Amin Tech was way ahead of the curve on genetic engineering, producing the first self-sustaining waves of biological nanomachines. These weren’t metal and they didn’t have silicon processors – they were too small for such clunky stuff. Instead, Olivia and Micah Amin lovingly spliced DNA and turned bacteria to good use. They spliced so much DNA that they had ligases named for them (even if nobody in the press knew what ligases were).
Olivia and Micah programmed behavior patterns to the bio-nanos, so that they swarmed and could deal with complex problems in the human body. One booster shot of the buggers could clear out a blocked heart valve in minutes.
Through careful mapping of bio-nano DNA, they could even stimulate the production of healthy proteins in the human body, so that any ligament or muscle could be repaired. Once the job was underway, the bio-nanos would break down and become part of the protein in the healthy new tissue.
But the final development was accidental.
Late one night, Micah thought she noticed strange wave patterns moving in a dish of bio-nanos. Sharing of the wave patterns seemed to correlate between unprogrammed changes in their behavior, specifically making them swarm. Since bio-nanos could only do their jobs if they followed the programs, this innovation was worrisome. Were they self-organizing? Were they talking to each other?
Micah worked to dawn developing a device to decode the mysterious waves. She was stunned over what she read. She paged Olivia, who grumpily drove over to the lab.
Olivia thought Micah was nuts, but mid-argument the two noticed another series of inexplicable wave patterns. Micah switched the device on in time to decode only the last wave, which formed one last sentence: “All that aside, I don’t believe in intelligent design.”
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Seems to Me
“This isn't what it seems! ... Okay, it's exactly what it seems. German Shepherds are actually the smartest species on the planet and have been toying with us all along. I still can’t believe we didn’t figure it out when they made figure skating an Olympic event. But now isn’t the time for hindsight, Charlene! We have to counterattack before the realize we’ve caught on. … What? Yes, of course they made me cheat on you. Why else would I have done it? You think I’m attracted to this supermodel? She means nothing to me! It was the German Shepherds, Charlene! The German Shepherds!"
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Your confidence in your ability to escape a full nelson over time, OR, The first-ever Bathroom Chart
Transcribed from a piece of toilet paper, this chart seeks to begin scientifically explaining the male experience through the isolatable event of a challenge to escape a full nelson. The full nelson is an amateur wrestling hold in which the aggressor wraps his arms under the arm pits of the opponent, linking his hands behind the opponent’s head. Pressure can be placed forward, making it difficult for the opponent to breathe. It is notable as one of the seven challenges a man will see on TV and immediately think he could do better than whoever is doing it, along with curling, the first event on American Gladiators and everything on CSPAN.
Secondary link: http://s69.photobucket.com/albums/i73/johnhatephoto/?action=view¤t=fullnelson2-1.jpg
Secondary link: http://s69.photobucket.com/albums/i73/johnhatephoto/?action=view¤t=fullnelson2-1.jpg
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Wealth is Wasted on the Rich, OR, Friends are Wasted on the Happy, OR, Humor is Wasted on the Humorous
Jovie was the Gambino family’s favorite customer. For years Papa Gambino had invited Jovie to the bar for complimentary drinks, and they would stay up laughing and getting plastered long after closing time. Jovie was such a fixture in the restaurant that Papa Gambino’s friends recognized him by the back of his head (in contrast, most of them didn’t even know Gambino’s daughters’ names).
One night when the bar was particularly packed with Papa Gambino’s friends, Jovie told the story of how he first came to the restaurant.
“I’d just moved into town, since all the real estate was so cheap. My wife and I were starving, having driven all day on nothing but gas station candy. We unpacked all her clothes, all her paintings, all her majesty’s bath utilities – the woman has no end of things for which I have no beginning. Our cupboards were bare, and so were our nerves. We drove by this shopping center and saw the grocery store closed. On either side were these two little rinky-dink places: one Italian, one Chinese. I asked the wife what mood she was in, and she said she was in the mood for whatever was closer. Fortunately we entered on the left, so it was Italian. We went in and within minutes I was gabbing with this guy,” Jovie smacked Papa Gambino on the back. “So many years of sitting in this place and chatting. If we’d gone to the other place, everything would have been different!”
Papa Gambino’s friends hooted with laughter until Maria Gambino, Papa’s middle daughter, asked, “How would things have been different?”
For the first time in her life, everyone stared at Maria for something other than her chest. It was a still an uncomfortable moment.
Then Jovie exclaimed, “I would have learned Chinese!”
The bar erupted in laughter. Stoolie almost threw up for laughing so hard. The only time they laughed harder that night was when they taught Jovie how to say, “I would have learned Chinese” in Italian.
Jovie’s wife never came down to the restaurant. Papa Gambino’s daughters understood why.
One night when the bar was particularly packed with Papa Gambino’s friends, Jovie told the story of how he first came to the restaurant.
“I’d just moved into town, since all the real estate was so cheap. My wife and I were starving, having driven all day on nothing but gas station candy. We unpacked all her clothes, all her paintings, all her majesty’s bath utilities – the woman has no end of things for which I have no beginning. Our cupboards were bare, and so were our nerves. We drove by this shopping center and saw the grocery store closed. On either side were these two little rinky-dink places: one Italian, one Chinese. I asked the wife what mood she was in, and she said she was in the mood for whatever was closer. Fortunately we entered on the left, so it was Italian. We went in and within minutes I was gabbing with this guy,” Jovie smacked Papa Gambino on the back. “So many years of sitting in this place and chatting. If we’d gone to the other place, everything would have been different!”
Papa Gambino’s friends hooted with laughter until Maria Gambino, Papa’s middle daughter, asked, “How would things have been different?”
