Rus Articles Journal

All facts of life. Or, but whether not to kill the misanthrope?

not to read to Fools, and also pregnant women and women in the period of a lactation

B thirty five me “suddenly“ as on full withers hryasnut: and on horse-radish I live? That is, there is nothing meaning of life, though it too and what use from me? From what it I am so sure what the world would vseobyazatelno lose, there are no me in it? What on figs from me advantage and pleasure?

To whom what good and useful I for thirty five revolutions around the Sun made? Gave birth to the son? The house constructed? Planted a tree? And in general, who thought up this egocentric nonsense? About sons, houses and trees? Here about a tree, I still would agree. The unique tree, in my opinion, costs hundreds of sons - morons and the same number of houses. And son and house? To bring to this world of one more reckless consumer, egoist and moron who only and would do the first twenty years what guzzled and shitted, consumed and spoiled, and after twenty would guzzle too and shitted, consumed and spoiled, but would already learn to invest it with convenient and correct words, giving the shit obligatory philosophical sense and depth?

Why in general people took what they to someone are necessary also from them to this world some advantage? Look around. Ninety percent of homus - hamsters only are also anxious with how more densely to fill the minks and the both cheeks in addition. Just one drag in the little mink oats and worms, and others perfect grain and cepes. One stupidly chew, I digest and throw up digested without any thoughts, and others also thoughts “think“, reflex on existentialism. But all also guzzle and throw up, guzzle and throw up. Moreover also think that do to the world a great favor. Everyone, everyone as the soap bubble, here, is full of self-importance and is firmly convinced that it is kind, good, decent. Also try to doubt respectability of everyone - right there receive. However, me to shit.

In my opinion, true benefactors not those prolific rabbits who propagate regularly and rozovoshcheko shine then with happiness of paternity and motherhood, and those who solve for some reason, to relieve this world of the brood of consumers and srun.

Explain to me, women for what you give birth? Include the reason and it is judicious and reasoned explain to me, the rare misanthrope what it in this instinctive sacrament the Supreme happiness that all have to be thrilled before mother and her baby? In what sanctity of motherhood and a detinstvo? In what heroism and sacral sense what you every time, throw to us, to men, the “and we give birth“, expecting that all of us, this minute, have to fail on knees and kiss dust of your soles?

Unless you simply stupidly do not follow the main instinct of reproduction? Unless simply you do not submit to norms of society? Unless copulating with future father of the child, you dream of happiness of the yet not born child, in strong conviction what you create the highest blessing for all mankind? Perhaps you do a favor to this world? No, no and no. You thinks of himself. The majority of you - low, ordinary egoists, hysterics cadged itself the right for exclusive altruism at which and the logic is not enough even for understanding asked, not to issue any least thoughtful answer. (I already see how your brains begin to boil, and from foamy lips words of rage and indignation are ready to break - therefore I repeat again: close the page and go to cook borsch). You think of performance of the high mission, mission of mother and mother as you were brought up, hammered into your obedient plain heads. And especially you do not think of whether it will be good to the world that you will bring to it one more asshole - the consumer. For the sake of life of this freak the life should be given to eighty cows, hundred eighty pigs, one thousand chickens. This freak will leave behind twenty tone of garbage which one third will decay more than ten years, and one percent of which will never break up. This to a yekh will cast out from itself(himself) twenty tone of excrements, tone of urine will pour out thirty, more than thirty trees will break for the ugly life, will crush more than ten thousand insects, will irreparably dirty everything around itself. And all the shitty life it and you will be proud of what it at you the good fellow. And what good it will leave behind? WHAT??? The same freak either two, or it is better than five who zasnut everything five times more around?

The majority of you does not think of it and will not reflect for the rest of the natural. I speak to you: in the course of the birth and cultivation of the human being there is no sanctity, nobility and heroism. Open eyes, and admit to yourself: I give birth, just because I follow the instinct. To an instinct of a female. And it is deep to me to shit on what will be with this world if only it was good to me and my brood.

“Ah what hatred to women, mothers and wives“ - I already hear your shrill voices. No, you do not flatter yourself. I know your maximum price, and I heard it already hundreds of times. Anything new. Stupid narrow-minded platitude. Bull butting on a red rag. You want that you not for prolific silly women were held? Then include the ratsio, look at my literary trash, as at provocation, at the test eliminating numskulls from those at whom brains did not dry yet for the invitation to reflection, to introspection and to anything. Only be not so predictably banal as you always are. No, you do not want? Your right.

