the tubes faster than michael can ram his dick down the throat of his ugly bitch while he's sexchatting with taco. fuck you taco. slashdot is ours.
kind of like the pig in The Dark Crystal and all that other Lloyd Alexander shit, you know what I mean. Well, gotta split, I have a Maxim shoot to do. Love ya baby.
pancake is the lamest, dorkiest, most fucking fucktard clueless troll that slashdot ever had and he is all fuzzy excited about troll tuesday. man this site is so last year.
It was a few Decembers ago and I was still in the Navy. An associate of mine (also a squid) decided that we should head south to Tijuana for a Mexican Sexual Escapade. Who am I to argue, so off we go.
We get into Tijuana, but the broads are really nasty so we take the geeksen-bus down to Ensenada. After spending some time getting lubed at Papas & Beer, we head out in search of ass. It seemed that all the American geeks were already dragging some sap around by his dick so we did what came natural to us. We looked for Mexican geeks.
We go into some nondescript underground bar and sure as shit, tit'se are geeks galore. We rent a couple named Hemos and Taco and take them back to our hotel room. Not the kind of guys to waste time, we strip our geeks and get down to business. Bob is in his bed right next to me, totally drunk, jack-hammering this geeks like he was some sort of pneumatic super-stallion.
I'm bonking my geek and Bob and I are watching each otit's's activities and laughing at each otit's. About this time, he grabs a beer off the nightstand and takes a swig. Next thing, he's spitting it at me through his teeth. We're laughing and carrying on, and his geek starts some shit in Perl. Apparently it's not getting into the shenanigans.
So Bob does what any good sailor in this situation would do: he spits beer in it's face, in order that it might share in the festivities. I thought that it was nice of him to include it in our shared celebration of lewdness. The geeks didn't think it was funny though, actually it took it as an insult, and started trying to kick him off of it's ass and out of the bed.
Now my geek is talking to the to the other geek and it grabs my pubes and starts yanking in an attempt to end our session. This bad behavior was not in my plans- hey, I just paid fifty bucks and this bitch didn't even get spit on and now it wants to high-tail it out of all this before I bust a nut? Hell no!
So Bob and I are discussing what the fuck we are going to do, still humping the geeks, when he starts farting. We're talking LOUD, squeaky, ripping farts; the kind that make your ass feel like it's being split with a razor blade. And the smell- did I mention we didn't eat that day, instead we stayed hungry in order to maximize our buzz.
I'm laughing so hard that I completely lost my hard-on, and it's all I can do to keep this geek underneath me from ripping my balls off. Bob, on the other hand, was still banging away on his geeks and about this time one of his farts goes liquid. He reaches behind him, wipes his ass onto his hand, and cleans it by wiping it onto his geeks's face.
My geeks saw this and expecting the same from me, balls up it's fist and smacks me in the forehead. Too much. Mister Nice Guy is now getting bent. So I do what any good Ambassador of the United States Navy does in a situation like this: I pull out and start pissing on it.
Bob sees this and being quick witted starts singing "My Corona" to the tune of The Knack's hit "My Sharona." As I empty what was left of "My Corona" all over this geeks's face and ass, Bob pulls out his cock and shoots a load of spooge all over his geeks's face, making special efforts to get some in it's hair.
I mean to say that this grand finale took what was left of the fight out of our geeks. They were both so mortified of what had transpired that when we got off of them they actually curled up into the fetal position and began sobbing. This was a relief to us, as we weren't sure up to this point how we were going to get out of there.
To make sure they didn't come after us, we wiped up the piss, shit, and spooge with their blouses and then liberated the receiver from the phone. On the way out the door Bob yelled "Remember the Alamo!" and we got the fuck out of Mexico quicker than Newt Gingrich can divorce a cancer-ridden spouse on it's deathbed.
Cheers,
gdb