Chaitanya Jyothi Museum Opening, 2000

RAMANAM
In the Name of The Father, and of The Son and of The Holy Spirit, Amen.

Countrymen,

ORBIS NON SUFFICIT
SOLUS DEUS SUFFICIT

This post will be in the nature of a jeer or a taunt set at Progressive Commies and their Jihadi accessories.

Were you serious and able, you had delivered your enemies long since to cellars, there to be executed on the instant.

Were you mature, you had not let your ambition trump your dignity.

Were you attractive, you had no occasion to blame others for your failures.

Were you powerful, you had no impulse to seek advantages in your lower self.

Were you intelligent, you had no desire for self-promotion.

And were you a man or a woman, you had no interest in attacking one another.

Bureaucracies that go to seed, like families who reproduce from a tight circle of acquaintances, reproduce from ever-declining seed quality.  Soon they are committees stocked with personalities who individually can get nothing done and together decide nothing can be done.  Then they grow by nepotism and incest, figurative and literal, until the organization goes all under two spirits (queers), crazies and curmudgeons counting minutes to the next office feed.  And oppressing outsiders.

Result: bureaucrats of poor intellect, low energy, obsolete or defective knowledge, repulsive personal presence, loud mouths, diminished health, operational incompetence, office intrigue and very little useful work accomplished.  And citizens made seriously unhappy by being compelled to deal with sadistic bureaucrats.  And corruption, pay-offs, bribes, etc.

Bolshevik clergy and teachers made churches and schools indoctrination centers.  Moronic bureaucrats made them gulags.  There is nothing grand about these personalities, nothing noble or honorable.  Excited they and their clones in media, entertainment and politics can become, but not respected.

They claim superior status — the moral and intellectual high ground — titles of nobility, in fact, which are abjured by the US Constitution.  Yet fires they light to eliminate the lower classes — the deplorables, the irredeemables in Progressive Commie-Jihadi ideology — circle back to fry their fannies.  And still those clerics, professors and bureaucrats and hard boyz are wimps.  The mass die-off of unworthy humans they crave they lack opportunity, knowledge, skill and will to accomplish.  They got nuttin’.

Even clerics’, teachers’ and bureaucrats’ Jihadi allies, although quicker than they at application, dispose their neighbors to want to crush them.  And they do.  Jihadis, too, are wimps.  Were they strong and right, they had no need of terror or any other tactic of war save being truthful about themselves and the world they inhabit.  Their point would be self-evidently attractive, its benefit inspiring eagerness for it.

So what we have here are Bolshi Wimps and their Jihadi Accessories, also wimps.  Glenn Reynolds sees you as childish jerks.  And you want to rule the world!  And think you can!!  And should!!!

Here is what you should: To a nunnery, go.

AUM NAMAH SHIVAYA

HAMLET

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.

OPHELIA

Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day?

HAMLET

I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

OPHELIA

My lord, I have remembrances of yours,
That I have longed long to re-deliver;
I pray you, now receive them.

HAMLET

No, not I;
I never gave you aught.

OPHELIA

My honour’d lord, you know right well you did;
And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
There, my lord.

HAMLET

Ha, ha! are you honest?

OPHELIA

My lord?

HAMLET

Are you fair?

OPHELIA

What means your lordship?

HAMLET

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should
admit no discourse to your beauty.

OPHELIA

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than
with honesty?

HAMLET

Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner
transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the
force of honesty can translate beauty into his
likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the
time gives it proof. I did love you once.

OPHELIA

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

HAMLET

You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot
so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of
it: I loved you not.

OPHELIA

I was the more deceived.

HAMLET

Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a
breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest;
but yet I could accuse me of such things that it
were better my mother had not borne me: I am very
proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at
my beck than I have thoughts to put them in,
imagination to give them shape, or time to act them
in. What should such fellows as I do crawling
between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves,
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Where’s your father?

OPHELIA

At home, my lord.

HAMLET

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the
fool no where but in’s own house. Farewell.

OPHELIA

O, help him, you sweet heavens!

HAMLET

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for
thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as
snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a
nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs
marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough
what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go,
and quickly too. Farewell.

OPHELIA

O heavenly powers, restore him!

HAMLET

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God
has given you one face, and you make yourselves
another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and
nick-name God’s creatures, and make your wantonness
your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath
made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages:
those that are married already, all but one, shall
live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a
nunnery, go.