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December 31st, 2025
12:10 pm

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HIC LOCUS EST UBI MORS GAUDET SUCCURRERE VITAE
Welcome to the online journal of larvatus. Stable texts are open to the general public. Squibs and sallies, schemes and stratagems, jaunts and taunts, are restricted to friends. Please note that locked texts subject to third party copyright are provided to my friends under the doctrine of fair use, subject to implied consent by all their readers to abstain from redistribution. Reciprocal friendship shall be extended to all sane, sound, and disinterested personae. Comments and critique are always welcome. Marriage proposals and death threats shall be entertained in the order received.
    The House Rules are few and lax. All anonymous comments are initially screened. They shall be revealed or answered at your host’s discretion. All signed comments are initially presumed welcome, until and unless they cause an affront to your host. Thereupon their author shall become banned from further contributions to this journal. Otherwise, anything goes.
                        SAY WHAT?

                                                                                         ÇA ?
                                                                      Tristan Corbière


A treatise? You don’t say! I haven’t treated squat!
A study? Slothful wretch, my culture fetid rot.
A volume? Random heap, sheets stacked in disarray.
Good copy? Not with me enmired in the fray.

A poem? Not today, my lyre is being cleaned.
A book? Of fusty tomes far better to be weaned.
A song? Would that it were, my ear is made of tin.
Fun pastime? Sordid den, dire boredom dwells within.

A cadence? Rhythmic flow is broken by dull grind.
A product? I divide what others multiplied.
A story? Handicapped, my lame and laggard Muse.
Clear proof? My mind is fraught by grief and lit by booze.

High fashion? Wealth and style inform nowhere my dress.
Grandstanding or grand mal? My spasms fail to impress.
Evicted from the hall, I lurk behind the stage,
In transit, poised to choose: a joy house or a cage.

Too old? But to retire, my tenure won’t suffice.
Too young? My hectic life will rid me of this vice.
A sage, a slob, an ace, a master, and a clown,
A stud without a flock, a king without a crown.

THIS is without pretense, and yet a blatant pose.
It’s life and nothing but, confessed in deathless prose.
A masterpiece? Could be, I never made one yet!
A farce? A waste? A bomb? Decide and place your bet!

I bet… and I shall sign herewith my humble name;
My child shall overcome each tainted libel claim.
Through chance it will prevail, its fate a stroke of luck
Art knows me not at all — and I don’t give a fuck.

                      — traduced by MZ, 6 September 2005


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10:00 am

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for the anonymous troll
Over sixteen twenty years online, I have received a broad spectrum of threats and pitches, and entertained a commensurate range of slurs and plaudits. This experience has crystallized two iron laws of online communications.

The first law is a corollary of Occam’s razor. No matter what you are promised or threatened on the Internet, the most you will get out of it is oral ministrations. In other words, there is no downside in moving virtual bluster to realspace. Yonder puffed-out sock puppet is as unlikely to escalate its verbiage to physical damage, as the heiress of an African potentate, to bestow her commission upon Americans paying their facilitation fees. By contrast, that virtual fellatrix yearning to reward your eloquence with expert suction may well come through as promised, especially if you overlook minor discrepancies ranging from mien to gender.

The second law of Internet intercourse is a corollary of the first. Only a clueless newbie responds personally to an anonymous troll. To illustrate its application, whenever one of the latter kind feels the urge to share its thoughts about anything but one of the former, it should take them instead to someone who can relate to its bogus persona. It makes no difference whether a figment of this sort touts itself as a public intellectual in mufti, or poses as a skank that services barnyard livestock for spare change. In the immortal words of Jack Nicholson, sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here.

A final notice to the insistent incognito. When you surpass words in punishing my excesses, make sure that your hostile deeds leave me unfit to retaliate. My reckoning will define the remainder of your life. It’s happened to your betters before. Don’t let it happen to you.

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November 25th, 2014
12:02 pm

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November 24th, 2014
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November 23rd, 2014
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November 22nd, 2014
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November 21st, 2014
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November 20th, 2014
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November 19th, 2014
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November 18th, 2014
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10:35 am

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tolerance at home and abroad
13 février 1900.
Claudel déjeune. Il parle du mal que l’affaire Dreyfus nous a fait à l’étranger. Cet homme intelligent, ce poëte, sent le prêtre rageur et de sang âcre.
—Mais la tolérance ? lui dis-je.
—Il y a des maisons pour ça, répond-il.

Ils éprouvent je ne sais quelle joie malsaine à s’abêtir, et ils en veulent aux autres, de cet abêtissement. Ils ne connaissent pas le sourire de la bonté.
Sa soeur a dans sa chambre un portrait de Rochefort et, sur sa table, La Libre Parole. Elle a envie de le suivre dans ses consulats.
Et ce poëte affecte de ne comprendre et de n’admirer que les ingénieurs. Ils produisent de la réalité. Tout cela est banal.
Il a le poil rare et regarde en dessous. Son âme a mauvais estomac. Il revient à son horreur des juifs, qu’il ne peut voir ni sentir.
13 February 1900.
Lunch with Claudel. He speaks of the harm that the Dreyfus affair caused to us abroad. This man, this poet, smells of a fanatical priest and acrid blood.
—What of tolerance? I said.
—There are houses for that, he replied.