For the first time in her life, everyone stared at Maria for something other than her chest. It was a still an uncomfortable moment.
Then Jovie exclaimed, “I would have learned Chinese!”
The bar erupted in laughter. Stoolie almost threw up for laughing so hard. The only time they laughed harder that night was when they taught Jovie how to say, “I would have learned Chinese” in Italian.
Jovie’s wife never came down to the restaurant. Papa Gambino’s daughters understood why.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
“Scientists receive death threats over "end-of-world" experiment” –Fedquip, Propeller.com
Dear Science,
Please don’t blow up the world. I don’t think you will, don’t think you want to, and am uncertain how it would exactly work – but if the world starts blowing up, please hit the ‘Pause’ button. Since your particles will be moving at more than 99.9% of the speed of light, you ought to be able to dodge disaster unless you take your eyes off the road.
As I understand it the Large Hadron Collider you’ve built may recreate some of the conditions from just after the Big Bang, so if you do destroy the world, you’ll at least do us the kindness of immediately starting it again.
On a related note, should the Large Hadron Collider end and begin all life again and you end up in the Yahweh position, could you please inform any of the new life you should see to please “Chill out” this time?
On another related note, congratulations on inventing the notion of the end via beginning. Armageddon by meteors, alien invasion and apathy of deities were all interesting, but humanity has never encountered something so novel as all matter dying out thanks to it starting.
Love and kisses,
Art
Please don’t blow up the world. I don’t think you will, don’t think you want to, and am uncertain how it would exactly work – but if the world starts blowing up, please hit the ‘Pause’ button. Since your particles will be moving at more than 99.9% of the speed of light, you ought to be able to dodge disaster unless you take your eyes off the road.
As I understand it the Large Hadron Collider you’ve built may recreate some of the conditions from just after the Big Bang, so if you do destroy the world, you’ll at least do us the kindness of immediately starting it again.
On a related note, should the Large Hadron Collider end and begin all life again and you end up in the Yahweh position, could you please inform any of the new life you should see to please “Chill out” this time?
On another related note, congratulations on inventing the notion of the end via beginning. Armageddon by meteors, alien invasion and apathy of deities were all interesting, but humanity has never encountered something so novel as all matter dying out thanks to it starting.
Love and kisses,
Art
Bathroom Monologue: Going Gracefully
“No, you know what? I want people to miss me. My death should be a big deal. I want my family crying. I want my manager to beg God to let him trade somebody else. I hope my ex-girlfriends show up and lament that they should have given me head more often. I want the president in the front row signing a cloning bill so that he can get more of me out there as soon as damned possible. None of this happy funeral bullcrap. Miss me and know it’s never going to be that good again.”
Monday, September 8, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Thanks to random spam from oertwig@unknownmailerdaemon for inspiring this one with your likely made-up name
There were blacksmiths who refused to make weapons. Of them, Oertwig was the most famous. His pacifism wasn’t notable when he was just an apprentice and spent most of his time fetching bellows or water. It became a source of conflict when he became a professional, and especially after he showed such talent.
He began with horseshoes, made with tiny feather imprints, and after shoeing them, the horses ran at double speed.
His first shield bore the imprint of a single fingertip, like a giant had stamped it with his thumb. On the battlefield, that shield was held futilely up against a battering ram, and repelled it.
All of Oertwig’s ironworks held up under the pounding of enemy steel, though soon he was not working with such lowly metals. Soon he was making soft gold cufflinks that never scratched, each with a little perfect circle imprint on the center. Soon he was getting loads of rare dwarfish metals, things that glowed or turn knives dull all on their own, just to see what he could do with them.
But the orcish and human kings demanded Oertwig smith them weapons. By that time he was rich and renowned, and used his position to refuse. They used their positions to insist.
His breastplates bearing interwoven hands were uncannily likely to catch arrows between their fingers, and never let them pierce the leather doublets beneath. The man who wore Oertwig’s first hound helm was mistaken for a werewolf. When his apprentice held Oertwig’s personal ankh, he swore he had a vision of the two great prophets.
Still, he made no swords or spears. When warlords brought torches to his door in threat, he responded by dumping water onto his own coals. The local militia was so enraged that they would have stabbed him to death, if they could have penetrated his armor. The closest thing to a weapon he ever made was drawing a wave on his piss bucket. When he emptied the thing out the door it washed the militia down to the river.
He began with horseshoes, made with tiny feather imprints, and after shoeing them, the horses ran at double speed.
His first shield bore the imprint of a single fingertip, like a giant had stamped it with his thumb. On the battlefield, that shield was held futilely up against a battering ram, and repelled it.
All of Oertwig’s ironworks held up under the pounding of enemy steel, though soon he was not working with such lowly metals. Soon he was making soft gold cufflinks that never scratched, each with a little perfect circle imprint on the center. Soon he was getting loads of rare dwarfish metals, things that glowed or turn knives dull all on their own, just to see what he could do with them.
But the orcish and human kings demanded Oertwig smith them weapons. By that time he was rich and renowned, and used his position to refuse. They used their positions to insist.
His breastplates bearing interwoven hands were uncannily likely to catch arrows between their fingers, and never let them pierce the leather doublets beneath. The man who wore Oertwig’s first hound helm was mistaken for a werewolf. When his apprentice held Oertwig’s personal ankh, he swore he had a vision of the two great prophets.
Still, he made no swords or spears. When warlords brought torches to his door in threat, he responded by dumping water onto his own coals. The local militia was so enraged that they would have stabbed him to death, if they could have penetrated his armor. The closest thing to a weapon he ever made was drawing a wave on his piss bucket. When he emptied the thing out the door it washed the militia down to the river.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Wizard’s Second Rule
-All your relationships will end poorly anyway, so date for looks.
