Heidegger

In a message dated 29/05/2007 03:11:34 GMT Standard Time, Bernx at aol.com
writes:

In a message dated 5/28/2007 8:11:23 PM Eastern Daylight Time,
GEVANS613 at aol.com writes:

In a message dated 28/05/2007 22:29:45 GMT Standard Time, Bernx at aol.com
writes:

In a message dated 5/27/2007 8:29:18 AM Eastern Daylight Time,
GEVANS613 at aol.com writes:

But perhaps (Like poor Absalon, in Chaucer’s Miller’s Tale ) it was just one
of *I AM WHAT I AM’s* practical jokes, played out in the chosen’s
mirage-prone dessert rather than at the casement of an English window?

See:

_http://www.gloriana.nu/miller.html_  http://www.gloriana.nu/miller.html)

There’s your problem, Jud, unlike Chaucer you aint got no astrology to
fall back on to earn your vilifications. Pecccato!
Bernard

Jud:
It seems then that you could be right after all and that the first ruarch
might well have constituted the first trump, and when the ‘last heavenly trump’
shall be sounded, (I Cor. 15:52.) according to the bible, the dead shall
arise from their graves and partake in one mighty communal ruach which will
produce sufficient gas to open up the ozone layer completely so that what’s left
on the surface of the earth will simply fry.

I just hope that the rising of the dead does not include Heidegger’s rotting
corpse. He was enough to cause the heebie-jeebies when he was alive - never
mind after his final comportment to plot drei hundert und achtzig neun in
Marburg churchyard has been successfully completed.

Do us a favour Bokko old bean…put a call into God via your crystal ball [I
trust you keep it fully charged-up when not in use?] and ask him to exclude
Heidikins from the last roll-call. His false, lying lips will have turned
black by now and hang from his face in a seething offal of foul wriggling
master-race maggots! We don’t want to frighten the horses with him ruaching his
sauerkraut-laden vapours all over the place and dropping calliphora
vicina-larva in the Last Supper Soup.

Regards,

Jud Evans.
It seems to me, Jud baby, that you have been in Hell long enough with
Heidikins & co,, and its time you rose up to the purgatory of Lenin and Trotsky,
hopefully on the way to the pearly gates. I know waking up and resurrecting
aint easy and I am sure as shit not going to lend you my crystal balls to do it.
Waking up tommorrow will be too late.Do it now before the offal of sheol
hits the fan of ruach and enjoy the last word..
Bernard
Hell is how you hermeneuticalise it Berny old son.
The worst bits are on Sunday mornings, standing up to one’s chin in
reificational shit, listening to the devil preaching from his penis-shaped pulpit,
praising the killing of Iraqi kids. Bush and Blair would LOVE it. Then
Goebbels comes zooming past in his motorboat which forces even Billy Graham to close
his mouth. John Wayne hates it and puffs away with what remains of his
lungs on his dried horseshit Malboros, but Heidegger seems to be enjoying it all,
{lots of nubile Jewish teenagers coming through the gates these days, thanks
to errant rockets.] He is not too partial to the yellow *Liar’s Armband*
that hell’s deceivers are forced to wear [the badge is a protruding tongue
pierced with a piece of barbed wire.] He has got used to the daily branding on the
arse with the red-hot swastika though, for the skin has hardened and become
as horny and hard as Hitler’s heart.

Lenin and Trotsky pass away eternity making clay models of all the people
who died as a result of their special brand of transcendentalist infamy, but
their long lines of terracotta token dead [redolent of China’s buried army] are
rapidly being outstripped by the many new terra alba army from the Middle
East.
Old Leon ties a red ribbon to the Mexican icepick handle that protrudes from
his skull, and Lenin has a party trick of endlessly conjuring Laura Kaplan’s
bullet from his earhole - the Korean nut who massacred all those kids loves
the trick, and pleads with poor old Vladimir to do it *one more time*

Torquimada and the Catholic lot spend most of their time with their cassocks
up around their waists bathing in the Leth with naked little boys [it
reminds them of the Liffey] Goring bends before a mirror most of the day,
retroflexively rouging his bum-cheeks, whilst dreaming of rodgering the Red Baron
Richthoven’s strapping Wildhüter, who tried to shaft a tethered south African
boar [or was it Boer?] and died on one of its tusks.

You asked about the post-socratic philosophers? You never see them, they are
too busy in their masturbatoriums with their gilded youths, perpetrating the
pleasures of their *platonic* relationships and dreaming up new gnosistic
nosegays for future naïfs.

Nobody speaks to Hitler, he is completely ignored - even by Ayn Rand -
accept for his faithful whippet Heidegger of course, who since Blondie (the
fuhrer’s noseless dog) ran off with Lassie has become the Leader’s only companion.

People were moved to tears recently [even in this place] when Hitler called
for quiet, and putting a petrol-burned arm around Heidegger’s decomposing
shoulders tearfully stated: *Damen und Gentlemane, ich bin stolz zu verkünden,
daß dieser Mann mein persönlicher Philosoph ist!*

It certainly brought the house down - even Goring’s motorboat puttered to a
standstill!

Regards,

Jud Evans.

Personal Website. http://evans-experientialism.freewebspac…

Posted on Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 at 3:40 am
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