4

What Happens When You Imprison an Old Timey Strongman,

Born in 1888 in Lithuania, then part of the Russian Empire, Alexander Zass was an old time strongman circus performer who is now known as the “Father of Modern Isometrics”. Zass taught that the key to superhuman strength was not just weightlifting, but by strengthening the hands, wrists, and arms through isometric exercise. Zass was very strong. VERY STRONG. Just how strong was he? Working as a circus performer as “The Great Samson”, he would bend iron bars around his legs, neck, and teeth, break chains with his chest, tie bars into knots, he would appear on stage carrying two lions, or suspend a piano from his teeth. One time he even carried on his shoulder a piano compete with pianist and a dancer.

When World War I broke out in 1914, Zass was conscripted into the Russian Army in order to fight the Germans and Austro-Hungarians.  In the midst of battle he was captured by the Austrian Army.  While a prisoner of war, he quickly gained a reputation as an escape artist, making three escape attempts.  On his fourth and successful attempt, the guards locked him in a cell, then shackled him to the floor by his arms and legs for good measure.  One day, when the guards checked his cell, they were astounded to discover that he had broken his shackles, bent the iron bars of his cell window, and climbed to his escape.

Once upon a time - which is a terrible way to start a joke - there was a little boy named Billy.

Billy was six years old, and for the whole of his short life, he had been utterly and intensely obsessed with clowns. He had clown bed sheets and clown posters; he had clown toys and clown-themed games; he had towels with clowns on them, a toothbrush in the shape of a clown, and - if it had existed - he probably would have used clown-flavored toothpaste, as well.

Try not to think about it.

The point here is that Billy loved clowns, and his parents were well aware of that fact. (They’d have to be, right? I mean, how is a six-year-old going to buy all of that stuff?) Thus, they decided that for their son’s seventh birthday, they’d purchase front row seats at the circus, which just happened to be in town at the same time. Upon hearing this, Billy was absolutely overcome with excitement, and he was scarcely able to sit still until his family arrived at the big top.

Billy and his parents walked in, took their seats, and waited for the show to start.

The music flared to life and the lights came up, and in a dazzling display of merriment, everything began. First came the lion-tamers with their whips and chairs… and yeah, they were intriguing, but they didn’t hold Billy’s interest. Next came the feats of strength with strongmen (and one excessively suspicious woman) smashing bricks and bending bars… and yeah, it was impressive, but Billy didn’t really care. The sword swallowers followed, and the trapeze artists, and the tightrope walkers… and yeah, someone might have died at any moment, but it all seemed so boring.

Eventually, Billy began to worry that he wouldn’t get to see clowns at the circus. After all, he knew very well that clowns usually only appeared when something went wrong. (You didn’t know that, did you? Yeah, clowns are typically kept on standby in case someone screws up.)

Suddenly, all of the lights went out.

A single spotlight shown down to one corner of the arena.

A tiny car came puttering into view, while discordant, almost forlorn circus music played.

Deet deet deedle-deedle deet deet dee deeeeee…

The car’s doors sprang open, and out poured the most amazing collection of clowns that Billy had ever seen! There were fat clowns, thin clowns, tall clowns, short clowns! Clowns with bright red hair and enormous red noses! Clowns in silly suspenders and oversize shoes! There were clowns wearing every color of the rainbow, and clowns that moved like psychotic ferrets on speed! There were more clowns than Billy had ever dreamed of watching all at once!

Then, just as it seemed like that tiny car couldn’t produce a single soul more, another clown stepped out. He was too fat to be thin, yet too thin to be fat… but somehow wasn’t average, either. He was too short too be tall, yet too tall to be short… but still managed to be both at once. He had pale, almost white skin - not the product of makeup - and deep, almost black, sunken eyes. He had a shock of bright red (and completely natural) hair, and a bulbous, equally red nose.

