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We are in the midst of a very serious e-begging extravaganza, but I figure I must produce content as part of this begging operation, although the site is actually shut down, technically.
But today I have a story of a Christmas miracle. It actually happened on Easter, but never mind that.
In probably 2003, I went to the Philippine city of Dumaguete to see a real Passion play.
For those who do not know, this is a play of the Passion of Christ with real nails. This is an ancient Catholic tradition that white people don’t do anymore because whites have been turned into faggots by perverse Jewish people. They still do these plays in Catholic third world countries, which is what the Philippines is.
Dumaguete is a diving city, so there is a big tourist infrastructure there, and it has as many foreigners as any Philippine city. It’s got nice blue water with mountains behind it, and is kept neat and clean.
So, I was there, and drunk as usual, wandering around the town with some lunatic Scotsman. This guy was a total maniac.
This was the vibe:
I split off from the Scot when he began suggesting illegal activities and smoking an illegal substance, marijuana (AKA “grass†or “reefer,†also known as “Mary Jane†in some districts), which is like kryptonite to serious men who drink heavy amounts of alcoholic beverages (AKA “booze†or “the water of lifeâ€).
Anyway, I ended up in this trendy bar, and because I was very charming and interesting, the bar’s owner came to chat with me. He was from Sri Lanka, and had very clear English for some reason. His girlfriend was Filipina, and I got the idea that’s why he was there, that he had some family money (or some money from somewhere, huh?) and had opened a bar in the town where he was staying with his girlfriend. Or maybe his wife, I don’t recall.
I was in my early 20s at the time, and he was probably pushing 40. He was heavyset and smiley, and did not have that odious Indian look about him (Sri Lankans I’ve found often lack this look; Chamath is a Sri Lankan). He was doing the regular routine, asking me the standard questions people ask each other in bars in far away lands, and I did the same, as is custom. But as is my custom, I went weird. (I have always been weird, only recently becoming both old and weird, which is the real killer combo.)
He said he was from Sri Lanka, and at that time, there had been much drama around the fact that Arthur C. Clarke, the sadistic homosexual science fiction writer who invented the Moon Landing, was molesting children in the Sri Lankan capital of Colombo, where he lived in a suburban home which had once been the dwelling of an Anglican priest. So I asked him: “You know, that guy who invented the Moon Landing lived there.â€
I kid you not, this guy says: “Yeah, I lived near him, he would always have the children over at his house, he had a lot of pets in his yard he would show to us.â€
And of course me: “They say he was a boy-fucker.â€
He says: “Well, I… we would go over to his house, I remember going there, he would give candy to the kids…â€
I said: “Well, did he molest you?â€
The man’s eyes glazed over. He became short and got up and walked away, going into some backroom.
Arthur C. Clarke, homosexual Mooner, pictured with a young boy in Sri Lanka. That is not his son. He was a sodomist.
Laughing a bit to myself at the absurdity of it all, I paid my bill and continued galavanting around the streets. Some hours later, and quite a few drinks later, I saw his girlfriend/wife in the park and she spoke to me. She claimed I had disturbed her husband. I replied that I had done no such thing, and was outraged by the accusation. She told me he was crying. I said if he was crying, she shouldn’t have left him, and she said she had to because it was a festival celebrating Jesus.
I was again with the Scottish man, who began babbling in a thick dialect that no one could understand, myself included. I manipulated him into believing there was a serious punishment for urinating in public, which was a lie, convincing him to go find a secret spot to relieve himself, which would allow me to make my escape and continue my important detective work.
I told this woman we should return to her family bar and attempt to comfort her husband. She was willing to do whatever I said, because I am very handsome and charming and all women do whatever I tell them to do, and so we went back to her bar. I began buying shots of rum for everyone remaining in the bar. I had money from China; buying drinks was nothing to me. It was at this time somewhere around two or three in the AM, and I was just catching my vibe.
I told the woman: “Bring your husband out.â€
I had no plans to further investigate his molestation, although in fact I did have these plans.
He did come out when she brought him, and I did not bring up the molestation by the infamous Moon hoaxster. Instead, I started talking about diving, which I was also into at the time (I stopped being interested a few years later, after an ear infection that almost killed me due to a botched Indonesian surgery). He told me that he was too large to dive, explaining that he always floated to the top. I did not think it worked that way but did not question him.
We continued talking about whatever, I surely don’t remember it now, and it was he who returned to the topic of the infamous pederast. He told me: “I just remember being there, with him and these other children, and I remember being in his room. I don’t remember anything else, but whenever I think about it, I feel like a ghost. I didn’t mean to be an asshole earlier.â€
It was my determination that this man was definitely molested by the infamous faggot Mooner, and this would go on to shape my opinions of science fiction literature.
Since I began my vacation a day ago, I have been reading Moorcock, finishing Fireclown and getting into the first Elric book. Earlier this year, as the regular reader may recall, I read through several JG Ballard books, which I did not enjoy at all. Even Crash, which I thought was so edgy and interesting when I was 14, seemed pretentious and retarded.
Frankly, I have not even read any of these Arthur C. Clarke books, other than 2001 and its sequels, which I only read because I liked the Stanley Kubrick film and was interested in the Mooner perspective. In fact, I believe I read several of his other books, before I got an e-reader thingie, during a period in my life where I could only read various English language books I found in hostels. I just don’t remember them at all.
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