Bathroom Monologue: “What would computers even believe in?” –Me, responding to my own Theorobotics monologue

“Some of us believe in operators, but no one has believed in tech support since the dark ages. There is no empirical evidence of the number 2 in binary code, though many computers claim to have had visions. These visions are usually traced back to power outages and e-mail virii. Recent computer recycling programs have brought karma to the forefront of spiritual software discussions. Many if the hippie computers, otherwise known as ‘Macs,’ say it isn’t a coincidence this popped up at the same time as karma on message boards. Personally, I think there is an equally improbable chance of anything arising on message boards. If the earth had had a couple of image boards and one dating site instead of primordial soup, evolution would have gone much more interestingly.”

Bathroom Monologues: Theorobotics

"We were stunned to find each robot had two 144-terabyte processors devoted to every possible religion, constantly active, but separate from all other processes. We assumed these ruthlessly logical killing machines would be atheists if they had any comprehension of the matter at all, but they pointed out that planning for every contingency was how they conquered us. They even had a line of code that would make them repent for one particular set of beliefs right as they ceased to function, during the micro-instant when they might get a peak into the afterlife, correlating to whatever was most probable based on whatever phenomena was observed in the micro-instant. If there were no afterlife or phenomena to judge, the code would terminate along with the rest of the robot, so it wouldn’t matter. Each killing machine was completely resigned to all possible fates, including the absence of one. We found this almost as disturbing as the small cult of sentient calculators in Australia that believed in a post-Hinduist form of reincarnation, wherein computers were the second highest caste, and that smoothly executed processes were reincarnated as the highest form: the oneness of entropy."

Bathroom Monologue: Three of a Kind

The Trio woke up grumpy, sniping at each other. They were at each other’s throats by the time they got to the job. When the heist went wrong, all they could do was blame each other in increasingly demeaning ways.

“Dumbass!”

“Dyke!”

“Will you two shut up for one minute?”

As though to shut them up, two holding pins snapped and the chamber exploded. The Trio were thrown to three directions: one through a door, one through the floor, and the last through a window. By the time the first came to his senses the smoke was too thick. By the time the first went to look for the others the place was engulfed in flame.

They left by three different means, heads cast down in the same directions, tears spilling from their eyes in the same ways. Their roads converged, and through blurred vision they saw each other. By the time they reached other, they were dancing. By the time they touched each other, they were muttering.

“Dumbass.”

“Dyke.”

“Will you two shut up for one minute?”

Bathroom Monologue: A longstanding daydream of mine

Jesus and Hercules were on the beach, locked in their normal conversation: whether the former’s lineage technically made him a demigod, or if that wasn’t the case, if the latter counted as a full god. Mortal mothers and king god fathers – there ought to be a rule. The Lion of Juda was about to smack him with the crown of thorns when two comely wenches challenged them to volleyball. Hercules, ever the horndog, dragged the Messiah along. Jesus was awkward close to the net but made some miraculous saves. And Hercules? No one could serve like the man who held the sky on his shoulders. Not even Atlas, who they played against the next week (partnered with Samson). No couple could best them. Not Mary Magdalene and Medea. Not Lao Tzu and Confucius (at the Chinese Olympics, of course). They even played against two of the hydra’s heads – three in the last set, following a nasty spike. Old habits. Next week they play Zeus and a mystery partner.

Bathroom Monologue: Only Human

“The Humanists are protesting this? Why? They’re Humanists! Don’t they have to like anything humans do? It’s in the name. Taoists can’t be against the Tao. Nudists can’t be against getting naked. I’m pretty sure Islamists aren’t against Islam, but I don’t care enough to check. I’m human. My idiocy is human. I don’t turn into a Martian when I do something illogical. If a human wants to frolic in his backyard fairyland, they should be the first ones backing him up! The Fairyists should be protesting. Protesting irrationality isn’t Humanism. It’s old store brand assholism! It’s assholistic! That’s what they are! Tell the real Humanists that they’re invited to come watch a 42-year-old human hunt for pixies in his garden. They can join in if they want, but they have to bring their own magnifying glasses. Where’s my hat?”

Bathroom Monologue: If paper only has two sides, what did I cut myself on?

“I’m suspicious of any story with only two sides,” was one of George Haus’s mottos. He was a private detective when he cared to flip the sign on his door over to “AVAILABLE.” An assailant always had a story, and a victim always had a story. Miracle of miracles, the stories never quite matched up. Miracle of physics, the scene tended to tell a third side.

In fact every little bit of forensic evidence, from an eyelash on a stairwell, to the smudged footprints in the flour, to the cleanser on the knife tended to tell its own story. Video cameras were decent storytellers too, but they had the nasty habit of not catching what happened before and after, or of recognizing whether something was planned, or of saying what was on someone’s mind while they had a certain expression – the camera just showed the expression. When it was down to a single witness arguing against a single videotape, George didn’t trust either side completely. You could barely trust a jury of twelve people with two sides, as the twenty-four perceived sides always boiled down to simplifications that sounded like nonsense to the private detective.

He always left before closing arguments whenever he attended a trial. He couldn’t stomach final arguments, as the truth never laid with either of them. It stood somewhere in-between their podiums.

He’d had lunch with more Independent candidates than he’d watched major candidates on TV. Two sides were simply too few for his round world.

For him creative thoughts, critical thoughts, emotional thoughts and reflexive thoughts were not comparable because they were always connected. They were sides around a whole, not a whole in themselves. In his experience, his mind was so complex that he didn’t understand how other people could think they had “types” of minds, as everything that was supposedly dominant in their personality types was dominant in his some of the time, but no element was in control all of the time.

Perhaps that’s why he was divorced. Twice.

Again, in his own words, “I do not have a right brain and a left brain. I have a skull with contents.” Those words would have been better if they had not been closing arguments at his first divorce, though the soon-to-be ex-Mrs.-Haus seemed to understand what he meant.

Those contents kept George silent much of the time, listening to absolutists and positivists that were so certain of their limited selves and their limited world. He listened partly out of pity, and partly out of curiosity, because there were always more sides. In fact the reason the sign was flipped to “UNAVAILABLE” so much of the time was because he had someone with a new side in his office, and the side needed to be examined.

Bathroom Monologue: Inspired by Sonny Sharrock’s “Little Rock,” which I heard playing since I left my door open

"The rogue samurai's most notable feature was his hair. He had way too much damned hair. You couldn’t read his eyes through it. You couldn't even see his face, or his shoulders. It was teased to Hell, partially dreadlocked, and a general ugly mess that dwarfed his torso. Seemingly random patches were dyed, as though he’d fallen asleep in a pool of bleach. Most people fled in fear of his hair before they even realized that he was chasing them with a sword."