Billy looked on with awe and wonder as he realized what he was seeing: This wasn’t a person in makeup who was putting on an act; this was a real clown. The man - if indeed you could call him a man - reached into the front of his pants, wiggled his hand around for a little while, and pulled forth a bright silver microphone. After offering a conspiratorial wink to the audience, the clown cleared his throat… and his dry, raspy voice boomed out for everyone to hear:

“I need a volunteer!”

Before Billy had even completely processed what he had just heard, he discovered that he had leapt from his seat and thrust his hand as high as it would go.

“Pick me!” Billy screamed. “Pick me!”

The clown extended a finger and cast it over the audience, drawing lazy circles through the crowd. After what felt like an eternity, he finally aimed his cracked fingernail directly at Billy.

“You there, little boy!” the clown barked.

A cheer went up as Billy clamored over the railing and dropped down into the arena. The smell of sawdust and sweat reached his nose, but he paid it little mind: He was focused entirely on this dream of his coming true; on the opportunity to meet and perform with a real clown.

“I need to ask you a question,” said the clown. “Tell me: Are you a horse’s head?”

Billy laughed aloud, as much from glee as from the absurdity of the question. “No! No, I’m not a horse’s head!”

The clown nodded, apparently having expected this answer. (After all, who would say yes to that question?) “Well, then… are you a horse’s body?”

“No!” Billy giggled. “No, I’m not a horse’s body, either!”

Once more, the clown nodded, and his broad smile - his thick, red lips - grew wider. “I see. Are you a horse’s leg?

“No, I’m not a horse’s leg!” Billy replied. His own smile grew to match that of the clown.

“So…” the clown said, pacing around Billy. “You’re not a horse’s head, and you’re not a horse’s body, and you’re not a horse’s leg.” He paused then, and stood completely still. A hush covered the audience. Then, in a whirl of motion, the clown jammed his finger through the air and brought it right up into Billy’s face.

“Then you must be a horse’s ass!

Laughter exploded from everywhere at once. Billy looked around, shame and betrayal filling his heart, and saw the faces of all those strangers laughing at him. He saw his friends from school laughing at him. He saw his own parents laughing at him. Something broke inside of Billy in that moment, and with a scream of agony and anguish, he ran from the arena and didn’t stop until he had reached his house.

When Billy’s parents returned home, they discovered that their son had trashed his bedroom. He had snapped his clown toothbrush and torn apart his towels with the clowns on them. He had smashed his clown-themed games and broken all of his clown toys. He had shredded his clown posters and burned his clown bed sheets. (I don’t know where this kid got access to fire, but clearly he was pretty serious about destroying stuff.) Worst of all, Billy’s parents found that their son - who had once been so cheerful and outgoing - had sunken into a deep and unbreakable silence.

Billy did not speak for a year. Therapists and counselors were wholly ineffective, and no amount of bribery, threats, or pleading could pull even the smallest word from his lips. His parents eventually gave up, resigned as they were to the fact that their son was lost to them… but then, on his eighth birthday, the little boy held up his head, blinked his eyes once, and spoke with a clarity and a maturity not heard from most adults.

“Mom, Dad,” he said, “I want you to know that I’m okay. From now on, though… it’s just ‘Bill.’”

Ten years passed.

Bill went on to become something of a legend in his little hometown: He was a perfect student and a dedicated volunteer. He was involved in every extracurricular activity in some way or another. He was captain of the football team, head of the chess club, first-chair violin in the orchestra, and valedictorian. By the time that he was ready to graduate, Bill had been offered a complete scholarship to literally every college in the country (with some schools even offering free alcohol after he turned twenty-one).

It came as something of a shock, then, when after crossing the stage, Bill approached his parents.

“I know that you won’t understand this,” he said, “but I’ve decided that I’m not going to college. You see, all of my success and all of my ambition has been driven by a deep, horrible wound that I still carry. I’ve tried desperately to cover it, to let it heal… but each night, I still hear the voice of that clown in my head. That’s why I’m leaving for Tibet. I’m going to seek out and join the monastery where they teach the ancient art of Comebackery, and once I have mastered all that they can offer… I’ll come back and have my revenge.”

