Mais personagens do novo ditador:
O Porquinho FEMI
Paulo Portas
Pedro Passos Coelho
José Socrates
Acordo Femi
A paixão é rara
«Príncipes!». Oiço-as eu a lamentar-se pelos cantos de um círculo, cacarejos de galinhas que de tanto se lamentar ficam tontas. Queixumes por já não haver nenhum homem na terra digno de ser um príncipe, dizem elas.
Já viram que lata tem as mulheres, a fazerem-se de vítimas, como senão tivessem culpa no cartório.
Vou começar por desmitificar o mito do já não haver príncipes, através do esforço que um homem tem que fazer para as conquistar à concorrência.
Normalmente o conseguir conquistar uma mulher é uma luta entre duas pessoas no mínimo, uma luta que não queremos perder, mesmo que assumamos uma pose passiva. Afinal numa guerra faz-se o uso de várias estratégias e cada um tenta valorizar ao máximo os seus trunfos.
Isto para chegar à estratégia utilizada especialmente por um homem que seja feio, que tenha uma característica que o punha em relativa desvantagem em relação à concorrência em termos estéticos, o que hoje em dia se apelida tão caridosamente de aborto; esta estratégia também costuma ser utilizada por homens tímidos com algum sucesso, é costume neste tipo de homens após a conquista transformarem-se em cavalgaduras, outro pormenor em ter atenção é o aplicar a estratégia a maior parte das vezes a mulher errada. A estratégia destes senhores para suplantar os seus adversários consiste em comportarem-se como príncipes, se forem donos de uma característica que cada vez mais rareia, que é a inteligência.
De referir que estamos a aplicar esta estratégia a mulheres que também tenham alguma coisa na cabeça, não são mulheres que não se importam de comer porrada depois dos jogos do benfica e que tenham tatuagens de bonequinhos parvos, ou que tenham o carimbo de vaca.
«Ah, um príncipe tímido e feio que nem um sapo, não é um príncipe» - respondem vocês, princesas de lábios desencantados.
Após a desmistificação do já não haver príncipe encantados, apresento o segundo argumento. Este argumento prova que as mulheres são culpadas do crime de cúmplices no homicídio do príncipe encantado.
Está tudo relacionado com a nossa natureza, o instinto que ainda há dentro de nós, há que aceitar ainda somos animais e temos um passado para o comprovar.
Sim, onde quero chegar é que as mulheres gostam de ser maltratadas, nada de violência física como o puxar de cabelos, isso era antigamente já evoluímos, agora os maus tratos são ao nível psicológico. Mas até aí não se pode abusar muito, é o mais ignorar-la em alguns momentos na fase inicial da conquista e lá para o fim já temos que dar algumas ordens, isto porque o homem tem que demonstrar confiança, que é capaz de a proteger.
É por estas razões que elas se sentem atraídas pelos canalhas, bestas, que de vez em quando demonstram um bom gesto.
Perguntem a qualquer homem se quando não demonstram interesse numa mulher e até a maltratam, se ela não o deixa em paz, e quando dão uma de príncipes elas ficam derretidas, gostam, mas no fim enjoam e é só desilusões.
E porque é que isto acontece?
Acontece porque na paixão a inteligência é rara!
p.s isto é valido até para os casos
em que as coisas corram bem.
Pensamentos rápidos
A evolução do político
Pequenos homens vangloriam-se de pequenos feitos, os tempos evoluem e por incrível que pareça existe um nível ainda mais baixo:
Verme o é quem se vangloria de um pequeno feito do qual não é responsável!
A qualidade existe ao desbarato?!
«Homens/Mulheres são como os autocarros: perde-se uns, apanha-se outros.»
Sabes qual é a diferença a Carris e a TST.
Altruísta, Parvo, ou Consciente.
Quanto é que vale para ti a vida de outro homem?
- O mesmo que a minha.
Utopia
Erro da banca a seu favor.
Os homens que inventaram os deuses, não acreditam em deuses.
Cuidado, temos que ter cuidado!
Com quem?
Com eles, com a multidão que se sente inútil.
São assim tantos?
Cada vez mais, e agora a unir-se aos inúteis estão os desesperados.
Não há-de ser nada, que mal pode fazer um desesperado inútil?
p.s - a importância de um título, não quero explicar
desta vez deixo-vos a raciocinar.
A importância da trivialidade.
Um fluxo terrível de pensamentos
afoga a minha maneira sã de ser,
a bóia de salvação esta nos momentos
triviais que todos temos que viver.
Achas para a forja cerebral
Filme:
Dobras:
"I have been robbed,"I said to gim, a little later, when I found him pacing up and down the poop alone.
"Sir", he corrected, not harshly, but sternly.
"I have been robber, sir," I amended.
"How did it happen?" he asked.
Then I told him the whole circumstance, how my clothes had been left to dry in the galley, and how, later, I was nearly beaten by the cook when I mentioned the matter.
