Occasionally there are such outstanding peaks and troughs, that I wonder with infinite depth and curiosity, how, just how the heck certain events transpire.
Take my bank, for example: My luck is so bad eventwise, that the bank's employees call me Murphy. A very judicious adjective, considering the total sum of disasters that have befallen them, when I ask for services.
At least one device will fail when I visit, be it a monitor, a printer, a security camera or whatever else have you. When I visit, devices fail in such a way so that the entire bank crew gets incapacitated simultaneously. The independence of all the various tellers, secretaries and managers, somehow gets completely out of sync, to the point where everyone starts congregating around Elias, the bank computer guy, pressuring him mentally to the point of insanity and dread.
It appears as though Elias is a lucky guy. He has blue eyes, after all. He is able to temporarily fend off the blast wave of bad luck that surrounds me everywhere I go. He has warned all the bank employees to serve me as quickly as possible, by occasionally instructing them to bypass the serving order, to avoid unnecessary delays and complications.
When I enter the bank, the bank manager who watches over everything, makes a quick announcement through the bank's security speakers. The timing interval between this event and me being served is less than 3 minutes.
Elias' curiosity was what prompted him to get to know me a bit better and ask the pertinent question long time ago: "What exactly's the deal with you? Something appears to be very very wrong with your case..." As he is a quite friendly guy, I took the time to explain to him the very basic facts of bad luck. First, I handed him all three paperback volumes of "Murphy's Law", to grasp the basics. After he properly consumed the lighter aphorisms and after he agreed with the essential unpredictability of the more serious ones, I privately revealed to him that my case is slightly more complex than even the entire three volume collection.
"Are you Murphy himself?" he asked me.
"Worse than that..."
To make a long story short, I explained to him that the basic premise which needed to be understood by him, was that everything in this universe belongs to either one of these two sets: The Container and The Containment.
Very roughly put, The Container, is the part of "existence" which already exists at the time of your birth. A supporter reality, if you will. The Containment, is nobody else (and nothing else), but the conscious mind and the occasional conscious bystander. Note that while the two sets are identical in substance, The Container, is naturally "wiser" than The Containment, since it had to be there, prior to The Containment's birth, by definition, in order to support the existence of The Containment.
As such, me being a realized part of The Containment, I have to continuously deal with The Container's tantrums and stalling devices, whose purpose is to keep me from controlling it.
Elias of course didn't understand all of the above. He is a regular bank employee, after all. I mean, if he understood, would he be working in a bank in the middle of an insane city having bosses yelling down his throat on a daily basis? Of course not.
I didn't of course explain to Elias the more elaborate details of really how much bad luck can befall The Containment elements. That would scare the living daylights out of the man, and I naturally didn't want this to happen.
I didn't explain to him for example, that unless there is a metaphysical support source in one, one can get severely infected, even by the simplest of contacts with a Containment elemental.
I didn't explain to him that whoever has ever come to contact with me, whether in a verbal, visual or emotional way, has suffered very bad luck. To the point of actual desperation.
Some people are able to ward it off, but it lasts at least for a time, times and half a time.
Leaving aside the theoretical explanations, let's elaborate on the nature of it a bit more: Once I have become a "realized" part of the containment, everything in this reality will fight me. It is as if reality is constantly trying to puke me out of its bowels. Of course, having nowhere to puke me out to, it disgustingly keeps me alive, like a vegetable, looking for a chance to get rid of me.
Money has specific properties with me. It never accumulates under my presence. More practically put, my bank accounts always have the tendency to go under. The Container will always find a way to grab monetary resources away from me. If business is going well, The Container will create, say, a car accident, where I will have to spend close to $12,000 for a repair operation. The cost of fixing my car, will be slightly greater than the cost of buying the new computer I need.
If I don't drive and thus cannot have a car accident, the closest person to me having a car and offering me rides will have something bad happening to them. Margaret had her license plates stolen last week. Stolen license plates can go far: From simple vagabond robberies to extremist terrorist organizations.
If I try to create a business, making it to financial independence will most likely involve a skill I don't have. Like Nuclear Physics for example. Computer programming, mathematics, physics, piano playing and painting, are all useless to me. I was never able to make good money from any of these.
Am I good at ANY of these subjects? I dunno. I mean, what's the definition of "being good" at anything? Making good money from it? If I say yes, then The Container tells me to look at Johann Sebastian: Penniless for most of his life. 21 kids and for the greater part kissing asses of princes, kings and church bishops, so he could feed his family.
That's a slight solace, I say. What the heck? If Bach had financial problems, don't you think you'd have asshole? Who the fuck do you think you are? So says The Container.
