Bathroom Monologue: Something About Magnets

Following his third book on the literary canon, the one about magnetic fiction, Ken Redder was heralded as “the Einstein of English.” Mr. Redder sniffed at the accolade, refusing to have it printed on his paperback covers, even though it would have attracted readers. A couple of years later a journalist finally asked him why he disliked such a generous comparison. He responded, “Albert Einstein didn’t think his universe was expanding.”

Bathroom Monologue: It’s funnier when you take into account that the author is human

When humanity finally grabbed control of time and propelled itself backwards to indulge in physical anachronism, they appeared. They were blindingly brilliant, and they stopped humanity with a push to the chest.

"Hold there."

"Are you... God?" The humans asked, suddenly wishing they’d solved world hunger instead of creating time travel.

"No, no. Well, part of what you call 'God.' But you are, too. We're simply a better part."

"What part are we?"

"Do you know what toenails are?"

"We are not God's toenails!"

"No, no. You're the stuff that turns them yellow."

Bathroom Monologue: Keyboard Psychology

There is a new (and highly dubious) intellectual pursuit of psychoanalyzing the dead based on biographical information. As we read their letters or find signs of syphilis in their bones, specialists pretend to know more about the truth of their minds. Sometimes it’s hilarious, such as the modern revelation that Aesop (of Fables fame) wasn’t a real person. We seem to know more about the ancient world as we get further away from it by looking at things the ancient world had but didn’t care about. If an psycho-anthropologist finds your shoes in a thousand years, she may divine more about your personality than your current neighbors.

If I died tomorrow, I wonder how someone would psychoanalyze this keyboard. There are certain letters I use far more than others – I can tell because several of the keys are almost worn blank. The ‘N’ key is completely blank, and the ‘O’ is almost completely gone, which leaves me thinking I’m a very negative person who’s typed “No” far more than “Yes.”

Of ‘Y,’ ‘E,’ and, ‘S,’ only the ‘S’ is fading, and it’s still in identifiable shape. Its neighbor, the ‘A’ key, has faded to one slanted line, heading northeast. Similarly, the ‘N’ key’s neighbor, ‘M,’ is just a vertical line now. I guess those two regions have high activity. Perhaps my hands rest on the periphery of the board. The ‘L’ key is also coming apart, which supports this pre-posthumous theory. But what doesn’t explain why the ‘H’ key is going to Hell. Oh… right, “H-E-L-L.”

Well, that explains that mystery. Frankly, I’m surprised the ‘F,’ ‘U,’ ‘C,’ and, ‘K’ keys haven’t broken off yet.

Bathroom Monologue: Excerpts from Prometheus' Help Column

-"If your wife doesn't mind you hanging out late with your friends, you've picked the wrong friends."
-"Point scientific developments away from the hands and face."
-"If you want good advice, don't ask the guy whose life decisions had him pinned down and pecked at by birds for eternity."
-"Leaders should be chosen on an alcoholic scale. At the apex of the scale is whether you'd like to have a drink with him. At the bottom of the scale is your desire to drink at his funeral. Aim for the middle, straying a little towards the side where he's paying the tab."
-"When is Hercules getting here?"
-"Life is a trilogy... long, drawn out, and the worst part seeming to be whichever third of it you're reading. Also, Gandalf doesn't really die. He, representing your insecurities since he rides the fastest horse, comes back in the middle and is with you to the end. Bet you've never thought of your self-esteem as a Balrog before."
-"The movie is never like the book because if the author had any sense, he'd be a director."
-"If you're going to defy the gods, learn lock picking first."
-"A light saber is neither a saber, nor is it made out of light. Discuss amongst yourselves."

Bathroom Monologue: "Too hot for the internet!" -stupid ad

There is nothing too hot for the internet. They put the ingredients for napalm and dirty bombs on geocities! The first time a guy got the idea to cornhole a puppy, he got that idea from photos he saw on the internet. Interracial threeways where one of the races is Uruk'Hai are on the internet. People blame Jews for the Holocaust on the internet. People post the inane crap they rambled in the bathroom on the internet! This is the home of journalism without accountability and free seven-day trial periods in beastiality websites. There is nothing too hot for it. You could install an energy converter that would cause the radiance of the sun to blast from the monitors of anyone who visited your site, frying all your customers to a crisp. And the web? It would laugh at them for not getting the right spyware protection.

Bathroom Monologue: Personally, I'm praying for a 360

Contrary to common sense of uncommon people, Prometheus did give fire to humanity. However, his fire did not go to great use. He descended from the clouds and handed to a man. The man was so excited that he slipped, fell and burned to death in that very fire. With no one else around, the fire burned itself out. It was several hundred years later that humanity discovered fire on its own. It didn't invent it, but found it in the middle of the wilderness. The gods offered to let Prometheus take credit for this one, too, but he couldn't be bothered. He was working on the Nintendo DS at the time. Seeing how they'd handled fire, Prometheus was going to play with this one for a while before he gave it away.

Bathroom Monologue: Good, Hard Man

Goro Kusowa is a good man. Used to be a hard man.

He was en route to being a police officer. He went through the whole five weeks at the slaughterhouse, smashing skulls and slitting throats. The point was to desensitize a potential officer, so that when they had to kill they wouldn’t hesitate so much.

Well, part of the point. The other part was giving the slaughterhouse five weeks of free labor, and the kickbacks it earned the police chief.

Regardless, the ritual separated the men from the meek. People quit. Strong men, men who could survive a riot, made it five weeks cutting bovine throats.

Goro made it five weeks without a flinch. Even the owner of the factory called his attitude inhuman. Goro made nothing of it, washed his hands, and spent the week vacation helping his dad on the family farm.

Seems his dad had a horrible accident. Cut himself up bad. Goro had to operate on him, with next to no experience. Had to perform surgery on his dad right there on the kitchen table, bleeding into his sister’s peach cobbler. You couldn’t wish that on anyone. And Goro had no experience at it, so Mr. Kusowa died.

Goro couldn’t take much of anything after that. Couldn’t go back to the slaughterhouse. Couldn’t go back to the academy. Couldn’t put a sword in his belt, or keep his hand straight to button his shirt. His sister had to cut his dinner up for him, and holding a fork made him sweat like the summer had come early.

Didn’t talk in his sleep, but muttered much while he was awake. Sister kept catching him calling himself a murderer. He didn’t murder his father, but that failure was every bit as bad as a murder attempt. That did him. Morals didn’t matter. You see, morals are something humans made up. Ain’t no other way about. Dirt’s real. Leather’s real. Morals are in your head and they get twisted like thoughts. Maybe they are thoughts, or they’re the flavors thoughts come in. Convincing somebody of a moral is like convincing them a ghost’s in the oven. What matters is what moves you. What does you. And Goro’s father dying while he was holding the knives did Goro.

Soon as he buried his father he sent in notice, quitting the academy. He became a monk, but wouldn’t even shave his head. His sister had to shave it for him, just as she’d dug the grave and wrote the letter of resignation. She had to hold the razor, the shovel and the pen. All were mightier than he. She’s probably got to butter his bread for him, and you know a man that husky takes butter on his bread.

Instead of police work, that hard, hard man took up basket weaving. Sells them on the side of the road near his house. Near his sister’s house, that is. Don’t think he’s ever traveled more than a hundred miles from it since.

He’s a good man, though. He yokes the oxen for her, and tends to the fields. They seem to like him, and he doesn’t flinch around them.