An Organic Ramiro d’Orco (ROUND 1)
SCENT OF THE DAY: Homeros: Saigon, by Ensar Oud
Peppermint-medicinal masculine oud fragrance that could easily be signature fragrance material (very casual wear), especially with the sweetness that tempers the medicinality. The Saigon in homeros saigon gives a red vibe like kinam rouge and of wolves and men. The oudiness is that generic matchstick oud that I only yawn at because I’m spoiled. But I will say it really gives a solid backbone and depth that creates a nice tension with its causal feel. The musk blooms throughout the room, and there is a musty undercurrent form the chinese oud. long lasting mintiness after several hours starts appearing like a cousin to Tigerwood. This is a damn fine medicinal musky masculine frag.
*Let’s workshop this piece about what unmodulated political rage looks like when it crosses the line--some of the sweetest lines there are: the tot-tight sphincter lines watched by impotent caretakers
*Rough, very rough
An Organic Ramiro d’Orco
Imagine the Prince of those who stand for truth and justice (real truth and justice, not the scams in the guise of truth and justice): those, for example, who refuse to recite the Hollywood liturgy—no matter the threat to their careers, not just at the university but even the motherfucking Home Depot afterwards—that a trans woman is as “real and brave” of a woman as the XX variety. Imagine the Prince of the unbroken, real niggas and bitches: those who refuse—even though it has them banned from thanksgiving tables (yes, the safe-space ideology penetrates that far)—to keep the cynical pistons of the race-bating engine lubed in WAP; those who refuse to keep lulling black people into a victimology stupor of agent-hobbled ingratitude, spoiled and entitled by chronic supercitizen treatment, as all the white men everyone even on daytime TV can freely punk as “boy” must open their mouths wide to the narrative, the openly gaslit bukkake, that they are not—no matter what their resumes or bnaks or eyes tell them—blocked systemically from all walks of opportunity; those who refuse all the bullshit fueled by the open-season-on-black lie of a flourishing white supremacy—a self-fulfilling lie with so much financial and social capital depending on it that not only will black people bait cop violence for GoFundMe pity and not only will black actors fake KKK beatdowns to revamp their careers but scared-ass punk-ass pussy-ass motherfucking “antiracist” groups whose cunt leaders need to get impaled while they watch their children get fisted to the elbow (SPLC is just the front door to the rabbit hole, nigga) will fund neo-nazi organizations (manufacturing hate in neon swastikas to justify their fundraising and institutional necessity) the way that Big Tobacco and Big Oil once funded the skepticism that obscured the disease they caused in the lungs of the world.
To such a Prince, Machiavelli whispers the art of calculated contagion. Do not break them. Let them break themselves. Do not contest their fervor. Let them have their way, these scumbag white women—the ones in Palestine keffiyehs of performative solidarity, holding trans-rainbow signs that say “No Kings.” Let these vermin snow bunnies of the void—these anorexic Judys and lardo Maggies—invite their own executioner. For the Prince will likely not even have to add fuel to the fire. They themselves, the rape pockets, will snowball things along with some Disney funding: yesterday’s Black Panther and today’s Mexican Panther becoming tomorrow’s Sharia Panther.
The Prince need not lift a finger. The trans flags are trampled by the very alliance these sham progressives themselves sanctified. For once Sharia law takes root it will crush, with certainty as close to mathematics as you can get with human agents in the mix, much of the ideas they stand for: trans rights, open borders, sexual liberation, reproductive rights. It will even intensify to hurtful extremes other barbaric things they stand for, the toxic values they took on in their Orange derangement, so they can get it through their thick cockroach shells how barbaric these things are: gags on free speech, blasphemy enforcement, ideological conformity, group-based hierarchies. Yes, the sluts themselves begin to suffocate under the weight of the blasphemy laws they once called “inclusion.” The Prince remains silent the whole time, allowing the furnace of their own contradictions to consume the excesses of a decade gone mad.
And what happens after the rainbow has turned to the gray of soot? What happen after this foreign asceticism has made both free speech and sexual license alike a crime? The Prince has a straightforward job. He need only emerge as an exorcist to expel the demons, those Muslims who have carried out his dirty work. By liberating the people from the very force he allowed to flourish, the savior of the survivors might even earn the thanks of these same women he humbled—although with the way people switch up and wriggle one should never bank on the satisfaction of a gotcha: they will deny they ever espoused what they did most likely. The Prince can then restore what was good about what they believed: the gay marriage, the civil liberties. The genius lies in the patience of the approach. The coalition of nasty white women, a self-consuming furnace, contained the instrument of its own defeat. The Prince simply had to enable it to devour itself before, in the sacred geometry of a circle, he swooped in to save the day.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
