As you all know, I went to an interstellar workshop recently and I was put in the C for Com (communication) work group. Little did I know that this work would come in useful so soon. It appears that through extremelytechydium, this blog has detected communications to the stars* from a race of infiltrators that has been among us for centuries. It explains both the SJWs on Twitter yesterday and the killjoy who thought he could browbeat us with half-baked history and “facts” that never happened.
I am not sure of my translation, of course. You know how difficult it is to understand an alien language, and this one is one of the most difficult. Frankly, if so much of it hadn’t been integrated into Marxism and other leftist twattery** it would be completely opaque.
Dear Masters*** of the Glitter Universe, from your servant Glitterbot, on the third planet from Sol, spiral arm of the Milkyway [they appear to call it something that might be fish-semen, but we’ll use our familiar name] Nebula in the farthest regions [lit. where the nether pointing tentacle cannot reach.]
I must trust this report to the star-waves, in hopes it will explain to you the difficulties I’ve run into in this the fourth 1×100 revolution of this miserable rock around its star that I’ve witnessed from this planet’s forsaken surface.
As was planned, after I landed, I set about examining the dominant species. One would hesitate to call them sentients, or at least I’ve had plenty of reason to suspect they’d been easily led. Until this– But more on that later.
As per your shining instructions, when I landed, I discovered this species – which calls itself hooman – had one great weakness in that it developed in a saltational manner. By this I mean that one part of it would advance towards a culture that would make it capable of granting greater comfort and stability to its members and then, by invading other cultures, or simply by the other cultures imitating them, the whole world would be pulled up to that level, before the next leap. It had happened several times.
It was obvious that like the Glitter Race and others that we managed to stop just in time, this process would, according to some natural progression of intelligence lead this species to starfaring and, eventually to challenge your magnificence, oh, lords of the shining universe.
I set about exploring its differential development to our purposes, and here I must ask you to admire me, because their flaw was much smaller than the cannibalistic species in Alpha Centauri, or the slaver races of Arcturus. And yet would be enough and serve.
I set about convincing the civilization at the time spearheading the push towards better living and more knowledge that they were evil and that the savage forms of its own species were the best and most noble of them all.
It was not easy since this civilization, then in the process of spreading across the globe, was aggressive and self-assured.
It necessitated the spawning of several copies of myself, designed to look like the local race, and prepared to spread this message to the natives.
Among those humble replicas of myself, I want to recommend, for our holograms of eternal remembrance, the one called Jean Jacques Rosseau, the first one to write movingly on how savages were the most advanced of their race and how every attempt to civilize them was a crime. This idea, propagating itself like poison through their culture has led to every other civilization-weakening misery-increasing belief.
It took a while, of course, but for almost a century now, the technological and innovating arm of their civilization has felt guilty over its advances and spent much time writing novels and scholarly treatises**** and making movies about how much better the most barbarous and cruel of their kind, living in civilizations that had exterminated all large, edible land dwelling animals, instead of domesticating them, were “the best” and “lived in harmony with nature.”
The guilt of those more comfortable ones over living better than their brethren did the rest. I had to extrude another few replicas of myself, going by the names of Marx and Engels, Lenin, Stalin and Mao, creating a theory of civilization and governance that extolled brutal oppression which by itself greatly reduced these creatures’ population, as well as creating a philosophy which if applied by definition makes the worst rise to the top, stops all technological development, and reinforces the idea that there is something magical in the primitive.
They are a learning species and they did the rest. A replicant here and there was enough. Provided the position, no matter how non-sensical is imbued with “class prestige” the rest of these apes will try to imitate it. Thus the same mechanism that led to their rise from flint-chipping apes to makers of synthetic materials can be used against them.
Fifty years ago, I thought that by now I would be reporting to you that I’d so far convinced them they were despicable and to be detested that they would line up and thank the glittery master race as they mowed the planet with their death-dealing rays.
I’m not quite sure what happened.
I’d made sure, like any advance scout of taking over their communication structure, the means by which they teach their young and the means by which they tell themselves who they are. I swear by the glittery center [lit, vagina] of the universe that I had them fully under my control. Even when they found ways to communicate person-to person and to tell themselves stories with no referent to the structures of power, I thought they’d been well enough indoctrinated to tell only the stories I taught them and complete their self abasement [lit. castration.]
