Books Essay Contest It Is!
posted by on March 20 at 10:56 AM
There was so much angling for the poster portrait of Ayn Rand in yesterday’s thread—70 comments as of this morning—that it only seems right to give you readers a chance to have the thing. As has been explained, it is no longer wanted here in the office. And while it would be sweet justice to sell it off and see the proceeds go to charity, Mr. Constant and Mr. Kiley and Ms. Graves and Ms. Wagner and I would rather read a bunch of essays by commenters titled “Why This Portrait Is Rightfully Mine and No One Else’s.”
Essay contest rules:
(1) Your essay has to be submitted as a comment to this post.
(2) It has to meet an exact word limit. It has to be either 1,192 words (number of pages in the centennial edition of Atlas Shrugged), 752 words (number of pages in the centennial edition of The Fountainhead), or 256 words (number of pages in the centennial edition of Anthem). You are advised to write your essay in Word, so you can do a word count, and then paste it into the comments field. There is no preference on behalf of the judges about which word count you choose, but if your essay is 1,194 words, or 783, or 257, or whatever—if it isn’t the exact number of words specified above—it will be disqualified.
(3) The email address corresponding to your comment has to actually work. This is how we’ll get your name and address so we can roll up Ayn Rand, put her in a tube, and send her to you in the mail.
(4) The deadline is tonight at midnight.
Stephanie Pure, former candidate for state representative for the 43rd district, saw yesterday’s post and wrote this morning to say:
Dear Christopher,Dear Stephanie — get writing.
If you still have that Ayn Rand poster hanging around, let me know. My Dad is a big fan and might like it. Please don’t tell Paul Constant.
Stephanie
The Ayn Rand portrait currently hanging in the offices of the Stranger is rightfully mine and no one else’s because I can use it to educate—-that is, destroy--some of Ayn Rand’s youngest and most misguided followers.
Teaching American literature at Northwestern, about twice a year I run into some otherwise smart and sensible student who has an Ayn Rand infection, that insidious intellectual disorder that substitutes egotism for empathy and selfishness for human sympathy. Her philosophy attracts them because they are the John Galts of their own little universes, as demonstrated by their admission to NU. They are unable to see past the end of their own noses to the grim reality that if writers were countries and bullshit were crude oil, Ayn Rand would be Saudi Arabia.
When this portrait arrives at Northwestern, I will place it over a dart board in my office, behind my meeting table. Any time a student brings up Atlas Shrugged or The Fountainhead in class or a paper or casual conversation, I will invite them to my office, where they will see this portrait skewered with several darts, one throwing knife, and a novelty scimitar letter-opener.
With this symbolic rejection of Rand behind me I will rip their intellectual pretensions into tiny little shreds. I will teach them that any philosophy which cannot differentiate between Hitler or Stalin and Mother Theresa or Jane Addams is not just a system of thought in need of tweaking and elaboration, it’s objectively in need of ridicule, rejection and righteous anger.
[1,192]
Fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking 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cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking 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cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped into fucking cuntberries chopped and eaten with a special sauce of redhot hatred, you, Ayn Rand, you.
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Thank you.
The poster is rightfully mine. I despise Ayn Rand very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very much, and I would like to turn it into toilet paper. Or shred it, bake it in brownies, eat it, and expel it as shit, which is pretty much all that she contributed to intellectual discourse.
Mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. I me mine. Love to George.
The poster of Ayn Rand is rightfully mine because my ex-husband loves Ayn Rand. I don’t really know who Ayn Rand is, but my ex-husband is a complete asshole and I absolutely hate him. And since my ex-husband loves Ayn Rand, he would very likely love to have this poster – so, I should have it so he can’t get it. And then I can send him an email photo of it, so he can ask me if he can have it – because he still thinks he can just have anything he wants that’s mine because as a lowly female, I don’t actually have the right to own anything - and I can tell him to go fuck himself with a fountainhead. Then, maybe, I’ll offer to sell it to him, so I can finally get some of the money his sorry ass owes me for that goddamned SUV he had to buy to make up for his sorry ass itty, bitty dick. And then I’ll take myself out to dinner at Red Lobster with my new boyfriend, because he loves Red Lobster, and shrimp and margaritas make him horny for cunnilingus. So, I should have the poster so I can piss off my ex-husband, then make a little money, have a good dinner, and get some great head. Then I can call up my ex-husband and tell him all about the great head I got, so he can get totally grossed out because he’s gay but he won’t admit it! Mine poster! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!
Give it to Cat. But Cat, don't sell it to him; wait until he offers, and accept his price, and then email him saying you're changed your mind, with pictures of you wiping your ass with pieces of it.
I think this contest is over.
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
“If any civilization is to survive, it is the morality of altruism that men have to reject.” Are you fucking kidding me?
Give me the picture.
Fnarf and Poe: you've let your readers down. Sheesh. Cut and paste does not an essay make.
And Cat makes a good case: but while her possession of the poster will get her eaten and piss of her needle-dicked ex-husband, my possession of it will crush the souls of generations of Rand supporters, and so will do more good in the world in the long run, therefore undoing the odious anti-altruistic tendencies of Objectivists everywhere.
Not that I'm trying to influence the judges or anything. . .
I would be a gracious recipient of this cursed image. I intend not to retain it for my own personal use, but to frame and place it on the living-room wall of a dear friend of mine. At one point in my friend’s life, he was a punk-rocking kneejerk liberal. But then, around the age of 21, something tragic happened. He picked up a copy of “Atlas Shrugged”, and I, along with many of his punk-rocking kneejerk liberal cohorts, watched as the book slowly melted his mind. Page by page, day by day, he lost his sympathy for humanity. The book’s shameless glorification of the “power of the self” must have struck a chord with his upper-middle-class upbringing in the suburbs of Bellevue. He was doing fine, and didn’t have any experience with poverty or lack of privileges.
Towards the end of the book, he began to complain that Ayn Rand was sneaking into his room at night and adding more pages (She probably was; she strikes me as the sort to defy death, now lurking in the corners of dark rooms, silently poisoning the hearts of sympathetic young people under the cover of darkness). But while she only may have been sneaking into his room to add pages, she wove her coldhearted libertarian ideals into my friend’s susceptible young mind. I’m still friends with him and all, but I really get sick of the endless political debating with someone who is clearly wrong.
I have never read any Ayn Rand; I think she’s a cunt.
As a person who has actually read Ayn Rand’s works, I find it difficult to write an honest essay under the title of “Why This Portrait is Rightfully Mine and No One Else’s,” because, of course, until such time as it’s in my possession, having been given to me by the current rightful owner, it isn’t mine at all. On the other hand, it would seem to be a pitiful waste of postage to send it to an “essayist” who is so intellectually bankrupt as to think that cutting and pasting repetitions into a Word document qualifies as an entry.
So, I prefer to think of my entry as “Why the Rightful Owner should Give the Portrait to Me and No One Else.”
I like it. As pictured on your web site, it neither glorifies nor vilifies the woman who was Ayn Rand. It doesn’t try to “pretty” her up, nor “ugly” her down. From pictures I’ve seen of her, it’s a fine portrayal, without the hype that seems to accompany her name in whatever circle it happens to get mentioned in. I’m always amazed at the vituperative sputterings, often accompanied by unintentional spittal, that issue from the mouths of people who don’t agree with her philosophies. I am equally stunned at the mindless recantings, spoken in awed, hushed whispers, by people who do agree with her contributions to philosophy and literature, apparently unable themselves follow her ideas to their inevitable and contradictory ends.
I will neither destroy nor worship it. I will enjoy having it.
my vote goes to essay # 1, Bill. for the benefit of future generations.
The poster is rightfully mine because I will burn it. Burning may be anti-art, but it will free the masses from the delusions commonly subscribed to by those who read Ayn Rand and think being selfish is the way to go.