-Automatic mops never work out as well as you think.
-Point wand away from face at all times.
-Angst can replace the ether and Eldritch energy as a viable source of magical energy within the clearly-marked dénouement zone.
-Though people have been learning and speaking Latin academically for centuries, only you, while waving a stick, can make it blow up the world.
-A penis does not substitute for a wand ever. Don’t even try it. The sting stays with you.
-Zee goggles. Zey do nutzing!
-If your wizarding school gets a new student with a tragic and profound destiny, transfer out. The world will be saved regardless and you’ll be safer this way.
-Automatic mops never work out as well as you think.
-Point wand away from face at all times.
-Angst can replace the ether and Eldritch energy as a viable source of magical energy within the clearly-marked dénouement zone.
-Though people have been learning and speaking Latin academically for centuries, only you, while waving a stick, can make it blow up the world.
-A penis does not substitute for a wand ever. Don’t even try it. The sting stays with you.
-Zee goggles. Zey do nutzing!
-If your wizarding school gets a new student with a tragic and profound destiny, transfer out. The world will be saved regardless and you’ll be safer this way.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: “Which has more alcohol, a glass of red wine, a bottle of beer, or a shot of scotch?” –An interviewer in Debra Ginsberg’s Waiting
Chambers wrinkled his nose and leaned into the interviewer.
"The bottle of beer. Technically the three have the same alcohol content, but if the beer comes in a bottle then I can't stiff you like I can pouring wine or scotch. If you're asking recreationally, I recommend wine if you're in a good mood, beer if you're in a bad mood, and scotch if you've got nothing better to do. Since there's more alcohol per liquid ounce in scotch, (which most of your applicants trip over because they're nervous rather than ignorant), it gets you drunk the fastest." Chambers rose, winked and patted her on the shoulder. "Call and tell me my hours when you stop quivering."
"The bottle of beer. Technically the three have the same alcohol content, but if the beer comes in a bottle then I can't stiff you like I can pouring wine or scotch. If you're asking recreationally, I recommend wine if you're in a good mood, beer if you're in a bad mood, and scotch if you've got nothing better to do. Since there's more alcohol per liquid ounce in scotch, (which most of your applicants trip over because they're nervous rather than ignorant), it gets you drunk the fastest." Chambers rose, winked and patted her on the shoulder. "Call and tell me my hours when you stop quivering."
Friday, September 5, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: That Urban Legend
Jennifer drove closer to the edge of the road, but the semi wouldn’t pass. It kept flashing its brights and blaring that awful horn. She slowed, hoping it would speed up and pass. It didn’t. Instead, he rolled down his window and waved frantically at her.
Cursing, she pulled into the breakdown lane – but the truck pulled off after her. Immediately the driver jumped out of his cab.
She didn’t wait for him. She took off.
Still, half a minute later the truck was back behind her, its brights flooding her tiny car. She trembled and shouted out the driver’s side window for him to leave her alone, but he kept pointing to something in the back of her car. Was he nuts?
“Just go away!” she cried at the truck.
The driver responded with something like, “Look out! He’s in the back seat!”
Finally Jennifer swerved off the road at too high a speed for the truck to follow. It went barreling down the freeway. When it was out of sight, she let out a slow breath of relief.
“Are you okay, Uncle Frank?” she asked to the back seat.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Wonder what got into that guy.” Her hulking uncle adjusted some of the junk on his lap, moving the axe from his right to his left shoulder. The back seat was strewn with gardening equipment.
“Thanks again for helping move, darling.”
“No problem, Uncle Frankie.”
Cursing, she pulled into the breakdown lane – but the truck pulled off after her. Immediately the driver jumped out of his cab.
She didn’t wait for him. She took off.
Still, half a minute later the truck was back behind her, its brights flooding her tiny car. She trembled and shouted out the driver’s side window for him to leave her alone, but he kept pointing to something in the back of her car. Was he nuts?
“Just go away!” she cried at the truck.
The driver responded with something like, “Look out! He’s in the back seat!”
Finally Jennifer swerved off the road at too high a speed for the truck to follow. It went barreling down the freeway. When it was out of sight, she let out a slow breath of relief.
“Are you okay, Uncle Frank?” she asked to the back seat.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Wonder what got into that guy.” Her hulking uncle adjusted some of the junk on his lap, moving the axe from his right to his left shoulder. The back seat was strewn with gardening equipment.
“Thanks again for helping move, darling.”
“No problem, Uncle Frankie.”
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Have you seen my R.A.Q.? 2008 Edition
My birthday tradition begins...
B. Gorsky asks, “Why is the hamburger superior to all other delicious meal choices?”
-Like many of humanity’s greatest achievements this phenomena is largely the result of personal excellence and cooperation. The excellent burger need not only be an excellent burger; it can be paired with excellent fries for a most excellent combo. As one eats these items in combination one can grill another burger or heat up more fries as either item is depleted, thus making it a modular cooperation of delicious proportions. Other combinations, such as chicken breast and carrot sticks or soy and soy sticks, simply do not satisfy as well individually, and certainly not in tandem.
B. Gorsky asks, “Why _do_ sodas rule?”
-Because they are a bubbly drink that you don’t have to consult a witch to obtain. Champagne is sorcery.
B. Gorsky asks, “Do you miss your beard?”
-Every time I scratch my chin or cheek, every time I have to buy new blades for my razor, every time I cut myself because those damned things are legal, and every time I’m pretending I’m a swamp monster. Every damned day.
Shelly asks, “What is the coolest (so far) issue of Thor?”
-Michael Straczynski writes a very good Thor. However, no other issue has the balls of 4, dropping a blond Norse god among Doctors Without Borders and an ethnic cleansing conflict in Africa. That took brass ones. And Heimdall’s eyes! Oh, check it out for yourself.