But something happened along the way and these impertinent apes have been throwing off the so-carefully planted suggestions and storylines. They have been doing their own research and discovering things such as that no, most of the primitive races displaced by the slightly more advanced races at the time (the difference was small enough to be barely noticeable) weren’t more competent and certainly were not more respectful of “nature” – a concept I never understood, since star-traveling races like you, oh, glittery masters, create their own environment – and also that the “genocide” story I propagated was mostly due to infection by diseases to which herders and cattle-tamers had become immune while the races I carefully said were superior had preferred to eat animals into extinction rather than tame them. I also carefully hid the fact that the natives of those cultures had in fact not been exterminated so much as melded with the invaders, as has always been the way of this race, and I called any attempt to restore history a vile oppressor-race-aggrandizing narrative, when in fact these creatures are all so genetically similar as to have virtually no races.
I’ve also set their females against their males by claiming that sensible measures to ensure the reproduction of the species were oppression. In the most susceptible ones – in their education establishment – I’ve fostered the idea that oppression and reproduction are one and the same.
Yes, oh, Shiny [lit. Glittery] Masters [lit. Vaginas] of the Stars, I was well on my way to winning your war without a laser being fired.
Just recently, one of their females of their own accord, one Rose Eveleth [For whom I would like to claim the high Galactic Title of Vagina Vigilante] made a scientist who landed on a comet cry over his choice of wear which indeed did nothing but display the beauty (for them. I’ve not gone native) of the females of the species.
So, how is it I’m asking for help immediately?
Lately even the replicants I extrude seem to have lost control of the story line [lit. narrative] and there are indications these low apes are starting to suspect our narrative tends to nothing but making them loathe themselves. They are starting to say things such as that every race, throughout history, has committed crimes and horrors, and that this is normal because natural creatures aren’t perfect. Which as you know bodes well for their considering your emissaries perfect when they land. More, they’ve started to say that they like being hooman, warts and all. There is even a movement afoot to tell stories that laud hoomans as hoomans, and which encourage hoomans to reach for the stars and form their own galactic empire.
I don’t know what to do. My every attempt to shame them into submission – recently by attacking their primitive form of holo-play, by saying that it was not worthy, being a form of entertainment that aimed at enjoyment – meets with resistence and, worse, with derision.
I very much fear something has gone wrong in my control of the culture. My attempts to get them back in line by the pronouncements of their respected elders [lit. Massive Vaginas of the Establishment] is greeted with nothing but gales of laughter as they ignore these pronouncements and continue to escape my control.
I can only beg you that you, Oh, Glittery Masters [Lit – female reproductive organ] come quickly. Though you’ll meet with resistance to your death ray now, it’s likely to be smaller than it will be in fifty years.
In fact, unless you strike right now, I’m very much afraid they will be headed for the stars and will challenge your great and glittering magnificence [lit. Twattery] in your own homeworld.
I realize it might be too late, but while such creatures exist as the wonderful Vagina Vigilante mentioned abroad, ready to hate and debase members of her own species and her own species process in favor of an imaginary better, there is hope the resistance will not be too fierce.
Yours in Glitter
The Humble infiltrator who tries to communicate with plants.*****
*No. Of course not really. Stop reading news from the White House. It’s so appallingly unbelievable that it destroys your sense of disbelief.
**Totally a word. I did tell you, did I not, of the woman in the village whose family nickname was “the lighted c*nt” (Or perhaps “the lit c*nt” or “the luminous c*nt” – translation is like that.) I suspect it related to some accident centuries back in which some ancestress tried to get over a private infestation with fire. But for the last day I’ve been giggling over translating it as “Glittery Hoo Ha.” So, take this as leftist shiny twattery
*** The words here translated as Masters or Lords, as a conventional sign of respect, show some indication of being in literal translation, the word for the female reproductive organ of this species (whose number of sexes is very hard to determine since, though their bodies seem to come in standard male and female format, they seem to identify by a variety of compound forms. We’re not sure what purpose this serves, and it seems an hindrance to reproduction. Perhaps the extreme rarity of their reproduction fuels their aggressive dislike of any other breed making it to the stars.)
**** It’s amazing what some people believe.
***** Literally “Cabbage head.”