They feel some unhealthy joy at dumbing themselves down, and they want others to follow suit. They do not know the smile of kindness.
His sister has in her room a portrait of Rochefort and, at her table, La Libre Parole. She wants to follow his consular appointments.
And the poet affects a failure to understand and admire anyone but the engineers. They produce reality. All this is commonplace.
He has thinning hair and a downcast gaze. His soul has indigestion. He returned to his horror of the Jews, whom he cannot suffer to see or smell.
13 февраля 1900 года.
Обед с Клоделем. Он говорит о том, какой вред нанесло дело Дрейфуса нашей репутации за рубежом. От этого человека, этого поэта, исходит душок изувера-священника и едкой крови.
—Ну а терпимость? спросил я.
—Есть для этого дома, ответил он.

Они испытывают какое-то нездоровое удовольствие от самоотупления, и подстрекают других к тому же. Им неизвестна улыбка великодушия.
Его сестра повесила в своей комнате портрет Рошфора, а на стол положила «Ля Либр Пароль». Она хочет следовать за ним в его консульствах.
А сам поэт делает вид, что не понимает никого кроме инженеров. Они производят действительность. Всё это пошло.
У него жидкие волосы и потуплённый взор. Его душа страдает несварением желудка. Он возвращается к своему отвращению к евреям, которых он не в силах ни видеть ни обонять.
—Jules Renard, Journal 1887-1910, Pléiade, 1986, p. 570

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November 17th, 2014
12:02 pm

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09:55 am

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the best things in life


Barack Obama [on TV]: It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled…
Jackie Cogan (Brad Pitt): Ah, yes, we’re all the same. We’re all equal.
Obama [on TV]: … that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states. We are and always will be the United States of America.
Cogan: Next he’ll be telling us we’re a community, we’re one people.
Obama [on TV]: In this country, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people.
Driver (Richard Jenkins): Had yourself quite a party.
Cogan: I do the best I can. [to the bartender] Beer.
Driver: So everything is under control, I take it, at long last?
Cogan: You know, for someone I’m trying to help out and everything, you’re awful hard to get along with. Could’ve made you drive up to see me, I didn’t have to come down here. I’m trying to be nice to you.
Driver: You’re trying to be nice to me?
Cogan: Sure, I’m a nice guy. I like to make things easy on people, do people favors now and then.
Driver: Do me a favor: don’t do me any favors. I see how you work.
Cogan: Tell you what, just give me the money.
[Driver hands Cogan an envelope.]
Cogan: Excuse me.
Driver: Are you gonna count it?
Cogan: I gotta take a leak. Leave me alone, all right? Have another ginger ale, for Christ’s sake.
Obama [on TV]: … from beyond our shores, parliaments and palaces, those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared. Tonight we’ve proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope. [crowd cheering]
Crowd chanting [on TV]: Yes, we can! Yes, we can! Yes, we can! Yes, we can! Yes, we can! Yes, we can!
Driver: Feel better?
Cogan: No. There’s only 30 in there.
Driver: Three guys. Yeah, I had to ask them if I should pay you for the kid. But, you know, they said I should, so.
Cogan: They were right too. That’s only ten a piece.
Driver: Correct.
Cogan: The price is 15.
Driver: Dillon charges 10. Recession prices. They told me to tell you that too.
Cogan: I made a deal with Mickey for 15.
Driver: Yeah, yeah, but the way they got it, Mickey got in a fight with a whore, the dumb shit, and now they got him in the can, and you’re filling in for Dillon and you get what Dillon gets, no more. Talk to Dillon. Take it up with him.
Cogan: Dillon’s dead. Dillon died this morning.
Driver: They’re going to be very sorry to hear that.
Cogan: Sure, sure, they are. It’s gonna cost them more.
Driver: You know, this business is a business of relationships.
Cogan: Yeah, and everyone loved Markie.
Driver: You are a cynical bastard, you know that?
Obama [on TV]: … to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that out of many, we are one.
Driver: You hear that line? Line’s for you.
Cogan: Don’t make me laugh. We’re one people. It’s a myth created by Thomas Jefferson.
Driver: Oh, now you’re gonna have a go at Jefferson?
Cogan: My friend, Jefferson’s an American saint because he wrote the words, “All men are created equal”, words he clearly didn’t believe, since he allowed his own children to live in slavery. He was a rich wine snob who was sick of paying taxes to the Brits so, yeah, he wrote some lovely words and aroused the rabble and they went out and died for those words while he sat back and drank his wine and fucked his slave girl. This guy wants to tell me we’re living in a community. Don’t make me laugh. I’m living in America, and in America, you’re on your own. America’s not a country. It’s just a business. Now fuckin’ pay me.
[ Barrett Strong: “Money (That’s What I Want)”]
The best things in life are free
But you can give them to the birds and bees
I need money
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
Your love gives me such a thrill
But your love don’t pay my bills
I need money
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
Money don’t get everything, it’s true
But what it don’t get I can’t use
I need money
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
That’s what I want
Money
That’s what I want
Lots of money
That’s what I want
Whole lot of money
That’s what I want
Uh-huh
That’s what I want
That’s what I want…
That’s what I want…

