Let us start at the beginning.
Many have discerned the notion that God spelt backwards is dog. This revelation is impossible to understand if the English language eludes you and goes some way to explaining the history of 'English Superiority'. Bizarrely this fact has been completely dismissed in any historical analysis of the Crusades, which can be adequately summed up as -
"our domesticated pet turned backwards contains the secret of God, yours incorrectly spells the colour 'blak'".
Alas, nothing is this simple. It would have been if Richard I could have spoken a word of English, but he couldn't, and that's that. Lionheart - did he have the heart of a lion or a lion in his heart? One promotes bravery and courage, the other an impossible zoophilia. I digress. God. If one is to carry on English entitlement through language it is plain and simple that blog spelled backwards reads 'Golb'; it is half divinity and half an appeal for leg before wicket.
Now we are getting somewhere - a blog has no beginning, it is not absolute like God. It also has no end, a batsman waiting for that Umpire's call before the final judgement. English Degrees are impressive.
Let me return to the wonders of backward spelling. A Frenchman is miserable. I should know, I'm half of one. Yet this is not the fault of the French themselves - the genesis of such a problem lies in their language. Whereas Englishmen keep the secret of the heavens in a basket in their kitchen, the French are constantly throwing objects for their 'chiens' to fetch. The french term for multiple dogs are 'chiens', the french term for backwards dogs is 'sneihc'. Add the letters 'ze' for 'ze french' and a 't' which when capitalised (T) looks like a cross (God, you see) and we have our result. Before I reveal to you the results I must refer back to my English Degree and my favourite course - 'Dan Brown Investigates'. That's right, it spells 'Nietzsche'. The source of a Frenchman's misery lies in his dog - a dog that is beyond good or evil and so fetches a ball when it decides to fetch a ball, defecates on the pavement when it chooses to defecate. With this information it is hardly surprising that France strikes so often, who would not be inspired into idleness when they share common space with a Nihilistic canine.
fig 1. French Dog, a proponent of Despair.
Nietzsche. The father of nihilism. The giver of existentialist sperm to a fertile feminine readership. No. Not really. Nietzsche wasn't a beginning either. I have no idea where thoughts begun, but I know they were apparent in Max Stirner's head before hairy-faced Friedrich. If one compares appearances it is pretty obvious Nietzsche's facial hair is inspired by Stirner's prolific sideburns. Actually, it's not. Relatively few pictures exist of Max Stirner. Instead we have to settle for a sketch by another Freidrich, this time Engels, to be enlightened over what an assumed father of existentialism really looks like. A sketch that is more minimalist than the offspring of a conjugal visit between Philip Glass and Beckett, pretty shit actually, but I guess everyone was in the spirit of community when Engels was about -
"if you criticise my sketch, you criticise the world entire".
Or something to that effect.
And thus we come to the beginnings of this blog. Referencing Stirner's own work, due in part because I too am desperately trying to avoid Prussian censors, I have cleverly substituted the word 'blog' for 'ego'. I've kept the 'own' bit, I thought that was pretty apt.
My name, as the address states, is Georges Nase. No it's not, I've ripped off Stirner again. He had a big forehead so Schmidt became Stirner, in my case it's the German translation of a Coriolanus nose which provides the surname. For some reason Johann became Max and this can only be referencing two things -
a) Maximilian Robespierre or
b) Maximus Decimus Meridius, a portrayal of Narcissus by the actor Russell Crowe (coincidentally Crowe's genesis is almost as complicated as God's; New Zealand? Australian? Simian?)
As these are the only two options available I've opted for the crazy, maniacal and vengeful one. I've gone for (a) to be clear. Robespierre might have felt a little triumphant in 1794 (April that is, not July) but Danton certainly has the last laugh - the privilege of being referenced in this widely-read blog.
And that concludes the beginnings of my blog name, blog address, and indeed, blog. In case you missed it - I'm a recent English Literature graduate, unemployed, and forced to start a blog. By trying to avoid the clichés of blog snobbery, explanation and quirky randomness i have fallen into the English graduate trap of creating a blog that is disdainful of its own existence, whose sole purpose is borne out of an intense job market and . . . well I hope it hasn't been quirky. Let it be known that this is not a random blog. Here is a picture of a Moose, wearing a sombrero, and playing Stairway to Heaven on a drum-kit made of skittles - THROUGH THE POWER OF LANGUAGE. No. Pseudo-intellectual rubbish is the only thing on offer here. Cinema articles too. Welcome.
fig 2. Communist rendering of Max Stirner, lack of ink not related to economic policy.