He smiled at my recital. "Pickings," he concluded; "Cooky's pickings. And don't you think your miserable life worth the price? Besides, consider it a lesson. You'll earn in time how to take care of your money for yourself. I suppose, up to now, your, lawyer has done it for you, or your business agent."
I could feel the quiet sneer through his words, but demanded, "How can I get it back again?"
"That's your lookout. You haven't any lawyer or business agent now, so you'll have to depend on yourself. When you get a dollar, hang on to it. A man who leaves his money lying around, the way you did, deserves to lose it. Besides you have sinned. You have no right to put temptation in the way of your fellow creatures. You tempted Cooky, and he fell. You have placed his mortal soul in jeopardy. By the way, do you believe in the immortal soul?"
His lids lifted lazily as he asked the question, and it seemed that the deeps were opening to me and that I was gazing into his soul. But it was an illusion. Far as might have seemed, no man has ever seen very far into Wolf Larsen's soul, or seen it at all, - of this I am conviced. It was a very lonely soul, I was to learn, that never unmasked, though at rare moments it played at doing so.
"I read immortality in your eyes," I answered, dropping the "sir," - an experiment, for I thought the intimacy of the conversation warranted it.
He took no notice. "By that, I take it, you see something that is alive, but that necessarily does not have to live forever."
"I read more than that," I continued boldly.
"Then you read consciousness. You read the consciousness of live that it is alive; but still further away, no endless of life."
How clearly he thought, and how well he expressed what he thought! From regarding curiously, he turned his head and glanced out over the leaden sea to windward. A bleakness came into his eyes, and the linesof his mouth grew severe and harsh. He was evidently in a pessimistic mood.
"Then to waht end?" he demanded abruptly, turning back to me. "If I am immortal -why?"
I halted. How could I explain my idealism to this man? How could I put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains of music heard in sleep, a something that convinced yet transcended utterance?
"What do you believe then?" I countered.
"I believe that life is a mess," he answered promptly. "It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strengh. The lucky eat the most and move the longest, that is all. What do you make of those things?"
He swept his arm in an impatient gesture toward a number of the sailors who were working on some kind of rope amidships.
"They move; so does the jellyfish move. They move in order to eat in order that they keep. There you have it. They live for their belly's sake, and the belly is for their sake. It's a circle; you get nowhere. Neither do they. In the end they come to a standstill. They move no more. They are dead."
"They have dreams," I interrupted, "radiant, flashing dreams - "
"Of grub," he concluded sententiously.
"And of more - "
"Grub. Of a larger appetite and more luck in satisfying it." His voice sounded harsh. There was no levity in it. "For look you, they dream of making lucky voyages which will bring them some more money, of becoming the mates of ships, of finding fortunes - in short, of being in a better position for preying on their fellows, of having all night in, good grun, and somebody else do to the dirty work. You and I are just like them. There is no difference, except that we have eaten more and better. I am eating them now, and you too . But in the past you have eaten more than I have. You have slept in soft beds, and worn fine clothes, and eaten good meals. Who made those beds? and those clothes? and those meals? Not you. You never made anything in your own sweat. You live on an income which your father earned. You are like a frigate bird swooping down upon the boobies and robbing them of the fish they have caught. You are one with a crowd of men who have made what they call a government, who are masters of all the other men, and who eat the food other men get and would like to eat themselves. You wear the warm clothes. They made the clothes, but they shiver in rags and ask you, the lawyer, or business agent who handles your money, for a job."
"But that is beside the matter," I cried.
"Not at all." He was speaking rapidly, now, and his eyes were flashing. "It is piggishness, and it is life. Of what use or sense is an immortality of piggishness? What is the end? What is it all about? You have made no food. Yet the food you have eaten or wasted might have saved the lives of a score wretches who made the food but did not eat it. What immortal end did you serve? Or did they? Consider yourself and me. What does your boasted immortality amount to when your life runs foul of mine? You would like to go back to the land, which is a favorable place for your kind of piggisheness. It is a whim of mine to keep you aboard this ship, where my piggishness flourishes. And keep you I will. I may make or break you. You may die to-day, this week, or next month. I could kill you now, with a blow of my fist, for you are a miserable weakling. But if we are immortal, what is the reason for this? To be piggish as you and I have been all our lives does not seem to be just the thing for immortals to be doing. Again, what's is it all about? Why have I kept you here? - "
"Because you are stronger," I managed to blurt out.
"But why stronger," he went on at once with his perpetual queries.
"Because I am a bigger bit of ferment than you? Don't you see? Don't you see?"
"But the hopelessness of it," I protested.
"I agree with you," he answered. "Then why move at all, since moving is living? Without moving and being part of the yeast there would be no hopelessness. But, - and there it is, - we want to live and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens that it is the nature of life to live and move, to wantt to live and move. It it were not for this, life would be dead. It is because of this life that is in you that you dream of your immortality. The life that is in you is alive and wants to go on being alive forever. Bah! An eternity of piggishness!"
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