Plus, I will burn it at the Fremont Fire Circle, and that very act of defiance will make the Flying Spaghetti Monster glad.
#12 for the win!
“For twenty-four hours, you have been asking: Who is the rightful owner of this portrait? This is the rightful owner speaking. I am the man who loves this portrait.”
“Many wish to destroy this portrait for they hold it to be evil. I hold it to be good. It is the work of an artist creating for the highest purpose: To express the creative impulse in honor of her own genius and to recognize the genius of others.”
“There is only one fundamental alternative in the universe: existence or non-existence, and this portrait exists. The Sloggers here wish to persuade the portrait to self-immolate. As an inanimate object that is not its choice – It is the choice of the freethinking beings who can choose between acts of creation and destruction. If we sacrifice this image on the altar of altruism and selflessness, do we not sacrifice all that is good within ourselves?”
“I will not say I “need” this portrait or that I “deserve” it. I will instead say I want it, selfishly and morally: I see something good in this world and recognize its value as a reflection of my value and the value of humanity.”
“Some of you will never know who is the rightful owner of this portrait. But those of you who have known a single moment of love for its existence know the pride in being its worthy owner. Those who've spent moments looking at this portrait, letting your glance be its sanction know it.”
“I swear...
...mine.”
This poster is mine because Rand would be appalled that you are giving it away, because it will serve a greater purpose to Leonard Peikoff’s religion mounted in my house than it will tacked up in your office, and because I have something that is as valuable to you as is the poster to me: this essay.
This essay meets your requirements: it is a comment to your “Essay Contest It Is!” post, it contains 256 words, the email address below is one that you may use to reach me, and you received it before midnight. Having held up my end of the bargain, I now consider the poster of Rand to be mine as a simple matter of contract (given my presumption that mine is the best essay submitted). You may email me for my mailing address, and send my poster via mail.
We will then go back to our normal, workaday lives, and we will depend upon the services provided by the Leviathan government so hated by Rand. We will each do so believing that we got the best of the other party; and the exchange of my essay for your poster will have made us both a little happier.
And what better way to exemplify Rand’s “virtue of selfishness” than two parties exchanging a good and a service? That Rand poster is mine because I wanted it and I have provided to you the service you requested. So send me my poster, and please consider this essay my good faith deposit on same.
@12 wins.
Set to the tune of "Who is John Galt?"
but uhhh... shorter.
Even though Bill taught me and is an excellent teacher, I think I have to side with Cat in this contest. Also, I think students who love Ayn Rand have drunk too much of the Ayn Rand kool-aid for them so see any sense. They will probably just take the letter-opener and attack Bill, and that would be sad.
No surprise that Will completely fails to grasp the contest rules.
Bill @10: how DARE you sully me by comparison to Mr. Poe, who couldn't even execute his cut-n-paste correctly, pasting in hard returns at the end of each line? Or bma, whose repeated "very" displays an unforgivable banality? Or Let it Be, who didn't even write the key thrust of his opus, but copied it from a drug-addled pop star? MY cut-n-paste, in comparison, sparkles with wit and characterization. Don't you think?
Give it to 12. She sees the big picture.
The Ayn Rand portrait in The Stranger’s office is rightfully
mine and no one else’s. Kathryn Rathe captured the spry glimmer in Ayn’s eyes so acutely, so (dare I say?) unnaturally that I feel the tendrils of her allure climbing through the internet, coiling my soul. I am encircled. I am ensnared!
I would treat this object with the solemn reverence of a solitary monk. I would encase Her as a relic, and anoint Her altar with spicy oils and the blood of fledgling sparrows. I will welcome pilgrims to gaze upon Her, and how I would envy them! To see Her for the first time is being possessed by Her. The rapture they must endure—the ecstasy endowed by Her lips, upturned.
In the night, I will rise from troubled sleep; my brain rife with questions. I will enter her sanctum and there I will see Her: pale blue in the moonlight, floating and spectral. I am an ant at the foot of a king, and that king is Ayn Rand. Only there I will find answers to salve my blistering mind. I will cry, “Why, Ayn Rand? WHY?”
She will respond, “…suffering is not a claim check, and its relief is not the goal of existence.”
And I will weep wet tears.
We mustn’t allow the unbelievers to apprehend Our Lady. Their mocking smugness will curl Her edges and dull Her luminous hew. The thought is unbearable sacrilege. I will shoulder the privilege and burden of stewardship, and I will preserve Her for eternity.
Oh, silly Fnarf, Ayn Rand never was one for following her own rules, let alone those of the weak-willed individuals who "ran" society, so why would I follow such "rules" if I wanted to win a contest for an Ayn Rand image that I intend to burn gleefully, and for the purpose of religion (FSM)?
You obviously have proven that my case is the strongest, and thus must support my superior case.
@12: I think that your essay puts forth your points eloquently, but does not truly address the posed question.
@23: Are you suggesting that there is some stewardship involved in the ownership of property? And actually idolizing Rand by going so far as to capitalize a pronoun? The atheist pictured in that drawing might take offense to that, no less because she passed her mantle on to Peikoff as successor deity.
This is an official entry in the contest, but it is also a chance for me to finally make my confession. I have spent my entire life living a lie. Years and years ago, back in early high school, when it was cool to look smart, everybody I know went through at least one Ayn Rand book. They would get into small groups, excluding the uninformed like myself, comparing ideas and philosophies with pseudo-intellectual terms that they had read the previous day in a dictionary. How I longed to be one of them, to speak on their terms, to debate with them on which novel was the “most intellectually stimulating”.
Soon, the desire for kinship among my peers became too great, and I knew what I had to do. I bought a copy of Atlas Shrugged, sat down, and tried to read it. Ten minutes later, disgusted, I threw the book violently across the room. What the fuck am I doing? I asked myself silently. I’m fourteen; I don’t care about this bullshit. My brain just was not cut out for this sort of reading. I needed action, I needed adventure, but most of all I needed anything but this boring string of words. However, I also desired approval. I picked up my copy of Animorphs #46, and began to plan my attack.
The next day, I approached a small group of my peers talking about Anthem. Their words were intimidating, and one of them glared at me as I joined their circle. I spent five minutes or so, quietly absorbing information, before I decided to jump in. This was my moment. This was where I proved to them that I was intelligent too, that I had the chops to read Ayn Rand and understand it just as well as they did. This was my time. I spoke loudly and clearly:
“What do you guys think about the… word choice?”
Nice going, idiot, lets be as broad as possible. Before I could walk away in shame, though, suddenly this kid Alex pipes up.
“Oh, completely brilliant. I love the tenses.”
Everybody else soon joined in. What was this? What the fuck is he talking about? Tenses? Why do those matter? Whatever, I didn’t care. I was popular. I was important. I had friends. I was a liar.
Since that fateful day, I’ve always claimed to know Ayn Rand better than anybody else, despite never reading more than ten pages of her work. I am always the first to jump in with my brilliant opinions. For the record, here is a sum of my expertise in the field of Ayn Rand:
1. Played through Bioshock, a game for the Xbox 360 that is very loosely based on Atlas Shrugged. By very loosely, I mean that Bioshock takes place in an underwater city full of mutants that you have to beat to death with a wrench that freezes people when you upgade it.
2. Listened to my buddy Stevo talk about how much he hated Anthem.
3. I know the title of The Fountainhead.
4. My roommate just called her a “bleeding cunt conservative”. I don’t know if this is the least bit true, but we both decided we really like that phrase.