Jen asks, “A date with which superhero would most likely result in an STD?”
-Captain America. He served in so many World War 2 comics that the damned conflict never ended, and as we all know World War 2 exposed our boys to an ungodly number of French prostitutes, bold feminists and bored housewives. He’s probably got a germ warfare lab for a crotch these days.
More comic book and fewer eschatological questions than I expected. See you next year!
B. Gorsky asks, “Why is the hamburger superior to all other delicious meal choices?”
-Like many of humanity’s greatest achievements this phenomena is largely the result of personal excellence and cooperation. The excellent burger need not only be an excellent burger; it can be paired with excellent fries for a most excellent combo. As one eats these items in combination one can grill another burger or heat up more fries as either item is depleted, thus making it a modular cooperation of delicious proportions. Other combinations, such as chicken breast and carrot sticks or soy and soy sticks, simply do not satisfy as well individually, and certainly not in tandem.
B. Gorsky asks, “Why _do_ sodas rule?”
-Because they are a bubbly drink that you don’t have to consult a witch to obtain. Champagne is sorcery.
B. Gorsky asks, “Do you miss your beard?”
-Every time I scratch my chin or cheek, every time I have to buy new blades for my razor, every time I cut myself because those damned things are legal, and every time I’m pretending I’m a swamp monster. Every damned day.
Shelly asks, “What is the coolest (so far) issue of Thor?”
-Michael Straczynski writes a very good Thor. However, no other issue has the balls of 4, dropping a blond Norse god among Doctors Without Borders and an ethnic cleansing conflict in Africa. That took brass ones. And Heimdall’s eyes! Oh, check it out for yourself.
Jen asks, “A date with which superhero would most likely result in an STD?”
-Captain America. He served in so many World War 2 comics that the damned conflict never ended, and as we all know World War 2 exposed our boys to an ungodly number of French prostitutes, bold feminists and bored housewives. He’s probably got a germ warfare lab for a crotch these days.
More comic book and fewer eschatological questions than I expected. See you next year!
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Dear Diary
Why did God let me happen? Man perfected robot dinosaurs when he invented Grimlock, so why did they make me? All I ever do is fight the creature I was designed after. Why? It’s not that compelling a spectacle. I can only have a new cannon shoot out of so many appendages before they all blend together and I feel like a giant derringer with a tail. They might as well have made me look like a gun instead of an anatomically retarded tyrannosaurus.
I’m what Mary Shelley would have created if she’d been afraid of lizards and toasters instead of ghosts. Crazy Romance-era bitch. I can’t get a purpose in this life. Every psychoanalyst sends me to an electrician, and every electrician runs in terror. I tried finding Jesus, but short-circuited at the baptism and leveled the county. All I want is peace and all I get is rust. Time to face it. I’m obsolete technology. And what do you do with ten million tons of obsolete space titanium?
But things are looking up. I’ve got an audition for the new Gundam series on Friday, and the U.S. military is building a robot version of whatever the Hell that thing in Cloverfield is, and he might need an acting coach.
Who am I kidding? If Godzilla doesn’t come out of retirement I might as well recycle myself.
Sincerely,
The Cosmic Monster
I’m what Mary Shelley would have created if she’d been afraid of lizards and toasters instead of ghosts. Crazy Romance-era bitch. I can’t get a purpose in this life. Every psychoanalyst sends me to an electrician, and every electrician runs in terror. I tried finding Jesus, but short-circuited at the baptism and leveled the county. All I want is peace and all I get is rust. Time to face it. I’m obsolete technology. And what do you do with ten million tons of obsolete space titanium?
But things are looking up. I’ve got an audition for the new Gundam series on Friday, and the U.S. military is building a robot version of whatever the Hell that thing in Cloverfield is, and he might need an acting coach.
Who am I kidding? If Godzilla doesn’t come out of retirement I might as well recycle myself.
Sincerely,
The Cosmic Monster
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Dear Godzilla (2)
Life is gravy. I want to thank you for this career of cameos. Being a three-headed golden dragon with no arms could have made finding an occupation difficult if not for you. You, sucker, made it so easy. I smack you around a little, you smack me around a little, we all get rich. I was a headliner at first. “Ghidrah: The Three Headed Monster.” And thank you, Rodan and Mothra for launching my career. Shame you took your pay in a lump sum. I’m still cashing royalties out of that, as I am out of every other movie of yours I appeared in.
Godzilla Vs. Gigan? Percentage.
Destroy All Monsters? Percentage.
Godzilla: Final Wars? Percentage and a whole new wave of toys. I love the collector’s market. You rip my head off, time travelers rebuild me as Mecha-Ghidrah, and presto, most demanded plastic kit in Japan. Collectors make it easier to afford the spray paint that keeps my scales shiny gold.
I just wanted to thank you for this life of luxury.
And congratulations on the new kid. Hope this one stays alive – your progeny are notoriously stupid. Makes me glad the other heads always devour my young before one us gets emotionally attached.
Love,
Ghidrah, Ghidrah and Ghidrah
Godzilla Vs. Gigan? Percentage.
Destroy All Monsters? Percentage.
Godzilla: Final Wars? Percentage and a whole new wave of toys. I love the collector’s market. You rip my head off, time travelers rebuild me as Mecha-Ghidrah, and presto, most demanded plastic kit in Japan. Collectors make it easier to afford the spray paint that keeps my scales shiny gold.
I just wanted to thank you for this life of luxury.
And congratulations on the new kid. Hope this one stays alive – your progeny are notoriously stupid. Makes me glad the other heads always devour my young before one us gets emotionally attached.