Of course, the sad part is that this entire freaking shit that I call The Container doesn't even exist. It's a fucking illusion for chrissakes. Forgive me for not quoting Wittgenstein, but I believe I've explained this to all of you at one time or another. There's nobody out there, but the self. And the only self that I know, is ME. Conclusion follows easily.
For every marginally pleasurable activity, The Container will try to derail me. Of course, The Container being "wiser" and more knowledgeable than me, can do it easily. It's sort of like an elephant toying with a mosquito. After it has cut off its wings, the elephant grabs his belly from the laughs that the mosquito generates, trying to fight the elephant and cursing against it loudly:
"Fuck you, you piece of shit. You are the Beast. I will make it my life's purpose to see that you are destroyed and annihilated.... I will drop you a nuke... I will mentally confuse you with high level series expansions of the doomsday function...fuck you..."
Of course, the elephant by now is yawning so badly, seeing the dewinged mosquito's efforts, that there's a danger of him accidentally killing the mosquito with the air current generated by the yawns themselves.
The mosquito is of course, unrepentant:
"I am gonna learn me how to split Uranium atoms. Then I am gonna collect some fissionable material and then I am gonna nuke the motherfuckin elephant...."
"Gosh, I wonder what will the little guy come up with, next...."
The Elephant Container is ready to take a nap. "This is good!...", the mosquito thinks, "...for I will catch him sleeping. I will build the dreaded nuke and bomb him while he sleeps....".
However, the mosquito forgets that the elephant invented the Rabbit and the Turtle story. Besides, even if the little guy manages to build the nuke, better yet, manage to drop it against the elephant while he sleeps, the worst it can do is just wake the elephant from his happy dreams.
Usually such unexpected events result in an angry elephant, to the extent of him actually spending a couple of seconds thinking on how to make the little guy's life ten times more miserable. Like, removing a leg from the mosquito.
When this happens, the mosquito dreams of all sorts of new scenarios: "I will build me new biomechanical legs with the help of technology and science and I will install a new big leg at the maimed one's place. I will then use the bionic leg to blind the fucker, similar to how Odysseus blinded Polyphemous the Cyclops.
Of course the elephant was the one who wrote Odyssey.
On and on it goes, until the usual: All that's left of the mosquito is the mosquito's head, admitting to his psychoanalyst that his next plans are to build a telepathic robot ala Lost In Space, which will resume the role of destroying the torturing beast.
Events that are related to bad luck, tend to occur in pairs in the leaner cases, and as multiples of 386 in the more severe cases. You have to be prepared. The worst doesn't happen often, but when I have a flat tire, chances are I have also locked myself out of the apartment, have forgotten all my credit and cash cards and somebody will be trying to call me that very same day for an important business proposal, while I am stranded on interstate I-295, 200 kilometers away from a gas station. There is a good chance I have left the stove on as well. As such, whenever this happens, I have to take any and all possible provisions to take care of all the problems in a parallel manner.
Linear thinking doesn't do much good, as by the time one problem is taken care of, ten others can easily yield complete disaster. That's why it helps to ask women's help. Men are used in thinking linearly. Women will most likely stop time and teletransport themselves at the indicated places and correct the adversities concurrently.
Now let's pass onto the opposite side of the spectrum: The lucky guy. I mean, the *really* lucky guy. The one, who by some incomprehensible twist of universal karma, meets the most beautiful woman in the world 10 times in a row or becomes the president of a well know country. The first time, he drinks beer with cigar ashes and barfs his bowels out against the woman's bosoms. Yet the woman finds him "cute".
The second time he sneezes against the woman's face, ejecting twenty boogers the size of my Macintosh which land on the woman's eye. Yet the woman finds him "adorable".
Although he has a dick size of less than 3 inches, the woman reassures him that "size don't matter much. It's how you use it".
At work, he sits behind a desk having a total area of 20 square kilometers, with 13 different computers on it, playing Quake and MineSweeper on all machines simultaneously, while his subordinates fart blood and bubbles trying to finish that long due useless report.
Of course he is being paid a salary ten times as large as them, because he's been with "the company" for 10 years.
He usually leaves at 1:00 pm, giving detailed instructions to the other employees on how to complete those overdue reports, which involve investigating possible correlations between the current NasDaq trends and the reincarnation coordinates of world leaders.
When the reports are completed, he is commended for "exemplary employee service", and is nominated for the Nobel in economy, because his investigations aided Exxon to consider destroying 1 acre less than the 10,000 acres destroyed last year, in the Amazon basin.
As a result of this, next year he is invited to the White House where he dines with the President and the first lady, while the White House orchestra plays The Rite of Spring by Stravinsky.