5. I glanced at her wikipedia page a few months ago to make sure that she was, in fact, female.
6. I now know that Atlas Shrugged is 1192 pages long, The Fountainhead is 752 pages long, and Anthem is 256.
7. I know she wrote at least three books.
I’m almost certain that Alex never read Anthem, but it doesn’t actually matter. Actually, I am pretty sure that about ten percent of the people I lied to were lying as well. The thing that matters is that this event sparked an entire life of lies, and I just can’t take it anymore. So there you have it, my confession. I’d like to think that I deserve this portrait more than anybody else because, well, there is a recurring theme in Atlas Shrugged about liars inheriting the world. It may be hard to notice, but it is definitely there. I promise you. If you can’t think of a part of that book that has that theme, maybe you should try a little harder. Try closely comparing it to The Fountainhead. Look very closely at the, um, diction. Yes, the diction. That holds the key to all of the themes of all her novels, and you’re an idiot if you don’t agree.
@25 The only thing I suggested is that I can't take anything seriously.
But I wish I could win.
The reason that poster should belong to me and to no one else is quite simple: It will be the perfect ironic accessory/showpiece for my living room. As a foppish, over-educated gay man, I pride myself on several ridiculous accoutrements that adorn my house. Much like an avid Star Wars aficionado who would have a life size Jar-Jar Bings statue in their house, my friends would look at her and ask, “WTF?” And like any good conversation piece, I will be able to come up with more stories about that poster than ANYONE – trust me. This is how I imagine it would go:
Q: So Michael, WTF, why do you have Ayn Rand hanging on your wall?
A: Because she looks like Rachel Maddow.
A: The Stranger gave it to me, of course.
A: I’m exploring the depths of my own Objectivist reality.
A: She reminds me of the time I fled Communism – those were the days!
A: I smoke unfiltered Lucky Strikes too.
A: Why don’t YOU have a picture of Ayn Rand hanging on YOUR wall?
A: Because my Fountainhead is bigger than hers.
A: That homoerotic Atlas is so HOT to me.
A: She’s a hot mess one day, tranny the next.
A: When I see her, I have an overwhelming urge to start goose-stepping.
The ultimate reason is that I promise to send you pictures of funny gay boys posing with her on a regular basis. Think of the garden gnome Travelocity commercials – except with gay boys, and an Ayn Rand poster.
Why this portrait is rightfully mine and no one else's - I, alone of all of you seem to grasp the real reason why any college undergraduate picks up any of Ayn Rand's books in the first place (other than the obvious one of having had the book assigned to them by a humorless asshole professor): the rape scene in The Fountainhead.
Every library copy and used copy of this incredibly dull, interminable, and sophomoric book opens automatically to that scene. Every one. Half of them have it highlighted with the requisite yellow marker. Why, oh gods, why? It's not even particularly titillating. It's just … there. In my opinion, it's a cynical attempt to appeal to the puerile, subliterate adolescent males who form the core of Rand's devotees - and, of course, since it involves sexual subjugation of a female by a "dominant" male, it works admirably for that purpose.
How many pasty pudgy boys living in their parents' basements first became "objectivists" because they needed something more than airbrushed Barbie images for their private wank sessions - they needed image of themselves as conquerors, as desirable, as Manly Men. Whatever gets 'em in the door. P.T. Barnum was right: there IS a sucker born every minute.
So, in conclusion, I need the portrait because I would do the most appropriate thing with it - tear the rape scene pages out of a (non-library) copy of The Fountainhead and staple them to Rand's painted silhouette and display it as a warning to the easily swayed.
#26 is awesome.
#28 addresses the subject of the essay better.
This portrait is rightfully mine and no one else’s because I am the most important person in the world. I should not, and do not, concern myself with the lives or well-being of others. There is nothing more important in this universe than my happiness – it is the ultimate barometer by which the success of my life can be measured. In fact, my happiness is so important that the morality of any action can be judged based on whether or not it increases my happiness.
After a lengthy examination of the issue, I have determined that possessing this portrait would cause me great happiness. As such, the Stranger has a moral and ethical obligation to give the portrait to me and no one else. It would be an immoral and unethical act to give the portrait to another individual (and I know that the citizens of Seattle would be shocked and dismayed to learn that a Stranger staffer had committed an immoral act).
If giving this portrait to someone else resulted in cancer being cured, global warming being reversed, and George W. Bush and Dick Cheney both resigning tomorrow, it would matter not to me. It is only me and my happiness that matters when determining whether an action is just.
I do not understand why you are even considering the thoughts and emotions of others in this process. This decision should be simple for you: the portrait makes me happy, and therefore I should receive it. Me me me me me. And in, conclusion, me.
@29: Randomly, most of the Ahyn Rand devotees I know are women. A bunch are men, but at least 2/3s are women.
Thoughts on that?
(my essay, written whilst wearing a "Ride the S.L.U.T." t-shirt. Some tongue in cheek, here.)
===
The poster must be mine; I must not be denied any desire that I both deserve and earn through my vast, inescapable and overwhelming intellectual superiority. My two engineering degrees, extensive doctoral education and mastery of both the hyphen and semicolon, leave you vermin with no moral choice other than leaving my every whim and will unhampered.
With the world careening over the precipice—with energy scarce, with food costs skyrocketing, with the environment imperiled—can you, you peons, really risk infuriating the great minds of the world? For all you know—you mooching wretches with your teeny, tiny intellects—my brethren and I are already heading for Galt’s Gulch, snorting in delight as your petty, socialistic society slides into oblivion.
Your mortgages are subprime; your dreams are substandard; your thoughts are subpar. For far too long, you’ve sat with your mouths opened, screeching like the mindless fowl you are, waiting to be fed the fruits of superior minds to your own. The very existence of Scandinavian counties provides compelling evidence the world would be better if 2/3 of humanity would be harvested for phosphorous.
To deny the poster to those with superior intellect, training and drive is an unimaginable crime. It is little different than the heinously offensive existence of welfare, food stamps, public housing, mass transit, and Tila Tequilla’s Shot of Love—all treats for the listless, shiftless morons comprising the majority of this world in decline, coerced out of works of the great. Fear the consequences of this continued crime. Deny no more.
===
12 is still one so far.
@32 - Women can be puerile, immature, and titillated by poorly-written rape scenes, too?
Just going by my own (admittedly-quite-limited) sample, the Rand devotees I know are almost uniformly male. (Randees? Randites? Randions?)
Request for Rand Poster, by Julian Wheeler, in character as “Willie Stark” (request is literal; rest of essay to be taken lightly):
My friends, my friends, my friends at The Stranger, I have a speech here. It's a speech about what The Stranger needs. There's no need in my telling you what The Stranger needs. You are The Stranger and you know what you need.
Let me get right to it. The Stranger needs to give me that poster of Ayn Rand. Do I ask for it?
No! I DEMAND IT! BECAUSE I WORK HARD!
You, Josh, over there, look at your pants. Have they got holes in the knees? OK, you can stop looking now. I SAID STOP!
And you, Dan, what about your crops on Vashon Island? Did they ever rot in the field because the road was so bad you couldn't get 'em to market? Are you registered to vote there?
And you, Will From Seattle, what about your kid? Is he growing up smart, smart like you, ‘cause he goes to good Seattle schools? Are you telling him about the Clinton years? Where else but in America, or possibly Canada?
Naw, I'm not gonna read you any speech. But I am gonna tell you a story.
It's a funny story so get ready to laugh. Get ready to bust your sides laughin', 'cause it's sure a funny story. It's about a punk, a punk like you, if you please. Yeah, like you, Public Intern. He grew up on the dirt roads and the gully washes of a sub-division. He knew what it was to get up before dawn and get feed and slop and milk before breakfast, and then set out before sunup and walk six blocks to a college in the University District. Aw, this punk knew what it was to be a punk, all right. He figured if he was gonna get anything done, well, he had to do it himself. So he sat up nights and studied books, and maybe a laptop computer. He studied law, because he thought he might be able to change things some -- for himself and for folks like him.