Men, fathers, in turn, hurry to realize the role of the man as by him it was enclosed in the head. They saw all the simple life, plane, smear, build, break, for the sake of the brood and prolific supruzhnitsa - doe-rabbits, zagazhivy this earth by-products the of shitty activity. And they, there are not less svinopodobny uterus - wives and impudent hogs - offsprings, are firmly convinced of what they and them is constructive - destructive activity is the highest blessing what the earth and the nature was only seen.

The highest humanist is not that and at all not that who will give birth and will grow up ten new consumers (the care of the fatherland of such “benefactors“ is clear here: to them mother`s medal - heroines and a maternity capital in the twenty second century, and the country of soldiers - gun meat), and just the opposite, the one who by natural conclusions comes to a conclusion that he will bring more benefit, without bringing to this world of the next biped freak.

The person - the unceasing car - the consumer. Look around: always all consume everything. At what, consuming, they very much convince themselves and those who around, in exclusive usefulness of this act. Though this act, finally, - the act of a defekation. Any of us will feel ill at ease if within some week he or she not: hammered up to the top the refrigerator with stuff, did not buy new (pants, socks, trousers, a dress, a jacket, a fur coat), did not bedaub with smelly paint (the room, a verandah, the battery, a floor), did not change the old mobile phone without “blyutuf“ for the new mobile phone with “blyutufy“ and horse-radish knows how many it - the pixel camera, has not hair cut in the latest fashion, did not make to itself (manicure, a pedicure, a peeling, a sheyving), did not try to prepare and gobble up new (salad, a dessert, any dish), did not leave for a week-end to dirty empty bottles from - under beer and colored water, pieces of paper, a stsanye and shit some yet not absolutely dirtied bosk, and all this with such children`s spontaneity and reinforced concrete confidence in regularity and clemency of all these great events that any freak, like me, given a hint at emptiness and harm of any of these actions, forever will become the deadly enemy who offended the highest feelings of these wreaths and navels.

To the vast brainless majority just it is not sat, not lain and not breathed if seeing some untouched corner of the nature they will not befoul it iron and concrete, will not smear it with fetid paint, do not zavonyat all this shish kebabs, will not fill in with beer and will not fill up with empty bottles from - under cheap swill. These benefactors of mankind bearing always advantage will pull out all grass, useless at their wise look, will root out objectionable to them useless trees, will tread all living creatures around. A piece of the earth, not rodyashchiya of the fact that it is possible to put in a mouth and then defecate, for them - the desert. The tree which is not bearing fruits - an unnecessary stick. Life around which does not bring personally to them benefit, - not life.

More than ninety percent biped - at all not wreaths of creation, and as told Chekhov, - just a mold. The mold which only also knows that it guzzles shits and breeds, and does not even know why.

Switch off for five minutes of the devil with horns that at you in a corner. Shut a mouth to eternally dissatisfied wife and the brawling offsprings for a minute. Leave in a May garden. Sit down on a grass. Run over it a hand. Look, prishchuryas, at the sun. Catch in the distance a trill of a nightingale. And then, having closed eyes, ask yourself childly a simple question: what to this world from me advantage? And what kind I made for this day? What mark left in today?

What you tell? I know! You remember that you helped the grandmother crossing the road. That hundred rubles lent Ivanova from the next department. That gave way in the bus to the old man. Well, it is it seems quite good. You are already almost proud of yourself. Only from these your quasi good deeds to this world is not present any to use. What you translated was occupied and conceded, you made to the same biped consumers and sruna, as well as you are. And that, not by kindness sincere but because you were forced by norms, you owed someone, it was so convenient to you, for any of several reasons. Only and everything, it is also not necessary to deceive himself. And, especially, you definitely did not bring advantage and the benefit to this world, this nature, this planet any. And this day you gobbled up a piece of a cow, drank a glass of milk from her udder, streskat bread that eared in the field, and they even thanks were not told. You vysrat and vyssat kilograms and liters a calla and urine, threw out away kilograms of waste which will decay for years, defiled air the carbonic acid. To use from you - any. Only harm.

In this world, on this planet, near you, there live thousands and thousands of living beings. Myriads of lives. Fly, run, creep, float. Thousands of species of mammals, high-organized, clever, beautiful, feeling, suffering. Thousands of birds, tens of thousands of fishes, hundreds of thousands of insects. Thousands and thousands of plants, from a pole to a pole. And each of them reaches for the sun. And each of them wishes to live. And what is born by you to them? What, except destruction and painful death you give them?