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November 15th, 2014
12:02 pm

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November 14th, 2014
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November 13th, 2014
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November 11th, 2014
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November 10th, 2014
01:56 pm

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last rites, first aid

A man walks into a backwoods bar in Kentucky and orders a cosmopolitan. The bartender looks the man over and says, “Not from ’round here, are ya?” “No” replies the man, “I’m from Providence, Rhode Island.” The bartender looks at him and says, “Well what do ya do in Providence?” “I’m a taxidermist,” says the man. The bartender looks bewildered, so the man explains, “I stuff and mount dead animals.” And the bartender stands back and hollers to the whole bar full of hilbillies, “It’s OK, boys! He’s one of us!”

So the man gets comfortable and sips his cocktail. And by and by he becomes peckish, and asks the bartender for a bite to eat. All the bartender can offer him is pork rinds, so that’ll have to do. So the man chomps down on those salty, crunchy pork rinds. And he likes them. In fact, he likes them so much that he gets a pork rind lodged in his throat. After a minute or so he is in real distress. So one of the barflies walks up to him and says, “Kin ya swallar?” The man shakes his head. And the hillbilly follows up, “Kin ya breathe?” The man shakes his head as he begins to turn blue. And the hillbilly reaches around the man’s waist, unbuckles his belt, drops his breeches, yanks down his briefs, and sticks his tongue up his ass crack. The man is so shocked that he has a violent spasm, which causes the pork rind to fly out of his mouth. As he begins to breathe again, he struggles to express his gratitude to the good Samaritan. And the hillbilly goes, “Hit don’t mean doodley squat. Ackshly, I’m much obliged to ye. Ya know, I’d heerd of that there ‘Hind Lick Maneuver’ but I ain’t niver had no chance to do it to anyone before!”

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12:02 pm

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November 9th, 2014
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November 8th, 2014
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November 7th, 2014
06:10 pm

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exit pp41; enter pp14
SIG P210 barrels are designed to shoot standard Swiss Army pistol ammunition, the Pistolen Patrone 41, made by RUAG in Thun. This 124gr. NATO-spec FMJ 9x19mm round originally came in 24-round boxes, which sufficed to load three magazines. Like the RUAG rifle ammunition, it has replaced its original nickel alloy bullet jacket with a jacket made of copper. Its headstamps are the same as for the RUAG GP90 rifle round, comprising a T for the factory location in Thun, placed above the last two digits of the year of manufacture. The Pistolen Patrone 41 was originally produced for the P49, loaded with WIMMIS, a slow burning pistol powder. According to the KTA Reglement 53.103 d, it develops 2600 bar chamber pressure. (The published maximum chamber pressure for 9mm Para per CIP is 2350 bar.) Available for purchase at pistol ranges throughout Switzerland, and distributed to Swiss citizens during Schützenfesten, unlike other RUAG ammunition, it is restricted from export, but may be found in small quantities on the collector market. It is a high-pressure combat round, accurate albeit not optimized for target shooting.

The PP41 was originally meant to be used with the then newly introduced, toggle-operated W+F MP Model 41 (Furrer Model 1941) and the Solothurn MP 41 (Suomi Model 1931) submachine guns, at the time when the standard issue KTA pistol round was 7.65mm Para. The idea to adopt the Pist Pat 41 as the new standard issue came up at the pistol trials held in 1942, in connection with the ill-fated W+F 9mm Pistol 29 prototype. The Furrer 41/44 SMG was gradually decommissioned after WWII, but the Suomi lingered until at least  the late Eighties. It's likely that the pressure of the Pist Pat 41 was kept well above the CIP and NATO standard for SMG compatibility, which probably also accounts for KTA proving 9mm Para arms at 50% overpressure instead of following the CIP practice of 30% overpressure proof loads.

pp 41 14

Earlier in this year, RUAG introduced the PP14 under the brand Geco Sintox as the cartridge meant to succeed the PP41. It is currently manufactured in Switzerland and copied under license by MSF in Hungary. Accordingly, the current 50-round boxes are labeled EU or Switzerland.

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November 6th, 2014
12:03 pm

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November 5th, 2014
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November 4th, 2014
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November 3rd, 2014
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November 2nd, 2014
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October 31st, 2014
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October 30th, 2014
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October 29th, 2014
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