Now I'm not gonna lie to ya. He didn't start off thinkin' about the punks and all the wonderful things he was gonna do for 'em. Naw, naw, he started off thinkin' of number one. But something came to him on the way. How he could do nothin' for himself without the help of the people. That's what came to him. And it also came to him with the powerful force of God's own lightning here in Seattle when The Stranger offered to the public a chance to possess a poster of Ayn Rand! But you know that story. Some of the people at The Stranger were his friends because he'd fought for social justice alongside them. So he read about the Ayn Rand poster being offered to the public.
And he swallowed it. He looked in his heart and he thought, in all humility, how he'd like to try and change things with that poster. He was just a city boy who thought that even the plainest, poorest man can have that poster if they just sent in an essay.
All those fellows in the striped pants at The Stranger, they saw that punk and they thought they could take him in.
Now, shut up! Shut up, all of you. Now, listen to me, you punks. Yeah, you're punks too, and they fooled you a thousand times, just like they fooled me. But this time, I'm gonna fool somebody. I'm gonna send in that essay. I'm on my way and I'm out for blood. Now listen to me, you punks! Listen to me, and lift up your eyes and look at God's blessed and unfly-blown truth. And this is the truth. You're a punk, and nobody ever helped a punk but a punk himself!
Alright, listen to me! Listen to me! I'm the punk The Stranger was gonna use to split the punk vote. Well, I'm standin' right here now on my hind legs. Even a dog can learn to do that. Are you standin' on your hind legs? Have you learned to do that much yet? Here it is! Here it is you punks! I’m gonna nail up that poster! And if The Stranger doesn’t deliver that poster to me by mail, then give me the hammer and I'll do it myself!
WHY? I WORK HARD, YOU PUNKS!
One must not be surprised that the staff of the Stranger, a den of collectivists and anarchists who would gladly see personal achievement and rational morality go by the wayside to be replaced by collectivism and universal mediocrity, has no appreciation for the image of such greatness, nor can they long stand the sight of it. Their motto is the same as that of Ellsworth Toohey, architecture critic at Gail Wynand's newspaper. Asked why he wished to end the career of Howard Roark, he replied, as the mightiest of collectivists must, that it was "because I wish to destroy and discredit all greatness."
Truly this is the agenda of one Christopher Frizzelle. Furthermore, rather than honourably burn the image of his enemy, which might be construed as taking a personal and principled stance, an action which he could never take, Frizzelle must instead turn his act into sport for the masses, advancing his personal popularity amongst them and probably his career as well.
Not only that, but Frizzelle is likely incapable of owning anything. It would be too much responsibility, it would set him apart. He heeds Toohey's words thus as well "A man braver than his brothers insults them by implication. Let us aspire to no virtue which cannot be shared."
Why is this portrait likely mine? I'm so glad you asked.
“Thousands of years ago, the first man discovered how to make fire. He was probably burned at the stake he had taught his brothers to light. He was considered an evildoer who had dealt with a demon mankind dreaded. But thereafter men had fire to keep them warm, to cook their food, to light their caves. He had left them a gift they had not conceived and he had lifted dardness off the earth. Centuries later, the first man invented the wheel. He was probably torn on the rack he had taught his brothers to build. He was considered a transgressor who ventured into forbidden terrritory. But thereafter, men could travel past any horizon. He had left them a gift they had not conceived and he had opened the roads of the world.
“That man, the unsubmissive and first, stands in the opening chapter of every legend mankind has recorded about its beginning. Prometheus was chained to a rock and torn by vultures—because he had stolen the fire of the gods. Adam was condemned to suffer—because he had eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Whatever the legend, somewhere in the shadows of its memory mankind knew that its glory began with one and that that one paid for his courage.
“Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with nothing but their own vision. Their goals differed, but they all had this in common: that the step was first, the road new, the vision unborrowed, and the response they received—hatred. The great creators—the thinkers, the artists, the scientists, the inventors—stood alone against the men of their time. Every great new thought was opposed. Every great new invention was denounced. The first motor was considered foolish. The airplane was considered impossible. The power loom was considered vicious. Anesthesia was considered sinful. But the men of unborrowed vision went ahead. They fought, they suffered and they paid. But they won.
“No creator was prompted by a desire to serve his brothers, for his brothers rejected the gift he offered and that gift destroyed the slothful routine of their lives. His truth was his only motive. His own truth, and his own work to achieve it in his own way. A symphony, a book, an engine, a philosophy, an airplane or a building—that was his goal and his life. Not those who heard, read, operated, believed, flew or inhabited the thing he had created. The creation, not its users. The creation, not the benefits others derived from it. The creation which gave form to his truth. He held his truth above all things and against all men.
“His vision, his strength, his courage came from his own spirit. A man's spirit, however, is his self. That entity which is his consciousness. To think, to feel, to judge, to act are functions of the ego.
“The creators were not selfless. It is the whole secret of their power—that it was self-sufficient, self-motivated, self-generated. A first cause, a fount of energy, a life force, a Prime Mover. The creator served nothing and no one. He lived for himself.
“And only by living for himself was he able to achieve the things which are the glory of mankind. Such is the nature of achievement.
“Man cannot survive except through his mind. He comes on earth unarmed. His brain is his only weapon. Animals obtain food by force. Man has no claws, no fangs, no great strength of muscle. He must plant his food or hunt it. To plant, he needs a process of thought. To hunt, he needs weapons, and to make weapons—a process of thought. From this simplest necessity to the highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and everything we have comes from a single attribute of man—the function of his reasoning mind.
“But the mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought. An agreement reached by a group of men is only a compromise or an average drawn upon many individual thoughts. It is a secondary consequence. The primary act—the process of reason—must be performed by each man alone. We can divide a meal among many men. We cannot digest it in a collective stomach. No man can use his lungs to breathe for another man. No man can use his brain to think for another. All the functions of body and spirit are private. They cannot be shared or transferred.
“We inherit the products of the thought of other men. We inherit the wheel. We make a cart. The cart becomes an automobile. The automobile becomes an airplane. But all through the process what we receive from others is only the end product of their thinking. The moving force is the creative faculty which takes this product as material, uses it and originates the next step. This creative faculty cannot be given or received, shared or borrowed. It belongs to single, individual men. That which it creates is the property of the creator. Men learn from one another. But all learning is only the exchange of material. No man can give another the capacity to think. Yet that capacity is our only means of survival.
“Nothing is given to man on earth. Everything he needs has to be produced. And here man faces his basic alternative: he can survive in only one of two ways—by the independent work of his own mind or as a parasite fed by the minds of others. The creator originates. The parasite borrows. The creator faces nature alone. The parasite faces nature through an intermediary.
I do not wish to borrow this portrait. I have more right to it than any who so much as read the slog.
I wanna also mention in passing that the vast majority of people on the slog have no sense of humor at all.
You guys act so threatened by this. Is it cus you're in america?
Anyway, if there's any closet cases out there you'll be thrilled to note this: http://www.theatlasphere.com/
Why I Should Have the Ayn Rand Portrait
By Jay
Age 12
I should have the ayn rand portrait because, as an objectivist, I must dominate the weaker classes with my masculine ambition and unbridled creative spirit. Only by dominating the image of this woman can I assert my will to power and free will.
If I were to have this wonderful portrait, I would arouse myself with it and spread my seed upon it in a glorious act of creativity. And then, having created this masterpiece of self-expression, I shall upload it to Got Cum? or another blog befitting my magnificience.
Oh, and I want a new bike too.
#33: I enjoyed that a lot. Where's your column?
#37: You botched the word quota.