Then the President of the United States issues the following speech:
"My fellow Americans:
Today is the day when unfortunately diplomacy has failed, so we must take matters in our own hands. That's why we have decided to ignore the UN Security Council's resolutions and to "protect" the world's security and well being by dropping our new 50-terraton hydrogen bomb in Iraq.
New advances in technology, science and engineering, and the latest results of Mr. Lucky Guy here, allows us now to predict the exact coordinates of our new reincarnations, so we can once and for all give way with the horrible and disgusting menace of terrorism, while simultaneously allowing us to jump forward in time in a convenient place of our own choosing.
I assure you that preemptively striking at Iraq virtually guarantees less casualties, because our famous mediums have informed us that this ruthless, abominable and terrorizing dictator, Saddam Hussein, already possesses the incredible HSVT neutron bomb, a weapon of mass destruction, which he has secretly been developing in his underground facilities near the Earth's core, consulting with Klortho and his minions. Our Secret Service agents have informed us that he plans to drop the VSVT bomb using a relativistic teletransporter, inside the United States.
By preemptively striking first, we guarantee to the entire world that this horrible dictator, Saddam Hussein, will be taken off the scenes as quickly as possible, with as less casualties as possible, which also virtually guarantees that there won't be any more terrorist events, such as the 911 event, inside or outside the United States.
Our new bombs are now "smart". Having an IQ of over 172, they can clearly target only Saddam Hussein lookalikes and military personnel an NOT plain civilian folk. I repeat: Our new 50-terraton bomb is now "smart". Within the 250 kilometers of the effective radius of its electromagnetic blast, only Saddam and his cohorts will be eliminated. The rest of the people will be safe. In fact, we have already established a local radio frequency, where all the rest of the Iraqi citizens can safely listen to our messages. And our message is one of peace and security for all the citizens everywhere.
We will make sure that all crude oil sources in Iraq, will be proactively "protected" by our military personnel, to guarantee a smooth and seamless transition to the second phase of The New World Order and to avoid oil shortages.
God will be on our side. The very same God that has protected this nation, the one who's inscribed on the back side of the dollar bill..."
[Chenney gently leaning against the president, whispering:]
"Mr. President!! Not *THAT* God. The other one, THE OTHER ONE!!!..."
"Ahem... Ah, yes. The other one....The very same God that has protected this nation, the one who we proudly call YHVH, the Tetragrammaton, Adonai, whose principles are symbolically portrayed on the Star of David, with the three good sides facing up and the three dark sides facing down interlocked in an eternal battle, will prot..."
[Chenney leaning again against Bush:]
"NO, NOT THAT ONE! I meant the OTHER one, the CHRISTIAN GOD!!"
"Ah, ah. Yes. That one...."
[Bush leans over to Powell:]
"Has this God, err, the Christian God, or whatever his name is, renewed his contract with us lately?"
[Powell:]
"Well, our financial records show that his last 25 payments are overdue. We have given him some leeway of 2 years, but I am afraid to say, Mr. President, that he is no longer our supporter..."
[Bush:]
"Well, whatever. Ahem... Ladies and gentlemen, I have just been notified that our official protector God has not renewed his contract with us, so we will resort to a new trusty God...."
[Leaning over and whispering to Powell:]
"Colin, who's our official protector God now that this older God has bailed out?..."
[Powell:]
"President Bush, I am not in a posit...."
[Bush]:
"So Bush it will be! (I thought the name was familiar...) Ahem,...Ladies and gentlemen, I have been notified by my all knowing advisors that our new official protector God, is someone called 'President Bush'. I therefore am in the pleasant position to initiate battling operations and to ask our protector God to keep all our military personnel safe, allowing them to fulfill their mission and come home safely.
Thank you all for your attention.
May God 'President Bush' be with us, during those times...."
[Loud cheers and appraisals...]
"GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!!!"
[Bush, leaning against Chenney and whispering:]
"What are they saying? God save the queer?"
[Chenney:]
"No, Mr. President. They are saying God Save The QUEEN".
[Bush:]
"Oh, oh, has Queen Elisabeth been invited here today, too?! Dick, I told you to *always* give me a full list of the attendees, *prior* to me issuing speeches. Meanwhile, call my dad and ask him if he liked my speech..."
[Chenney:]
"Your speech was and went fine, sir.."
[Leaning over to Powell:]
"Who should I assign to assassinate this moron, when all this is over?"
[Powell:]
"We already have a list of several hundred waiting in a queue. The first ones are being trained as we speak. I think the best candidate by now is someone by the name of 'Mr. Lucky Guy'."