Bill’s parents tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. True to his word, Bill boarded a flight that very evening. He landed in China and trekked on foot to a village at the base of a snow-covered mountain. A year passed as he learned the language and earned the trust of the people who lived there, until the day when one of them gave him whispered directions to the hidden temple. Bill set out again, carrying only a few days’ worth of supplies, and finally found himself at the doorstep of the monastery he had sought.

A knock at the door was answered by the head monk; a small, wrinkled man with a bald head and a serene smile.

“My son,” the head monk said, “I can see that you have been wronged.” (This guy spoke Tibetan, obviously, but the general meaning was the same.) “Normally, you would have to wait here for three days and nights to show your devotion… but I sense that you are a special case. Come into the sanctuary, and we will teach you what you wish to know.”

Thus began Bill’s life as a Monk of Comebackery. He learned jokes, japes, and jeers. He learned witticisms and retorts. He learned insults, insinuations, dares, and double entendres. Before long, he was able to verbally spar with the very best of his brethren.

Yet still, even after another decade of training, Bill did not feel any closer to learning what he had hoped to find.

One cold winter morning, Bill approached the head monk with his concerns. “Master,” he said, “have I not been a good pupil?”

“You have been exemplary,” answered the head monk.

“And have I not upheld and embodied everything you have taught?”

“Indeed you have,” the head monk replied.

“Then,” Bill said, steadying himself, “I wish to learn the forbidden knowledge. I wish to learn… The Ultimate Comeback.”

The head monk looked into Bill’s eyes for a long, ominous moment.

Eventually, he smiled.

“My son,” the head monk said, “when you came to us, you were but a youth with a scar on his soul. You had been cut more deeply than any man should have to endure, and yet you persevered. More than that, you excelled. You have inspired us all with your strength and conviction, and also with your insight.” The man stepped forward and clasped a hand over Bill’s shoulder. “I cannot teach you what you seek, for you already know it.”

At first, Bill felt himself reeling inside. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Had he thrown his life away for nothing? Had he wasted all of those years training, only to fail at the last step? The thought was too terrible to consider, and Bill experienced a sense of loss unlike any he had felt since…

Since…

In a flash of clarity, Bill understood.

The Ultimate Comeback, he knew, was a weapon of untold power. It was to be wielded only by they who had discovered it for themselves, and it could only be discovered by they who had felt its devastation firsthand. It was so elegant, so perfect, and so deadly… and Bill knew that it had always been inside of him.

The head monk, watching Bill’s face, smiled again. “You are ready.”

Over the next few days, Bill made preparations to return home. He bade goodbye to his brothers at the monastery, then trekked back down to the village at the base of the mountain. He worked tirelessly in their fields and households, saving every bit that he could in order to afford a plane ticket back to the United States. It took still another year, but finally, Bill found himself stepping off the airplane onto American soil (or, rather, onto American linoleum in an American airport), and hitchhiking in the direction of his hometown.

When he finally arrived, Bill was aghast at what he discovered. This once-welcoming neighborhood had descended into squalor and disrepair. Shops were boarded up and trash littered the street. Stray dogs ran in packs, fighting over scraps of rubbish. What few people Bill encountered would quickly avert their gazes and hurry on their way. The warmth and compassion that he had experienced in his youth were both gone, replaced by a desolate despondence and an overcast sky.

It didn’t take long to find that Bill’s parents were long dead. His friends had all moved on, and the legend of Bill’s high school success had faded into little more than an unlikely memory. Despair filled Bill’s heart, along with a thrum of rising panic. Was he too late? Had he spent so much time abroad that he’d missed his chance to have his revenge?

As if in answer, a gust of wind brought a scrap of paper to Bill’s feet. He reached down and retrieved it… and realized that it was a ticket to the circus’s last-ever show. Not only that, but the performance was being held that very day, and the ticket would grant Bill access to the very same seat he had occupied all those years ago.

This, Bill decided, was fate.