1192 (I expect lots of tl;dr's)
I want the Ayn Rand poster because she would look smashing in my apartment, especially in the kitchen facing the window where every passerby can see and be disturbed. I also want to disturb my boyfriend, because he fucking HATES her (I merely strongly dislike her) and he won't be able to do anything about the poster if I won it in a contest, because otherwise if I brought it home he'd tear it off the wall or cry or go impotent, and otherwise make me regret my decision in the poster and his decision to live with me, but if I just happened to win it in a contest he really can't say very much, can he? (shut up, this distinction is very important!)
And now, since I have very little to say on the subject, I will now branch out by stating that this contest is very reminiscent of those silly essays they encourage you to do in high school, where there's an essay contest on Ayn Rand and if you win they give you money. But of course the main goal is to get impressionable kids to read her books. I never did so, since they looked very thick and I'm lazy and often don't read books unless I have to or I get good recommendations from people, and no one has ever recommended Ayn Rand for being entertaining. Which doesn't mean I'm a fool who doesn't read, it is not my main form of entertainment, smoking weed and tripping balls on tussin is. Well, those are my favorites, I can't afford to get wasted every day. But I have been known to read large thick books for fun, I quite liked Les Miserables and if I ever do get my French up to par I'll read that in the original form. Too bad Rand liked Hugo as well, but that's sort of like Ann Coulter liking Phish. Except they suck. So I'm not a complete dunderhead, and it's rather a good thing I didn't read Rand because that would have been a tremendous waste of time, even in High School where everything is a tremendous waste of time. I wouldn't have liked them, for the obvious lack of entertainment or my populist socialist politics.
Perhaps it is a bit silly of me to demand a poster of an author whose books I've not read. Most of all the other entries are from writers who have read her stuff, but I'm not completely clueless, mind you. I have checked out the plots of the Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged on sparknotes.com one night when I was bored, and I wasn't impressed. So I do know why she's terrible and reprehensible, but I must make a confession, I kind of like that sort of thing. I'm terribly fond of those whose views are so far from mine, because they're delightfully entertaining. I love Pat Robertson, Kim Jong-Il and George W. Bush. They're terrible people, two of them have caused the death of many people and so I really shouldn't find them funny but I do get a perverse sense of satisfaction, like in 80 years if I'm still around I can tell my grandkids that I lived through the worst presidency EVER, and that my country (I'm half Korean) was raised by some even worse fuckhead who killed millions of our people and there was this detestable preacher who said the most darnest things, but damn it all, they were kind of amusing in that sort of way. Robertson claiming to bench press a ton was pretty funny, as were some Bushisms and the Illest dictator's quirks. And you know what, in 1000 years if we're still around and there's still historical views on us, they'll find Bush and Kim about as amusing as we find Genghis Khan or Nero or Judas or King Herod. Even Hitler will be reduced in the sands of time to nothing more than a historical notice, the Jews will probably always remember him, but Hitler will just be another evil murderous dictator, out of many, remarkable only for his mustache and mannerisms. Anyway, this is how I find Ayn Rand amusing, because her philosophy is selfish and terrible and I am not. I have a strange sense of humor.
Youse should also give me this poster because I vow never to do anything stupid to it. Now if you don't care about it well whatever then, but if you would prefer that someone not shit on it then you should give it to me. I know what a toilet is for, and I know that toilet paper is gentler on those parts of the body than say, regular paper.
And oh fuck. I'm gunning for the 1192 word essay, as you can see here. It's raining outside. I should probably go get some food for dinner, but I'm too lazy and I'd have to put pants on, and it would be much more easier to make my boyfriend do it. And it would be much easier for him to finish this essay for me, but he's asleep and wouldn't like it very much if I woke him up for the sake of Ayn Rand. It seems I do not have a thesis statement. Oh well. I'm not writing an academic paper, it's okay. I highly dislike writing those, but I went to college and that's what you do. And I'm now tired of writing papers, but I have one more year to go and I can be free to be poor and debt ridden. So while I'm burning things in trash cans in a desperate attempt to be warm, this poster will give me comfort, knowing that Ms. Rand would have me poor. But that's okay, as long as tussin is still legal. Tripping balls puts you in fairyland and you don't have to eat there. Of course you can't live in fairyland everyday, but tripping balls does limit your need for food. As does cigarettes and speed.
A hundred more words. I keep picking at my lip, and it bleeds. I once put some blood under the microscope and you could see the cells moving. I have recently been suffering from a bad cold, so I cough up green phlegm. I went to a Korean restaurant yesterday and ate delicious food. There's a pine tree outside my door. The needles get in my apartment and I step on them and it hurts. I wish I was on DXM as this could go a lot faster. Or slower. I'd probably lose interest but I might fill space trying to type on the keyboard and getting OHHH GOD IST SO DIFFCULT but maybe that'd be more time efficient. I've wasted an hour writing this. I'm listening to Beth Gibbons, and wonder when the hell Portishead will get their fucking shit together. I like beagles and porbeagle sharks. “You'll get by /
Move it on and let fate decide / And those water-coloured memories / Soft as a summer's breeze
You're as pretty as can be...”
Goddamn, I better win the poster for writing all this terrible crap.
This poster is mine and nobody else’s because I am trading this essay in exchange for the right to have the poster. As I do not recognize your right to ask me to sacrifice one minute of my life, you must exchange my time for this poster and let me do with it as I wish. As to your word limit, I believe that the form of this essay should follow its function and as its function is now complete, I cannot compromise the integrity of this essay with your word limits.
This poster is mine and nobody else’s because I am trading this essay in exchange for the right to have the poster. As I do not recognize your right to ask me to sacrifice one minute of my life, you must exchange my time for this poster and let me do with it as I wish. As to your word limit, I believe that the form of this essay should follow its function and as its function is now complete, I cannot compromise the integrity of this essay with your word limits.
your rational self interest demands that anna win this contest.
also!
hers breaks the word rule.
As we all know, rules were forged by the collectivists as chains to restrain the greatness of great men. Only by breaking them can one show one is truly great.
also my word processor (not using word because I can't afford it) says there are 1192 words, but the online counter says there are 1186. so in the event I do have 1186, here is one last sentence to append:
Oranges are the best fruit ever.
One must not be surprised that the staff of the Stranger, a den of collectivists and anarchists who would gladly see personal achievement and rational morality go by the wayside to be replaced by collectivism and universal mediocrity, has no appreciation for the image of such greatness, nor can they long stand the sight of it. Their motto is the same as that of Ellsworth Toohey, architecture critic at Gail Wynand's newspaper. Asked why he wished to end the career of Howard Roark, he replied, as the mightiest of collectivists must, that it was "because I wish to destroy and discredit all greatness."
Truly this is the agenda of one Christopher Frizzelle. Furthermore, rather than honourably burn the image of his enemy, which might be construed as taking a personal and principled stance, an action which he could never take, Frizzelle must instead turn his act into sport for the masses, advancing his personal popularity amongst them and probably his career as well.
Not only that, but Frizzelle is likely incapable of owning anything. It would be too much responsibility, it would set him apart. He heeds Toohey's words thus as well "A man braver than his brothers insults them by implication. Let us aspire to no virtue which cannot be shared."
Why is this portrait rightly mine? I'm so glad you asked.
“Thousands of years ago, the first man discovered how to make fire. He was probably burned at the stake he had taught his brothers to light. He was considered an evildoer who had dealt with a demon mankind dreaded. But thereafter men had fire to keep them warm, to cook their food, to light their caves. He had left them a gift they had not conceived and he had lifted dardness off the earth. Centuries later, the first man invented the wheel. He was probably torn on the rack he had taught his brothers to build. He was considered a transgressor who ventured into forbidden terrritory. But thereafter, men could travel past any horizon. He had left them a gift they had not conceived and he had opened the roads of the world. “That man, the unsubmissive and first, stands in the opening chapter of every legend mankind has recorded about its beginning. Prometheus was chained to a rock and torn by vultures—because he had stolen the fire of the gods. Adam was condemned to suffer—because he had eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Whatever the legend, somewhere in the shadows of its memory mankind knew that its glory began with one and that that one paid for his courage.
“Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with nothing but their own vision. Their goals differed, but they all had this in common: that the step was first, the road new, the vision unborrowed, and the response they received—hatred. The great creators—the thinkers, the artists, the scientists, the inventors—stood alone against the men of their time. Every great new thought was opposed. Every great new invention was denounced. The first motor was considered foolish. The airplane was considered impossible. The power loom was considered vicious. Anesthesia was considered sinful. But the men of unborrowed vision went ahead. They fought, they suffered and they paid. But they won.
“No creator was prompted by a desire to serve his brothers, for his brothers rejected the gift he offered and that gift destroyed the slothful routine of their lives. His truth was his only motive. His own truth, and his own work to achieve it in his own way. A symphony, a book, an engine, a philosophy, an airplane or a building—that was his goal and his life. Not those who heard, read, operated, believed, flew or inhabited the thing he had created. The creation, not its users. The creation, not the benefits others derived from it. The creation which gave form to his truth. He held his truth above all things and against all men.
“His vision, his strength, his courage came from his own spirit. A man's spirit, however, is his self. That entity which is his consciousness. To think, to feel, to judge, to act are functions of the ego.
“The creators were not selfless. It is the whole secret of their power—that it was self-sufficient, self-motivated, self-generated. A first cause, a fount of energy, a life force, a Prime Mover. The creator served nothing and no one. He lived for himself.
“And only by living for himself was he able to achieve the things which are the glory of mankind. Such is the nature of achievement.
“Man cannot survive except through his mind.. His brain is his only weapon. Animals obtain food by force. Man has no claws, no fangs, no great strength of muscle. He must plant his food or hunt it. To plant, he needs a process of thought. To hunt, he needs weapons, and to make weapons—a process of thought. From this simplest necessity to the highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and everything we have comes from a single attribute of man—the function of his reasoning mind.
“But the mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought. An agreement reached by a group of men is only a compromise or an average drawn upon many individual thoughts. It is a secondary consequence. The primary act—the process of reason—must be performed by each man alone. We can divide a meal among many men. We cannot digest it in a collective stomach. No man can use his lungs to breathe for another man. No man can use his brain to think for another. All the functions of body and spirit are private. They cannot be shared or transferred.
“We inherit the products of the thought of other men. We inherit the wheel. We make a cart. The cart becomes an automobile. The automobile becomes an airplane. But all through the process what we receive from others is only the end product of their thinking. The moving force is the creative faculty which takes this product as material, uses it and originates the next step. This creative faculty cannot be given or received, shared or borrowed. It belongs to single, individual men. That which it creates is the property of the creator. Men learn from one another. But all learning is only the exchange of material. No man can give another the capacity to think. Yet that capacity is our only means of survival.
“Nothing is given to man on earth. Everything he needs has to be produced. And here man faces his basic alternative: he can survive in only one of two ways—by the independent work of his own mind or as a parasite fed by the minds of others. The creator originates. The parasite borrows. The creator faces nature alone. The parasite faces nature through an intermediary.
I do not wish to borrow this portrait. I have more right to it than any who so much as read the slog.
The entirety of this essay follows as a natural consequence from the principle that A equals A.
The rightful inheritor of this drawing is, of course, the natural philosophical descendant of Ayn Rand: Naked Ayn Mole Rand. Naked Ayn Mole Rand demands that the picture go to me.
As a heroic being, this honor passes on to me, not as an act of charity, but as an act of purified will, a celebration of man as a heroic being, and a natural and logical extension of the principles of objectivist epistemology, objectivist zoology, and objectivist zooepistemology.
An Explanation:
Ayn Rand
Ayn Rand was born to a Jewish family in Russia, and moved to America in 1925 to become a screenwriter and author. She was a controversial author and philosopher, and put forth a view of politics and epistemology which was radically capitalistic and anticommunist. Ayn Rand held dear the concepts of individualism, rationality, and enlightened selfishness. Her views were typically detailed not in philosophical journals, but in popular fiction, with grandiose characters of incredible creative genius (who expressed these philosophies in dialogue, action, and fifty page radio broadcasts) pitted against a crippling collectivist culture of mean spirited and weak willed thugs. Her students and admirers included Nathaniel Branden, Leonard Peikoff, and former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan.
The Naked Mole Rat
The naked mole rat (Heterocephalus glaber), sometimes called the Sand Puppy, lives in large underground tunnel colonies in the deserts of Ethiopia, Somalia and Kenya. The naked mole rat is a thriving species in the wild, but in terms of taxonomy is extremely unusual. Unlike most mammals, the naked mole rat is cold blooded; like a reptile, it cannot regulate body temperature, and requires external heat to survive. Socially, naked mole rates are very similar to bees or ants: they live in highly organized eusocial colonies in which only a single female queen and a handful of male consorts are able to reproduce. When the queen dies, all other females compete for the right to become queen and reproduce. The naked mole rat travels backwards as quickly as it travels forward, is incapable of feeling pain, and is nearly blind due to its narrow, poorly developed eyes. Its teeth are outside its lips, even when it closes its mouth. Those teeth are capable of burrowing through concrete. This incredible burrowing ability helps the noble animal traverse its native environment of hard packed clay.
Naked Ayn Mole Rand
Naked Ayn Mole Rand is a fusion of the two. Naked Ayn Mole Rand was born to a burrow of Jewish naked mole rats in Kenya, and moved to America in 1925 to become a screenwriter and author. Naked Ayn Mole Rand was a controversial author and rodent, and she put forth a view of politics and epistemology which was radically antieusocial. Naked Ayn Mole Rand held dear the concepts of cold bloodedness, rationality, and narrow poorly developed eyes. Her teeth are outside her lips, even when she closes her mouth. Only Naked Ayn Mole Rand a handful of male consorts, including Nathaniel Brandon, Leonard Peikoff and former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan, are able to reproduce.
The Poster Is Mine
Man qua man is a rational animal, and this poster, as a celebratory portrait of rationality, can only be given to a rational animal, man. Naked Ayn Mole Rand is not a human, and therefore is incapable of the selfish glory that must necessarily derive from the universal rationality and maximized selfishness of human virtue. Since Naked Ayn Mole Rand is the rightful inheritor of this picture (since she is the rightful philosophical descendant of Ayn Rand, who in turn is the rightful philosophical descendant of Aristotle), and since Naked Ayn Mole Rand is an invention of my own creative principle, it must therefore stand that the poster belongs to me, a rational animal and rightful owner of the rightful inheritor of this picture.
Answering Incoherent Objections
Some will claim that this poster falls better into the hands of other supposed inheritors, such as Aristurtle the Rational Reptile, or the Invisible Hand of Adam Smith, or even a superior grade of green railroad metal. These claims are not a celebration of the rational nature of man and therefore must be ignored. Aristurtle the Rational Reptile was seen acting for the good of others altruistically, the Invisible hand of Adam Smith was caught making obscene gestures, and everyone knows that only Commies like trains these days.
Conclusion
Therefore, the poster must logically be mine.
The Ayn Rand poster is rightfully mine and nobody else's because I need it around me, to serve as a reminder of the deeper meanings of both The Incredibles and BioShock, and how wonderful both of these things are. Rand's ideas and themes play strongly into the Xbox 360 masterpiece BioShock, from the in-game characters' names (Andrew Ryan, a play on Rand's name; Frank Fontaine, from Fountainhead; and Atlas, who ends up being Fontaine) to the overall plot line (which plays on Rand's ideas of objectivism and its benefits and downfalls), as well as in The Incredibles, through the underlying point of the film (those who stand in the way of society's superior members will be crushed).