I, the human freak, ask myself a question: and how I lived this day? What good I brought to this world today? Than alleviated his suffering? Made so and so at work? Well, so I for the sake of myself tried, not for the sake of someone. Gave way in the bus to the advanced old man? Well, so too, followed a standard of behavior which to me ordered to make so, and I just obeyed to it not to spoil mood. At work, lent Ivanova? Well, so and it gave me. It seems, as it was inconvenient. And even in the morning, after a rain, I lifted from the sidewalk of an earthworm and carried it on a lawn where it is dug up. My fellow traveler was surprised, and frankly did not understand me: “You will think, a worm!“. No, my friend, you will not think. It was only the important act for all day. I saved the world today. And all the rest - shit.

My neighbors, May hardly comes, and the grass begins to grow at violent growth, grab petrolmowers and a grass at the roots, at the roots. For what they it so? Than she was guilty before them? For what they so hate these sunlike dandelions, fine edges of a grass and a salutary plantain? What badly they made to these biped freaks who are not calming down until they around themselves destroy all live, do not vysterilizut, will not emasculate everything that grows, moves, flies? Why the person always leaves behind emptiness?

I do not hurry to grab a death edge. For me, than buyny the grass, the higher and is more juicy, the it is more around life, the healthier and better for me, the egoist. At the end of May I go on a footpath, deep into, to the house, as through the jungle. Greens a wall tower on both sides from me, smell, stupefy, bow to me, call me to itself. And me it is so good. So fine and pokoyno. I love the green loneliness. Dispassionateness from these country biped with their saws and axes, braids and shish kebabs, skopyashchy each bush, each branch, each blade. And I wanted to spit in these stupid ugly faces which speak to me: “Oho, as at you grew! It is necessary be lop-sided!“. Who told that it is necessary? To me and my grass - it is not necessary.

Therefore at me in a garden the nightingale sings at night, and they have a smelly saw. Ah, what miracle, what unusual beauty, song of this nightingale. And as agonal howl, disgusting squeal - that saw peep. And yesterday to me on a visit came, you will not believe … a polecat! Within the city, in twenty meters the road and a roar of smelly cars, and at me on a verandah sits unusual graceful perfection, and looks at me the clever beads - eyes. I to it about the silly woman bread, and it pryg - skok, lovchy the most dexterous cat, both on a roof, and on the fad an arrow. Stopped, looked round, and back. Uvidal, as I put out in a doorway the head, and again, shast, and a bullet on a roof, at night, in freedom, in life. At me with happiness even the head began to spin.

I know, I know, you, pragmatists and materialists. You already think that the polecat and chickens will strangle, and still what dirty trick will create. Eh, I feel sorry for you. In total - brains at you dislocated, ottrakhanny your shitty civilization, and hardly already into place will become. You have all that benefit, a profit, petty you Sheyloki!

And I do not hurry to kill a moth. A bug that to the house to me by mistake wrapped, carefully I take out for a door. I try to expel flies, but not to crush as at you it is accepted. You have all that an infection. You infection. Plague and cholera of the earth of this.

Most part of prose. ru - self-satisfied morons - uzkoduma, anxious only the I and how they look in the opinion of others. Expose the debilizm on the main page, and terribly take offense at everyone who did not hurry to recognize their shitty literary genius. What, you not such? Well, then my words will not offend you. Because only the true fool takes offense at words, and not fool still penetrates into their sense. I will tell the prozarushny idiot “Oh, as perfectly you write“, and the idiot will come also to you and, without having blinked also an eye, will write the same, only upside-down, but with the same sense “As you perfectly write, about“ on your shittiest work which is not worth a farthing. And write you to it frankly “Shit your masterpiece, the sonny!“, as well as this idiot will react in the same way and you will write you “Shit“. Also it is proud will turn away from you in peacock moronic confidence of the infallible correctness. Well, whether degenerates?!

Reactions of the majority it is predictable. You want good - write good. You want the evil - write the evil. An idiotic bible postulate for cattle: do to the neighbor the same as you want that he made to you. That is, for the sake of and the benefit. Say to the freak that he is a handsome. To the murderer - that he is a benefactor of the world. To the numskull - that a knowledge torch. Forgive all. And you, the freak and the moron, will call the same. And all will forgive you. Amen.