He squared his shoulders and walked in the direction of the big top.

When Bill arrived to the circus, he found that it had fared no better than the rest of the town. The tents all hung in tatters, barely more than faded scraps of cloth. The seats were rickety and rusty, and even the sawdust bore the telltale scent of rot. Despite the dilapidation, though, it seemed that the final performance had drawn an enormous crowd, and Bill had to shove his way through the audience to reach his seat at the front row.

He held his breath, waiting for the show to start.

The music moaned to life and the lights flickered up, and in a halfhearted display of merriment, everything began. First came the lion-tamers with their whips and chairs… and yeah, they were intriguing, but Bill was otherwise occupied. Next came the feats of strength with strongmen (and one excessively suspicious old woman) smashing bricks and bending bars… and yeah, it was impressive, but Bill stayed focused on his own thoughts. The sword swallowers followed, and the trapeze artists, and the tightrope walkers… and yeah, someone might have died at any moment, but it all seemed so irrelevant.

Eventually, Bill began to worry that he wouldn’t get to see the clowns. After all, he knew very well that clowns have a remarkably low life expectancy as compared to other professions. (That’s probably not accurate, but it sure sounds true, doesn’t it?)

Suddenly, all of the lights went out.

A single spotlight shown down to one corner of the arena.

A tiny car came puttering into view, while discordant, almost forlorn circus music played.

Deet deet deedle-deedle deet deet dee deeeeee…

The car’s doors creaked open, and out shambled the most pathetic collection of clowns that Bill had ever seen. There were fat clowns, thin clowns, tall clowns, and short clowns, all of them bent under the weight of age and depression. Clowns with ancient wigs and crumbling rubber noses. Clowns in stretched-out suspenders and orthopedic shoes. There were clowns wearing every faded shade one could imagine, and clowns that moved like they were inches from the grave.

Then, just as it seemed like that tiny car couldn’t produce a single soul more… the outpouring stopped.

Bill’s heart jumped in his chest. Where was the clown who had wronged him as a child? Where was the monster that had haunted his dreams? Where was the target for his Ultimate Comeback?!

A shaking, rattling cough called Bill’s attention to the other side of the arena, and he watched as an old man limped into view. Streaks of grey marred what had once been a shock of bright red hair, and those deep, blackened eyes seemed to have sunk even further into the white face that contained them. Yellow teeth spoke of fetid breath behind those broad, cracked lips, and tremors shook each lanky limb… but it was very clearly the clown from Bill’s past.

The clown raised a tarnished microphone to his mouth and spoke.

“I need a volunteer.”

Before Bill was even aware of his own actions, he discovered that he had stood from his seat and thrust his hand in the air.

“Me,” Bill said. “Pick me.”

The clown extended a finger and cast it over the audience, drawing lazy circles through the crowd. After what felt like an eternity, he finally aimed his cracked, dirty fingernail directly at Bill.

“You there, sir!” the clown rasped.

A reluctant cheer went up as Bill climbed his way over the railing and dropped down into the arena. The smell of mildew and death reached his nose, but he paid it little mind: He was focused entirely on this dream of his coming true; on the opportunity to get his revenge on the clown before him.

“I need to ask you a question,” croaked the clown. “Tell me: Are you a horse’s head?”

“No.”

The single word rang out like a gunshot, echoing in the silence that followed.

The clown, visibly shaken by the response, coughed and continued. “Well, then… are you a horse’s body?”

“No.”

Once more, the syllable cut through the air, piercing everyone who heard it to their very soul. There was an icy, powerful venom in Bill’s voice, and it utterly captivated everyone within earshot.

The clown shivered, clearly unaccustomed to this kind of behavior, but pressed on nonetheless. “I see. Are you a horse’s leg?

“No,” Bill calmly replied, “I am not a horse’s leg.”