Objectivism rears its head in BioShock from the very beginning, when the player is introduced to the underwater city called Rapture. Built by Andrew Ryan, it was created as a haven for all sorts of people to operate without the hindrances of morals or critics. Rapture and all of its inhabitants are destroyed by this unchecked lifestyle, showing that objectivism is doomed to fail.
This ideology is played out in the animated film through the character Syndrome's efforts to allow every member of society to be a “super,” thereby essentially destroying the very essence of what makes the Supers, well, super. Syndrome's plan is eventually foiled, and he is killed. The point behind all of this is that greatness (super-powers) will always dominate mediocrity (normality), an idea Rand touched on in her writings.
Hope I'm not late!
The Ayn Rand poster is rightfully mine and nobody else's because I need it around me, to serve as a reminder of the deeper meanings of both The Incredibles and BioShock, and how wonderful both of these things are. Rand's ideas and themes play strongly into the Xbox 360 masterpiece BioShock, from the in-game characters' names (Andrew Ryan, a play on Rand's name; Frank Fontaine, from Fountainhead; and Atlas, who ends up being Fontaine) to the overall plot line (which plays on Rand's ideas of objectivism and its benefits and downfalls), as well as in The Incredibles, through the underlying point of the film (those who stand in the way of society's superior members will be crushed).
Objectivism rears its head in BioShock from the very beginning, when the player is introduced to the underwater city called Rapture. Built by Andrew Ryan, it was created as a haven for all sorts of people to operate without the hindrances of morals or critics. Rapture and all of its inhabitants are destroyed by this unchecked lifestyle, showing that objectivism is doomed to fail.
This ideology is played out in the animated film through the character Syndrome's efforts to allow every member of society to be a “super,” thereby essentially destroying the very essence of what makes the Supers, well, super. Syndrome's plan is eventually foiled, and he is killed. The point behind all of this is that greatness (super-powers) will always dominate mediocrity (normality), an idea Rand touched on in her writings.
Hope I'm not late!
The Ayn Rand poster portrait is rightfully mine because Helena Bonham Carter said so, and you will do whatever Helena Bonham Carter says, especially when she's holding a pistol to your head. Do you know what happened to the last person who defied her? She shot them! I saw it. I was standing right there and then all of a sudden, I heard bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Because Helena Bonham Carter has a trunk full of guns and she will fucking use them if you cross her.
I'd like to give some hot fountainhead to...an enormous penis!!!
I definitely should be given the post of Ayn Rand. I enjoy posters of people I hate. I have a great one of George Bush. My mom gave it to me for Christmas. She bought it from a kiosk at the mall. You know the type. In the south, they sell terrible pencil drawings of Dale Earnhart, Travis Tritt, and the like. My poster of George Bush actually has two faces, one of the front, and one in profile. It used to be in the living room of my old apartment, but my room mate found it way too creepy. I moved it to the bathroom, and now in my current apartment, it has again found it's home there. While Bush has taken the spot above the toilet, I'm sure that I could find an acceptable spot of Ayn Rand. Perhaps I could place it next to my poster of Christian Laetner. I hate him too. Of course, there is the fact that he played basketball at Duke, but beyond that I actually met the guy once, and he was a total asshole. I didn't take notice of him, but when you are in a mall in Raleigh, you are bound to find people who love Christian Laetner. People freaked out and, despite the fact that he really isn't anybody anymore, he refused to sign anything or take any photos. Who does that?
So, in summation, you should give me the poster because she will greatly add to my collection of posters of people I hate.
This is still stupid.
The poster is mine. It is because I said it is. It is because I’ll continue to tell all more they need not know. For example, this author has never read a word of Ayn fucking Rand and probably never will. This author doesn’t have a fucking clue about Ayn Rand but, recently learned it wasn’t pronounced “Ann”.
This author owns that goddamn poster because his youngest offspring has read every fucking thing read by Ayn Rand and for some reason thinks it matters… for some reason he thinks his arrogant father should move beyond his trivial readings and explore some meat.
I shrug. It won’t happen.
The next time the little shit criticizes my Stephen King or Tom Clancy, I’ll bring out the stupid piece of paper, then matted and framed, and say, “Shove this little ditty up your ass!”
He will flip. It could have only been better if it were Beethoven or Sondheim. Then he would have pissed himself.
So, with all due respect to the other yahoos attempting to steal my poster: knock it off!
Hey, you. Yeah you; the person reading this. Get busy and ignore those other losers and shove the bitch in the tube. Send her my way. The kid will be home from college next weekend and I want to watch him flip.
He will stare at it. He will get a little emotional. He will hug me (that’s always nice). And, he will thank me.
And I will thank you.
Now. Put my poster in the tube.
OK, I changed my mind. Oklahomo @28 wins. Because he wins the comment thread, fuck the broader argument.
If not me, than 12.
Is it too late to appeal to the Slog's self interest and offer monetary or sexual favors?
Christopher, if you give the piece to me, I will send it to Steve Ditko. You probably won’t know who that is, but talk to Constant, because this is a brilliant idea, trust me. Rathke should be proud to have Ditko own it. And if Paul disagrees with the brilliance of this idea, he is wrong, don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Of course he actually does know what he’s talking about, and I don’t really think he will disagree with the quality of this plan, but I need to write at least 150 or so more words and don’t particularly feel like explaining why this is such a great idea, because if you know Rand, and you know Ditko, it’s really rather obvious that giving Rathke’s elegant linework to the only cartoonist who has devoted much of his life to promoting Rand in his stark, black-and-white comics. The was after Spider-Man. You can’t mention Ditko without mentioning that he co-created Spider-Man (with Stan “The Man” Lee), especially when you still have about 75 words to write. I met Ditko once at his studio in midtown Manhattan, and I think I would pay more for an audio tape of that conversation than any I’ve ever had in my life. It lasted about two hours, and Ditko never invited me or my companion inside, so we stood in the hallway the entire time. But it was nonetheless an awesome experience, and I’d love to repay him with this. Hey, look: 256 words!
I deserve the portrait because I need something to help decorate a bulletin board when I teach Anthem. Like Bill, the first essay writer, I affect youthful minds. However, I work with high school students who tend to quickly pick up on the egoist and independent nature of Ayn Rand’s novels.
In order to help my students gain a better sense of the author, I would like to display the googly-eyed portrait in a prominent place in my classroom. Students can stare at her mannish features while realizing the “guiding star” is within them. (I’m sure the students would much rather do this than pay attention to anything I have to say anyway.) Perhaps the portrait will give them more inspiration than the endless essay contests sponsored by the Ayn Rand Institute or the endless discussions I have with them about breaking free from the chains of society and seeking independence. In the years since I started teaching Anthem, my students have yet to run out of my classroom shouting, “You fools! You thrice-damned fools!” like Equality, but maybe that wavy hair and screwywompus left eye will finally give them the extra shove to find independence. It might make them embrace Rand’s philosophies or at least scare the hell out of them so they pay attention to what I say.
In Anthem, Equality learns the power of the word “I” and says, “I am. I think. I will.” I’ll add to it: I am the winner. I think I deserve it. I will hang it up.”
My Essay
by umvue
"To begin with, it is helpful to know what is meant by the term “essay.” In general, an essay is a formal composition containing: An introductory paragraph with a thesis statement. A minimum of two body paragraphs. A concluding paragraph."1
The former being the introductory paragraph.
The following being the concluding paragraph.
I am John Galt.
1Helping Your Child Write an Essay: Organizing and Brainstorming Janet Parady, M.S.Ed
The wall came down on January 16. It was not a minor breach but a Jericho collapse. Barbarians at the gate no longer, we poured in to plunder, raping Euripedes and murdering Marlowe and molesting Moliere. We, mortals in the arena of gods, never went back to the outside looking in. We liberated the stage in the name of democracy, lead by a sole woman armed with a typewriter. Her play, Night of January 16, obliterated the Fourth Wall of theater and sounded the death knell for fascism in the universe.