Love,
Ghidrah, Ghidrah and Ghidrah
Monday, September 1, 2008
Dear Toho (You thought it was over?)
It’s recently been brought to my attention that you retired the Godzilla franchise. I commend you on finally putting that old dog to sleep, but I want to inquire why I’ve only had three roles in the last fifty fucking years. And last time I died twice in the same movie. Twice in the same movie! Mothra has the phoenix fetish and even she doesn’t suck that badly!
I have two beaks, one serving as a pincer. I have an organic buzzsaw running down my chest and three razor wings that let me fly while leaving my arms free. And my arms? They’re fucking swords! I’m pretty sure I can shoot lasers from my cyclopic eye. I would give Charles Manson nightmares. How come I can’t get my own movie?
Or at least let me fight Gamera. I can take an overgrown turtle that’s greatest feature is shooting flames out his butt. It’s not like he does anything. We’ll restart my career over his carcass, then launch a solo picture.
“Gigan: New King of the Monsters.”
No, wait. “Gigan: Prime Minister of the Monsters.” I’ll be a fairly elected ruler of the giant menaces. Think it over. I’m going to go get drunk at Megalon’s.
Sincerely,
Gigs
PS: If you give that giant cockroach a deal before me I’ll lay eggs in your children’s ears. I can do that. I checked with fan fiction.
I have two beaks, one serving as a pincer. I have an organic buzzsaw running down my chest and three razor wings that let me fly while leaving my arms free. And my arms? They’re fucking swords! I’m pretty sure I can shoot lasers from my cyclopic eye. I would give Charles Manson nightmares. How come I can’t get my own movie?
Or at least let me fight Gamera. I can take an overgrown turtle that’s greatest feature is shooting flames out his butt. It’s not like he does anything. We’ll restart my career over his carcass, then launch a solo picture.
“Gigan: New King of the Monsters.”
No, wait. “Gigan: Prime Minister of the Monsters.” I’ll be a fairly elected ruler of the giant menaces. Think it over. I’m going to go get drunk at Megalon’s.
Sincerely,
Gigs
PS: If you give that giant cockroach a deal before me I’ll lay eggs in your children’s ears. I can do that. I checked with fan fiction.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Criticism Vs. Slander, OR, I’m saying this before I get anything reviewed, OR, I’m looking at you, Amazon.com user reviews
Bitching is not criticism. If you have nothing nice to say, you have probably not criticized. Criticism is not essentially negative; it is essentially reformative. Criticism directed to the artist or individual reflects what worked, what didn’t, and how both could improve, or strives to understand how they some of these elements functioned. Criticism directed to the general audience is to reflect the qualities for artistic or general appreciation and stimulate thought and discussion. There is a weird notion that “This sucks” is criticism. “You’re a shitty person” is not criticism. It is closer to slander. So is a full-page article ripping into a book, or movie, or album. It’s similar for people who solely praise something, except rarely does anyone call that “criticism.” They call it “praise.” The state of criticism in this country would be better if more people were honest that they were “bitching” instead of “criticizing.” Bitching is in human nature, though it’s often looked down upon and we sometimes deny we’re doing it to justify something or other. But as naturalists can teach us, you can only understand pieces of nature when you label them properly.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Ropp On, Goblin Boy
“I think it’s you guys that are taking this too seriously. It’s just life. Life itself is so implausible that it probably isn’t even real. All matter was in a big ball and then banged, expanding into an infinite void and just so happened to congeal into fiery spheroids, destructively dense spheroids and planets, and the planets all just so happened to fall into orbit around the fiery and destructive spheroids instead of getting sucked straight in, and on those planets the surface matter just so happened to align into chemicals, meaning the little balls that were atoms formed little globs of chemicals, and all those globs just so happened to rub against each other and form stable proteins chains that could survive and reproduce, and all of those little chains of littler globs of still littler balls just so happened to keep reproducing and banging off the walls of probability on planets whose environments flipped horizontally and vertically, heat-wise and air-wise, magnetically and tectonically, and managed to come through that not only covering the surface of that planet, but some of life was actually developed enough to be aware of the nonsense that was going on. If someone designed it, He’s nuts. If nothing designed it, then it’s even more nuts. Don’t tell me I’m not taking things seriously enough. You guys are crazy to go through this with a straight face.”
And with that, Ropp returned to playing his tuba for the canaries.
And with that, Ropp returned to playing his tuba for the canaries.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Dear All Other Monsters
Why do I always get dragged into these things? All I do is fly! Sometimes I fly into things, which I guess hurts, but it hurts me more than them. If my exoskeleton cracks I’m pretty much screwed. If my wing gets clipped I’m pretty much screwed. And then my kids save the day, by spitting silk. Why can’t I spit silk? The lizard spits fire! Fire, which is bright and causes me to go fly into it. It’s not fair. Let the giant monkey fight the giant lizard. Let the giant three-headed dragon do the fighting. Hell, don’t tell them I said this, but let my kids go instead of me. They always get the job done while I die. Let me stay at home with my plants! I’m always there, pruning my new banzai tree, the phone rings, and I shred the thing. Do you know how hard it is to tend a banzai without fingers?
Being a giant moth sucks.
Leave me alone,
M.
Being a giant moth sucks.
Leave me alone,
M.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Dear Godzilla
I’m not afraid of you, you giant lizard. Dinosaurs went extinct for a reason. You’re the last of a dead breed and it’s up to me to finish the job. My ancestors survived the KT impact. You think a little radiation scares me? I’m a giant fucking gorilla. I probably have uranium in my morning cereal. You’re so big? You think that scares me? Maybe you haven’t been watching the remakes, but I took on three t-rexes at the same time and won with my 21st century ninja skills. It’s not just dinosaurs and savages on my home island, bitch. It’s ninjas. I’m a giant ninja gorilla and mama said knock you out.