Nobody said a word. Nobody even breathed. Nobody had ever experienced anything as chilling as the tone in Bill’s voice… but the clown had a secret weapon, too. With an evil, sinister smile, that pale-faced, red-haired monstrosity summoned forth the unspeakable power that rests within the blackened heart of every clown, bringing it to bear in a horrifying smile that should not have been able to exist outside of a nightmare.

“So!” the clown said, pacing around Bill. “You’re not a horse’s head, and you’re not a horse’s body, and you’re not a horse’s leg.” He paused then, and stood completely still. A hush covered the audience. Then, in a whirl of motion, the clown jammed his finger through the air and brought it right up into Bill’s face.

“Then you must be a horse’s ass!

Laughter exploded from everywhere at once. Bill looked around, and suddenly, he was a little boy again. All of that shame and betrayal filled his heart, and he couldn’t help but imagine the faces of all those strangers laughing at him. He saw his friends from school laughing at him. He saw the ghosts of his parents laughing at him. Something broke inside of Bill in that moment… but rather than scream and run, he held up a hand.

Wait!

The laughter stopped.

The silence returned.

“The clown”

robogreaser  asked:

How would you feel about drawing a cyberpunk/robot Zahhak? I feel like your style would lend itself really well to mecha and metal things.

Due to a manufacturing error, heavy artillery android, serial code 3QU-1U5 was produced with an exceedingly large surplus of strength.

(In a most unusual turn of events, this same defect was observed in both H0R-U55 and prototype 3XP-47R-1473. I question what caused this abundance of strongmen?)

TERMINATION APPROVED 

-Dr. S.Cratch

(part 1, 2, 34)

Not as weak as we seem

Figured it was my turn to jump on the humans are space orcs bandwagon, the general theme is that humans are weaker than most species even on earth, we’re slower, physically weaker and smaller than a lot of other apex predators on earth so maybe aliens see us as this weak intelligent species.

The thing is though not all of us are this weak in comparison, you’ve only got to look at our athletic competitions and strongman competitions, firstly you have as another person said the marathon, we are an endurance species that can run for miles with out running out of energy.

Then more specifically you strongmen, people like Eddie Hall and Hathor Bjornson (sorry if I’m spelling that wrong), people that can literally drag multi tonne vehicles and carry over 100 kilos with ease, our strongmen are pound for pound stronger than most apex predators.

You also have people like Usain Bolt, sprinters that can run at over 25 mph for short distances and do so year after year.

Basically yeah humans are weak in general but we have outliers likely stronger than alien species.

3

الله يرحمه , Kahlil Gibran.  The best-selling poet after Shakespeare and Laozi, Gibran was born in Lebanon to a Maronite family before emigrating to the United States of America in 1895 at the age of 12.  His works infuse the traditions of the Syriac Maronite Church as well as the mysticism of Sufism, and while critical acclaim did not follow The Prophet (26 verses of poetic prose) on its publication in 1923, popular acclaim did, and continues to do so–it has yet to be out of print since its original publication in the United States of America.  Also a gifted artist (he illustrated his own works), Gibran died on this date in 1931 at the age of 48.  Here’s one of his poems worth remembering:

“Pity the Nation” (composed c. 1912, published 1933)

Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.

Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave and eats a bread it does not harvest.

Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.

Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream, yet submits in its awakening.

Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except among its ruins, and will rebel not save when its neck is laid between the sword and the block.

Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking

Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting, and farewells him with hooting, only to welcome another with trumpeting again.

Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strongmen are yet in the cradle.

Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.

Stamp details:
Stamp on top:
Issued on: April 10, 1971
From: Beirut, Lebanon
MC #1129

Middle stamps:
Issued on: December 19, 1983
From: Beirut, Lebanon
MC #BL43

Stamps on bottom:
Issued on: April 30, 2008
From: Beirut, Lebanon
MC #BL53

100 Days of Trump Day 64: Fallout New Vegas

Edit: Of all the 100 Days of Trump i’ve done, this one has gotten the most response, I suspect because most Alt Rightists haven’t heard of anything I reference except Fallout New Vegas.  Also they keep saying its bullshit but can’t actually point to any specific fact to dispute because you know…morons 

Welcome Back to 100 Days of Trump, where I try to explain WTF happened in 2016 through 100 works of fiction, and I think we haven’t had quite enough video games in the last three days, lets talk fallout.  Now the Fallout series has a lot of depth, good characters, fun gameplay and interesting ideas so generally I recommend all of it….except Fallout 3….and Fallout 4….and Brotherhood of Steel…..Ok really just the first two games and this one, but the point is only New Vegas is really relevant to Trump, but play the first two if you like classic RPGs.