Night of January 16 opened on September 16 at the Ambassador Theatre in 1935. Audience members -- the underclass! -- served as jury members at the trial of Karen Andre, accused of murdering her lover, Bjorn Faulkner. The prosecution and defense presented evidence to the audience-jury. Did Miss Andre do it? We decided, not the playwright-as-God. We became the generators of drama. Control of the Great Narrative has decentralized ever since in guerrilla theater, cinema verite, reality television, weblogs, and X-Tube. Ayn Rand showed us how.
Dramatists pray at the Shrine of Shakespeare, the Oracle of O’Neill or the Temple of Tennessee. But I choose the devil sect, the Coven of Ayn Rand. You, and others of your ilk, may not remember this playwright. Her career echoed those of too many brilliant artists: brief and obscure. Yet who among us can dismiss her lone contribution to the canon, or deny its impact on the Information Revolution currently being uploaded? Our Independence Day is January 16.
The picture of Ayn Rand is rightfully mine because it delineates a path in my life through weird names, second-tier loves, and red hair: First, I have never understand how "Ayn" can be pronounced "Ann" even though my mother's name was spelled Maciejczyk and pronounced Muh-chay'-chick. But my mom was Polish and she wanted to hook me up with the little Polish kid in my elementary school, who had reddish-brown hair. I wasn't interested, but the first redheaded boy I did get a hankering for, he got a poem -- I called it The World of The Copper Sunset because his hair reminded me of a shiny copper penny. He was Mormon too so I thought maybe all Mormons had bright red hair. Then years later another boy who was all twisted up about life and who was blond and Polish said Atlas Shrugged inspired him to work hard when he didn't want to exist at all. But I couldn't read Atlas Shrugged because it was so thick, so I read The Fountainhead instead. All I remember about that book is a redheaded guy in an unfinished skyscraper really high up in the air.
It would be more appropriate for this entry to be 752 words, but like Atlas was to the Fountainhead, so is the Fountainhead essay to the Anthem essay.
If I'm wrong about it being mine, then 48 should get it, because naked mole rats are some of the weirdest creatures ever put down on this fine earth. Even weirder than redheads.
The portrait rightfully belongs to me because I am a high school student working on a speech about Ayn Rand. My friend and I have labored for many hours over this presentation, and it features a wonderful skit explaining why it is evil to save someone in a burning building. It is thoughtful and well-rehearsed, and I see no reason why any rational person could listen to it and not immediately sign up to receive regular emails from the Ayn Rand Institute about the perils of stopping global warming. However, our presentation is lacking something. Our English teacher, a wonderful man who allows us to get coffee in the middle of class, has a poster up in his room which has a Big Brother-esque face with OBEY written below in an ominous font. My friend and I discussed this and concluded that it would be far more appropriate for him to have a portrait of Ayn Rand with a sign that says OBEY, since the Randian capitalist utopia presented in Atlas Shrugged is a much better model to base society off of than anything Orwellian. The portrait would also serve as an excellent source of light and inspiration for those of us forced to spend seven hours a day in a Seattle public high school, particularly one with phallic stair railings and asbestos-laden walls. It’s in your rational self-interest to improve the quality of public education, since my generation is going to be running the country in a few decades. And besides, Ayn is just hot.
I believe that I am deserving of the Ayn Rand portrait because I am a loyal ten-plus year Stranger reader and product of Seattle who has grown up to embody the ideals that Rand championed. Starting out in marginal Seattle public schools, I was able to pull myself up by moving into, first, the moderately gifted students program, and subsequently, the exceptionally gifted students program. Upon finishing the aforementioned tracking programs, I moved on to the most challenging and well regarded public high school, which provided me with an exceptional education and allowed me the opportunity to further distinguish myself.
Admission to a prestigious college followed, where my ability to persevere and excel continued to pay off—those skills, along with a superior LSAT score afforded me with admission to an ivy league law school. Despite competing with fellow law school students with extraordinary pedigrees, the effort that I had put into my previous educational opportunities, along with my dedication to my studies, come exam time, paid off—the grades I brought home were among the best of my class. I knew that my achievements in that first year, while impressive, wouldn’t sustain me. In the succeeding years, I continued to push myself, aware that I couldn’t depend on my previous accomplishments or the lackadaisical nature of my privileged peers to bring me to the top. Those efforts brought me to a position with a leading law firm and an opportunity for fiscal success that far exceeds that of the station into which I was born.
Heres a brilliant twist even Ayn Rand herself would appreciate – the poster belongs to every single eligible commenter. Its like the parable of King Solomon with the two whores. No wait, its more like a modern day icon, Bill Drummond who purchased ‘A Smell of Sulphur in the Wind’, an art piece by Richard Long, for $20,000 and decided to cut it up into 20,000 pieces and sell it for $1 each. This is why my comment stands out, its unique in that I’m not claiming the entire piece for myself – in this day and age, when we’re all supposed to try and ‘get along’ as the fucking Antarctic ice-sheets are melting away while Johnny drives his portly Ford truck to walmart to pick up the special on 15 bottles of Axe deodorant because he’s convinced that the ad he studied in Playboy must be telling the truth – Axe gets you laid. Chicks dig Axe. Hugh Hefner probably slathers Axe all over his crusty grey-haired chest every morning, why else would those blonde bimbos want anything to do with him? Sorry, I digress. The point I’m trying to make here is – King Solomon, was right. He was a wise fucking man, no doubts about it. Bill Drummond? Fucking genius. Him and Jim Cauty burned a million quid on some godforsaken island. They couldn’t have been wrong. I can’t be wrong in saying this, as my last and final statement. Chop up the fucking piece, and spread the joy amongst all us that hate Ayn fucking Rand.
@29 There was a rape in The Fountainhead?
No gifts today. Last night no monster star.
Cheese and wine start things. The teen-age daughter
looks too strong to rape, and listing all the animals would be futile or insane.
If I had been women, I'd have been Ayan Rand.
Her fast-penned portrait then, belongs to me.
Give it to my house - across from the shitty softball park.
This poster is mine. It is mine because, while I rationally will choose to sleep with any female owner of this poster, so that I can burn it.
Sadly, however, I will burn it. This future action of mine will encourage any male holder of this poster to give it to me, because Fire is Good.
And, for any transgendered owner, while I won't sleep with you, you will appreciate the tentacle porn concept of me burning it for the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and thus award it to me.
And to the judges, you will award it to me, because I am not bound by your rules - I make my own, as any Objectivist would, and am posting this contrary to your weaker claim that I can not claim it after midnight - but since it is after midnight, it is already mine, and my post is an acknowledgment of my current possession of this poster.
Cat in Chicago @6 was the best. By far.
The dog ate my essay. Can I have an extension?
@66: Debatable... rape or just rough, violent play. It depends on whether or not they negotiated a safe word off screen.
I assume that word would have been "altruism."
Rand's sex scenes were pretty uniformly terrible - her Wikipedia page talks about it a little bit, and includes a quote from a book by Barbara Branden (the former wife of Rand's one-time intellectual heir and lover) that if the Fountainhead sex scene was a rape, it was "rape by engraved invitation".
"We can do bettah! Now let's get some chowdah."
- apocryphal quote from President Kennedy
"We can do bettah! Now let's get some chowdah."
- apocryphal quote from President Kennedy
I let "my readers" down? Do I work for the Stranger?
@72: ALL of Rand's writing was terrible. The stupid woman was utterly unfamiliar with the way humans speak and act in any situation, not just rapes. People going to the toilet make 45 page speeches first. She's BY FAR the worst fiction writer of the twentieth century; she makes Bulwer-Lytton look like early Hemingway.
Hyperbole: it's easier than rational debate!
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