For reals,
K.K.
For reals,
K.K.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Dear Kong
I don’t want to fight you. It’s going to end with me picking your remains out of my toes, and I really don’t want to do that since I can’t reach down there. I don’t have the dexterity of a primate, since I’m an antediluvian sauropod. I know you think you’re good in there against dinosaurs. I saw you fight a t-rex and you were very impressive, but you’ve got to understand that I’m not a t-rex. A t-rex comes up to my shin. You climbed the Empire State Building, but I’d probably just knock it over, or breath on it and set it on fire. That’s the size and power difference we’re talking about here, ignoring that I’m so radioactive that if by some miracle you did actually win you’d probably die of cancerous tumors days later. I don’t want that for you. Despite my reputation I am a peaceful creature. I have a son now and am trying to build a respectable life. So please, for your own health, back the fuck off you dumb monkey.
Sincerely,
G.
Sincerely,
G.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Gaming New Update
"360-exclusive GTA4 content to add 15 hours of gameplay. 95% of GTA4 owners suddenly reminded they didn't finish the game."
Bathroom Monologue: Innocence is Wasted on the Stupid, OR, A Crayon Note of Sincere Apology
Brianna was mortified to learn her favorite breakfast, scrambled eggs, were actually baby birds. She felt particular sorrow for the mommy bird. That afternoon she blew her entire allowance on a dozen eggs and left the carton in the robin’s nest outside her window, with a crayon note of sincere apology.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Deep Blue, the Master Chess Computer, VS. Timmy Wilkins, who passed Third Grade in two tries
Deep Blue: King's pawn to e4
Timmy: Queen's pawn to e5
Deep Blue: King's knight to f4
Timmy: Queen's knight to c6
Deep Blue: King's bishop to b5
Timmy: Optimus Prime to a4, a5, a6, b4, b5, b6; King's bishop captured
[Deep Blue is consulting the rules.]
Deep Blue: King castles with King's rook
Timmy: Optimus Prime fires missiles: Kings pawn and King's knight obliterated
Deep Blue: King's rook to e1
Timmy: The Dead Men of Dunharrow have appear along a3, b3, c3, d3, e3, f3, g3 and h3
[Deep Blue is consulting the rules.]
Deep Blue: Queen's knight to c3. Queen's bishop's Dunharrow Warrior has been captured.
[Deep Blue is consulting the rules.]
Timmy: Queen's knight's Dunharrow Warrior to c3. Queen's knight captured.
Deep Blue: Deep Blue suggests that the Dead Men of Dunharrow have fulfilled their oath.
Referee: The time for Deep Blue's turn is expired.
Timmy: The Dead Men of Dunharrow have left the board.
[Timmy is consulting the rules.]
Referee: The time for Timmy's turn is expired.
Deep Blue: Queen to d2.
Timmy: Optimus Prime fires missiles. Spring mechanism jammed.
Referee: The time for Timmy's turn is expired.
Deep Blue: Queen to b4. Optimus Prime has sustained significant damage and tipped over.
Timmy: Optimus Prime delivers monologue and uses Autobot matrix. All of Deep Blue's remaining pieces have been captured.
[Deep Blue is consulting Toys 'R Us.]
Timmy: Queen's pawn to e5
Deep Blue: King's knight to f4
Timmy: Queen's knight to c6
Deep Blue: King's bishop to b5
Timmy: Optimus Prime to a4, a5, a6, b4, b5, b6; King's bishop captured
[Deep Blue is consulting the rules.]
Deep Blue: King castles with King's rook
Timmy: Optimus Prime fires missiles: Kings pawn and King's knight obliterated
Deep Blue: King's rook to e1
Timmy: The Dead Men of Dunharrow have appear along a3, b3, c3, d3, e3, f3, g3 and h3
[Deep Blue is consulting the rules.]
Deep Blue: Queen's knight to c3. Queen's bishop's Dunharrow Warrior has been captured.
[Deep Blue is consulting the rules.]
Timmy: Queen's knight's Dunharrow Warrior to c3. Queen's knight captured.
Deep Blue: Deep Blue suggests that the Dead Men of Dunharrow have fulfilled their oath.
Referee: The time for Deep Blue's turn is expired.
Timmy: The Dead Men of Dunharrow have left the board.
[Timmy is consulting the rules.]
Referee: The time for Timmy's turn is expired.
Deep Blue: Queen to d2.
Timmy: Optimus Prime fires missiles. Spring mechanism jammed.
Referee: The time for Timmy's turn is expired.
Deep Blue: Queen to b4. Optimus Prime has sustained significant damage and tipped over.
Timmy: Optimus Prime delivers monologue and uses Autobot matrix. All of Deep Blue's remaining pieces have been captured.
[Deep Blue is consulting Toys 'R Us.]
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Prednisone, the little pill that ruined everything
Prednisone is a steroid that is frequently used on inflammatory diseases, which becomes quite ironic if you get one of its major side-effects: heavy swelling. Other major side-effects are extreme joint pain, increased likelihood of infections, insomnia, trouble thinking straight, osteoperosis, peptic ulcers and cataracts. A minor side-effect is nervousness. Is this hilarious to anyone else?
R.A.Q.
I'm not sure how much longer this wonderful adventure in daily words can last, but I've got at least a few more months of material. If it survives a few years, though, I'd like some annual traditions. It's with that in mind that I request any readers, frequent visitors, friends or people who stumbled on here by some erant google search, submit questions in the Comments tab of this notice. You may ask as many questions as you like and whatever you like so long as you have never asked the question before in your life.
For instance you may ask, "How long have you had shingles?"