     So everybody knows that Fallout is a post nuclear world, but the premise of the…good games is that society collapsed…..nothing really changed.  People are exactly the same just with less fancy houses and and the sins of the Old World continue on to the future.  So ok, sounds like post Great Recession America, how is this about Trump?  Well FallOut New Vegas is about the player being trapped between three factions

 Caesar’s Legion, a violent reactionary sexist, racist, right wing militant extremist group who advocate racial supremacy, and a return to an idealized past that never existed.

The New Californian Republic, A bunch of corrupt moderates who couch their language in the ideals of democracy and progressive ideals but are duplicitous, warmongering, and have become increasingly sexist, racist, classist, and undemocratic but look good compared to the first group.

Mr. House, a completely amoral rich plutocrat whose utter selfishness and open hostility to submitting to any form of control are mixed with surprisingly progressive social policies and honest look at the problems.

    So New Vegas is an alternate universe if Bloomberg actually ran third party, and Trump wasn’t a complete idiot. 

Today though, I want to focus on Caesar’s Legion.  One of the themes of New Vegas is even though the US has been wiped out, everybody is clinging to symbols of the past, clinging to them out of context and justifying their actions by claiming continuity with the past.  The NCR claims to literally be the US goverment despite a century long gap between the fall of the US and the NCR’s founding, or the fact that it doesn’t use our constitution, or the fact that it is only located in California.  And its desire to seize control of all the American land means it prioritizes war over its citizen’s well being (stop me if this sounds familiar).  Mr. House is determined to preserve the culture of Las Vegas, or rather the way we imagine Las Vegas, with all of the actual realities of Vegas culture removed, its the city center without the city around it, forcibly preserved by an immortal dictator.  All the factions try to link themselves to a mystical past (a past we know is utterly whitewashed cause its our present), but the worst of them all, is Caesar’s Legion

    See, Edward Sallow was a history nut of the old world when he read about the Roman Empire, and sought to recreate it anew in post apocalyptic Nevada, arguing that since Rome is the foundation of Western Civilization, a return to true Western Greatness.  Wherever they go, they bring cultural purity, slavery, Roman era gender relations, and require absolute conformity to their way of life.  According to Caesar

“Pax Romana=It means a nationalist, imperialist, totalitarian, homo genius culture that obliterates the identity of every group it conquers.  Long term stability at all costs.  The individual has no value beyond his utility to the state, whether as an instrument of war or production”

But here is the thing, speaking as a big roman history nut…..THAT ISN’T TRUE.  Pax Romonus means “Roman Peace” and means just that, peace.  Rome was an Imperialistic, slave owning, genocidal empire that could be extraordinarily brutal, but guess what?  It wasn’t nationalistic, the Roman Empire was always borrowing ideas from other cultured cultures in order to improve their empire, it was extremely multicultural and interventionist.   I mean

   The Roman Navy was Carthaginian 

   The Roman Gods were Greek 

    Later they converted to a monotheistic Sect from Judea

    For a while they worshiped a Syrian god named Sol Invictus 

   Most of the Elites Spoke Greek

   The Roman Legionary Structure was influenced by the neighboring Samnites

   The roman Calvary was almost always Gallic, North Africa, German or Syria

    Trajan and Hadrien were Spanish

   The Severun dynasty was North African/Syrian (and btw the dynasty that most resembled New Vegas)

    The Ilyrian Emperors who saved rome from the Crisis of the Third Century AD, like Aurelian, Diocletion, Claudius Gothicus) were from the Balkans

  Constantine was Balkan/British

   Flavius Aetius (who defeated Atilla the Hun) was Scythian 

   Justinian and Belisarius weren’t Latin Roman

   Hell after a certain point, almost none of the Emperors are Roman any more, instead they are German, or Hunnic, Syrian or Raba, Spanish or African, Gaulic or Balkan, non Roman Italian, 

  In fact, one of the main reasons why Western Roman Empire fell is that it didn’t allow the various Gothic/Germanic strongmen to become Emperor in their own RIght.

    Rome was never a homogeneous unchanging culture, from Romulus to Constantine XI Roman is defined by its capacity to change and adapt, and its multi cultural empire gave it a lot of ideas to draw upon.  And when you look at White Nationalists today who fetishist Rome, it is a rome they don’t understand.    By the Way, that Hegelian view of history, that is believed by Steave Bannon. 

   Also…the transformation to dictatorship doesn’t go as Caesar claims, cause guess what?  Julius Caesar didn’t invade a foreign nation to become Emperor, he had a civil war with his own country.  And Augustus Caesar took pains to ensure that his Empire was a soft and nonthreatening as possible, the more authoritarian emperors like Septimius Severus were terrible rulers whose regimes fell into civil war and chaos.  

Also The Julians didn’t claim to be “Son of Mars” they claimed to be descended from Venus Goddess of Love, hence her role in the Aeneid.  

This is the foundation of the Roman Imperium, the Goddess of Love     

     Also Rome didn’t emerge out of a harsh brutal land to fight against the weak fat settled people, Rome emerged in Central Italy, a lush fertile climate.  Hell according to legend, Rome was founded by the refuse and exiles from all the surrounding societies, who came to Rome for a second chance and married Sabine women.  Honestly Caesar (the in game Caesar no real life, Julius Caesar) seems to be confusing Rome with Sparta, and which of those two civilizations conquered the known world?  I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t the one with the eugenics model.  It was the one with the independent aristocracy, and a Republic who did most of the conquest of Rome.  This is a map of Rome at its height 

and this is how much of that was taken by the Republic, not the empire

That is more than half, and a great deal of the remaining was conquered by Emperor Claudius, you know, this guy?

the one with the limp and the stammer and the twitch.  The Empire mostly fought Romans, it was the Republic that did the real conquering.  To say nothing of the road building.    

    And when the Legion tries to Cosplay as Real Rome, it never quite matches the true stories. 

   This stories resembles Roman propaganda, except…Rome rarely wiped out the entire population, in fact their empire was supported by a network of client kingdoms who betrayed their former rulers to side with Rome.  One of the most important pieces of Roman rule that if you surrendered, you were treated fairly, if you fought a bit and then surrendered, you were treated well.  If you fought to the death, stuck to your principles as Vulpes implies, then you were wiped out.  Just ask the Jews at Masada how Rome respects those who fight to the last.  

    So we have a violent, militant, reactionary culture fetishistic a past that never truly existed and they don’t seem to understand to justify extreme racism, violence, and horrifying sexism in order to fight against a corrupt hypocritical but far less awful democratic regime.  Sound Familiar

oh…..well that too but also this 

   Those who idealize history are always those who understand it the least, and New Vegas for all its buggy often frustrating gameplay glory, understands what happens when history is co-opted by those who don’t understand it but wish to use the symbols of nostalgia to justify their own atrocities.  Isn’t that Right Ulysses, so named after the man who traveled the ocean for 10 year trying to find home and then freed all the Slave?

Edit: I also want to talk about this real quick

Yeah that whole “War is great for its own sake” macho bullshit?  The Romans weren’t so into that, they were much more into “Hey, work for us, and you can keep all your stuff”  There is a reason why all of the ancient rome spoke of Roman Treachery.  

    The Pax was about law and order, not about conquest and survival of the fittest, I mean the entire point of the Aenied is rejecting the Illiad’s macho warrior culture mentality