To which I may answer, "Since I warned the neighbor to stop letting shingles piss in my front yard, and he won't get her back until I get my ransom money."
You may ask for an explanation of what the effect of fluids is on the traditional concept of a three-phase classification system for matter. You may ask which supervillain and which classical Greek character I would pair off on a desert island. You may ask which philosopher I'd pick to fight to the death (probably a pacifist). I'll take the originality of most questions on blind faith, but if I suspect one of your Rarely Asked Questions has been asked before, you're disqualified.
The deadline is September 3rd, and on September 4th I'll answer at least one question from everyone. It's a ridiculous game, but the 4th is my birthday, so humor me. It might be the beginning of a tradition.
Or maybe I'll be hit by a cropduster in November and it'll just be a funny thing you did that one time with that dead guy. You never know.
Feel free to ask why it was a cropduster.
For instance you may ask, "How long have you had shingles?"
To which I may answer, "Since I warned the neighbor to stop letting shingles piss in my front yard, and he won't get her back until I get my ransom money."
You may ask for an explanation of what the effect of fluids is on the traditional concept of a three-phase classification system for matter. You may ask which supervillain and which classical Greek character I would pair off on a desert island. You may ask which philosopher I'd pick to fight to the death (probably a pacifist). I'll take the originality of most questions on blind faith, but if I suspect one of your Rarely Asked Questions has been asked before, you're disqualified.
The deadline is September 3rd, and on September 4th I'll answer at least one question from everyone. It's a ridiculous game, but the 4th is my birthday, so humor me. It might be the beginning of a tradition.
Or maybe I'll be hit by a cropduster in November and it'll just be a funny thing you did that one time with that dead guy. You never know.
Feel free to ask why it was a cropduster.
Bathroom Monologue: Good God
They treated God like an emotional thumb: a quick “Hail Mary” for a thumbs up, a “goddammit” for a thumbs down, and when a moral problem got stuck in their eyes, they rubbed at it with God until their vision cleared. That was the extent of their theology. The rest was up to good manners.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Even
I have this habit of feigning ignorance or even extreme bigotry for the sake of humor, and they have the habits of believing it. There is something hilarious in embracing negative values that those around you know you don’t hold – at least, when they recognize that you don’t really hold them.
Just yesterday I joked that the rise in anti-religious sentiment was because, “their religion isn’t a religion, you see. Theirs is just the truth. Yours is a religion because it’s false.” My friend of five years condescended to correct that their beliefs were probably as crazy to others as the beliefs of others were to— and so on. I was corrected back to a position I already held, and my joke was hit in the head with a sledgehammer.
Another time –two other times, actually-- my sister drove me home from college. We passed a stately boarding school. In total deadpan, I said, “I wonder who lives there,” suggesting one person owned the entire three-storey complex. I thought it was funny. She thought it was a cry for help, and explained that it was a school. I explained that it was a joke, and got a pity laugh. All would have been fine if I did not make the same joke to the same sister passing the same school the next semester, only to receive the same explanation that it was a school.
Now any time we pass a university I ask who she thinks lives there. She gets the joke now, but she hasn’t gotten it enough for my tastes.
There is normal condescension that we all experience and must endure: somebody’s hip intellectual roommate dissects the current political race with observations we’ve read a dozen times already, carrying on with an indignation that is purely his own. We've got to endure this condescension, or at least I do, since I'm pretty sure I've been this hip intellectual roommate before.
But this strikes me as a purely abnormal condescension, abnormal in everything except that it is incredibly common. These people – the ones who should know me better than anyone – can’t tell I’m just pretending to be an idiot. It’s starting to scare me. It may mean they’ve perceived another act I didn’t even know I was putting on.
Just yesterday I joked that the rise in anti-religious sentiment was because, “their religion isn’t a religion, you see. Theirs is just the truth. Yours is a religion because it’s false.” My friend of five years condescended to correct that their beliefs were probably as crazy to others as the beliefs of others were to— and so on. I was corrected back to a position I already held, and my joke was hit in the head with a sledgehammer.
Another time –two other times, actually-- my sister drove me home from college. We passed a stately boarding school. In total deadpan, I said, “I wonder who lives there,” suggesting one person owned the entire three-storey complex. I thought it was funny. She thought it was a cry for help, and explained that it was a school. I explained that it was a joke, and got a pity laugh. All would have been fine if I did not make the same joke to the same sister passing the same school the next semester, only to receive the same explanation that it was a school.
Now any time we pass a university I ask who she thinks lives there. She gets the joke now, but she hasn’t gotten it enough for my tastes.
There is normal condescension that we all experience and must endure: somebody’s hip intellectual roommate dissects the current political race with observations we’ve read a dozen times already, carrying on with an indignation that is purely his own. We've got to endure this condescension, or at least I do, since I'm pretty sure I've been this hip intellectual roommate before.
But this strikes me as a purely abnormal condescension, abnormal in everything except that it is incredibly common. These people – the ones who should know me better than anyone – can’t tell I’m just pretending to be an idiot. It’s starting to scare me. It may mean they’ve perceived another act I didn’t even know I was putting on.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Of Fish and Men
Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for the rest of his life. Teach a man to fish for credit cards in the pockets of passersby and he’ll eat salmon. Teach a man to fish for social security numbers and he’ll eat Alaskan King Salmon. Teach a man to fish for women’s insecurities and he’ll never eat that salmon alone.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Big Sports News Sees Gold for Mother Russia
Rumor has it there was trouble in the Russian Olympic camp following Nazyr Mankiev’s victory in the 55kg Greco Roman competitions. Mankiev won Russia’s first and only Olympic gold medal for 2008 and seemed exceedingly proud, thrusting his index finger in the air after the victory. He struck the same pose an hour later in his locker room, wearing nothing but the gold medal.
The naked Olympian spent the rest of the day strutting around other Russian athletes’ rooms asking them what they had done for Russia today, supposedly striking even more degrading poses each time. He was imitating the Volgograd Mother Russia statue (no confirmation as to what served as the sword) in front of Alexei Alipov, Russia’s first 2008 male bronze medallist, when an aid finally tackled him and forced him to wear a robe.
It was not until Mavlet Batirov won a gold medal for Russia in the 60kg freestyle wrestling event and confronted Mankiev wearing his medal in a fashion that has been called “an Adam-inspired loin cloth” that Mankiev finally consented to wear pants in public.
Russia currently has thirteen gold medals, and many victorious athletes who have little or no trouble remaining clothed in public. We at Big Sports News congratulate them.
The naked Olympian spent the rest of the day strutting around other Russian athletes’ rooms asking them what they had done for Russia today, supposedly striking even more degrading poses each time. He was imitating the Volgograd Mother Russia statue (no confirmation as to what served as the sword) in front of Alexei Alipov, Russia’s first 2008 male bronze medallist, when an aid finally tackled him and forced him to wear a robe.
It was not until Mavlet Batirov won a gold medal for Russia in the 60kg freestyle wrestling event and confronted Mankiev wearing his medal in a fashion that has been called “an Adam-inspired loin cloth” that Mankiev finally consented to wear pants in public.
Russia currently has thirteen gold medals, and many victorious athletes who have little or no trouble remaining clothed in public. We at Big Sports News congratulate them.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Bathroom Monologue: Don Quixote, Book 3, Chapter XXGI: Of an Adventure Most Inopportune and Unremarkable
So Sancho and Sr. Quixote came across the haunted glade, residence of a foul demon. They brought with them three people in tow: the lady Mariane who claimed to have seen the demon; the seer Charlemagne who spoke of its power; and Pedro, Charlemagne's hapless squire. Pedro and Sancho commiserated as Charlemagne extolled the powers of the demon: its great size, its frequent spiriting to the inferno, and its lascivious nature that had taken that greatest and irrestorable jewel from many a local virgin in the guise of unpleasant dreams.
All of these charges were false. The demon was actually rather disinterested with matters of coupling, and when interested in it at all, was uninterested in the fairer sex altogether. It had never been to the netherworld, and it was so tiny that even the eye of the abyss would not have perceived it. Its power was not in force or warping reality, but in knowing and amending characters. It recognized all but one of its visitors immediately: Pedro and Sancho as the whiny toady types, Charlemagne as a shameless huxter, and Mariane as a women who was helping hold back her gender moreso than the chauvinistic establishment. The demon heard Sancho pray for someone to right the head of his master, and the demon almost answered that prayer, before assessing his visitors. He recognized the entire party, save Sr. Quixote
Pedro and Sancho complained and criticized all the way to the glade. Charlemagne blustered and sweated, wishing his work could be done so he could retire to the inn. Mariane shook with terror. In these circumstances all canny folk were uncomfortable, yet Quixote was excited.
He challenged his fictitious demon. In some nook of his dementia he stood straighter for wearing heavy armor, and pushed harder for the discomforting heat. The delusional man was the only one who enjoyed a challenge of certain death.
The demon hesitated, and then let them pass.
As dusk fell Quixote mistakenly identified a bush for his enemy, and slew it until Mariane praised him from reducing the Devil to kindling. Sancho and Pedro carried the metamorphosed corpse back to the inn and used it to the keep the home warm. Sr. Quixote was flushed to the scalp long before they struck the fire, heated by pride.
So the group left the haunted glade, one man claiming to have slain a fairy, the rest claiming the beast to be debunked. The demon remained in the glade, talking to shrubbery and trying to convince himself that he wore a fine hat instead of a bowl. It was a failing enterprise, but the demon pursued absurdity, convinced that it might finally enjoy itself if only it could be delusional.
All of these charges were false. The demon was actually rather disinterested with matters of coupling, and when interested in it at all, was uninterested in the fairer sex altogether. It had never been to the netherworld, and it was so tiny that even the eye of the abyss would not have perceived it. Its power was not in force or warping reality, but in knowing and amending characters. It recognized all but one of its visitors immediately: Pedro and Sancho as the whiny toady types, Charlemagne as a shameless huxter, and Mariane as a women who was helping hold back her gender moreso than the chauvinistic establishment. The demon heard Sancho pray for someone to right the head of his master, and the demon almost answered that prayer, before assessing his visitors. He recognized the entire party, save Sr. Quixote
Pedro and Sancho complained and criticized all the way to the glade. Charlemagne blustered and sweated, wishing his work could be done so he could retire to the inn. Mariane shook with terror. In these circumstances all canny folk were uncomfortable, yet Quixote was excited.
He challenged his fictitious demon. In some nook of his dementia he stood straighter for wearing heavy armor, and pushed harder for the discomforting heat. The delusional man was the only one who enjoyed a challenge of certain death.
The demon hesitated, and then let them pass.
As dusk fell Quixote mistakenly identified a bush for his enemy, and slew it until Mariane praised him from reducing the Devil to kindling. Sancho and Pedro carried the metamorphosed corpse back to the inn and used it to the keep the home warm. Sr. Quixote was flushed to the scalp long before they struck the fire, heated by pride.
So the group left the haunted glade, one man claiming to have slain a fairy, the rest claiming the beast to be debunked. The demon remained in the glade, talking to shrubbery and trying to convince himself that he wore a fine hat instead of a bowl. It was a failing enterprise, but the demon pursued absurdity, convinced that it might finally enjoy itself if only it could be delusional.
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