Below are the 17 most recent journal entries recorded in UW Satire's LiveJournal:

Friday, August 4th, 2006
12:44 am	Veal's Appeal Many people have written in asking how to tell real food apart from Tofu. It's important to first understand where Tofu comes from. Originally created in 1999 by the Y2k bug, Tofu comes from the words "Toxic" and "Fungus". By cultivating mushrooms grown near Yukka mountain, you can synthetically produce a sort of runny paste. This paste is used as the filling in modified ice-cube trays, where is solidifies overnight. It is then packaged and shipped to hippie stores for unpopular consumption. But how to tell it apart from Real Food? The simplest tool to use in discerning real food from Tofu is your mouth. By tasting both real food and Tofood, one can easily determine which is tasty and which makes you wish tongues were an optional part of the digestive process. This, of course, means that you have failed man's first defense against involuntary Tofu consumption: your EYES. By looking at your food before eating, you can detect the tell-tale signs of poisoned (Tofu'ed) food. I call these the three "S"'s: 1) Squishy, 2) Slimy, and 3) Scary. By being ever-vigilant against these, you can ensure a successful meal experience. On the other hand, there are many (crazy) people out there (who are nutjobs) that think that TOFU (of all foods) is healthier than a slab of meat. I, being the objective person I am, will set those misguided tree-waving, flag-hugging "people" straight. Let it be known that I have no previous bias one way or the other before conducting my research. Why Tofu Sucks - A Scientific Investigation Hypothesis: Meat is in fact both more delicious and healthier, and also would cure uncurable diseases that tofu causes. (Please note this is not bias, as it is just a hypothesis - its sort of like a cliffhanger to a science project. It was invented in the 60's to assist 7th grade science students in writing a two-page reports). Method: Buy samples of Tofu and real food and test which one makes me feel good, which one makes me sick, and which one tastes healthier. Procedure: I went to my local Taco Bell to give Tofu a fighting chance. Few would regard Taco Bell as the pinnacle of meaty quality, so I figured that if Tofu could beat this bottom rung, we could further evaluate. I pulled up to the T-Bell and ordered their gangrene-est meat, $.99. I then ordered a similar taco filled instead with "Tofu". I asked for both in monotone, so as to not influence my findings. Results: Would you believe that Taco Bell, which many would deem the worst establishment to acquire decent meat, wouldn't even STOCK Tofu? If even the lowest denominator wouldn’t even consider serving such a substance, that conclusively concludes my conclusion. If you are still not convinced, consider baby animals. Everyone loves them. How could you not? Heck, even you'd admit you love them. Veal and suckling pig. Delicious. You said it, no take-backs. (28 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 12th, 2005
3:01 pm	Pick Up Lines That Are Sure to Fail If you've ever used any of the pickup lines below, you're precognitive: they're new. But if you'd consider using them, I suggest grabbing some Maalox, the homeopathic cure for a bad case of pepper spray. All these lines are 100% guaranteed to fail - or your money back! If looks could kill, you'd be a homicidal maniac... and I'm the detective that takes you downtown. I've got a letter of recommendation from my last girlfriend, but you have to be able to read Klingon. If you like guys in uniform, I'm going commando. Damn, girl! You're hotter than my wife's temper! I've never met a woman I couldn't overpower. I saw you looking at me, so I figured its okay if I did the same. Whoops, my shirt fell off. I finally lost them. Wanna celebrate? Hi, I noticed that your heart is currently beating. Betcha a bus ticket to your place I can make it go faster. I heard that girls like a guy that's willing to change himself. I can do it, but I usually let my mom. You give me an alibi, and I'll give you the night of your life. Fair trade? Alright, pick one: the left pocket, or the right pocket? No no, you gotta reach in and get it. IONCESWALLOWEDSIXTEENHOTDOGSATONCEWANTTOGOOUTWITHMETEEHEE! My therapist said I should meet people outside my web of lies. If this was Scrabble, I'd be a good four letter word. My soul may be beaten and battered, but I've still got a good heart. Three of them. In my trunk. You know what they say about guys with tiny, pixie-like feet...? Mom? WARNING: Intention to use any of the above lines can be used against you in a court of law as proof you are from New Jersey. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 8th, 2005
3:25 am	Time Marches Onward When Upward GREENWICH - It appears that gravity is stealing minutes from us every year. Scientists at Germany's prestigious "Centre De La Heure," which provides the exact hour to Greenwich Mean Time, have discovered that gravity is taking the toll of time on vertically-hanging clocks. "It seems that whenever the minute hand has passed the twelve mark, it is under minute stress from gravity, pulling it downwards to the six," explained Dr. Herbert Chroniks with a series of animated hand gestures. "While we can correct it by setting our most important timekeeping devices horizontal, there is no telling how much time we have lost: for all we know, its already tomorrow." Adam Tonic is the official timemaster of the U.S. atomic clock, and has a research team working to confirm the finding. "It is a sad day when ancient sundials keep better time than our most advanced technology, simply because they are horizontal," he said through bitter tears. "We're dealing with some mean time." (Comment on this)
Thursday, January 20th, 2005
5:09 pm	Bear Boxing, noun. An amazing yet little known pastime of Bear Boxing is a sport enjoyed by dozens of courageous and brave people. The sport involves a one-on-one battle between man versus the toughest of upright fighters - the black bear. (Mind you, this sport is not to be confused with Bare Boxing, the art of fighting someone without clothing on. Bare Boxing, in turn, is not to be confused with fighting a man in a kilt.) The sport is borne from bullfighting, a girly and meek sport by comparison. In bullfighting, the "fighter" supposedly is in mortal danger, yet in reality the bull spends the majority of the time getting slashed at by a man in tight pants, wondering what in the world they did to deserve such a rude death as having this man in his extremely tight pants slash at them while trying to simply find a bit of shade under the cool red cloth. Whenever they do manage to hustle under it, they're stabbed, the cloth is withdrawn, and it begins again. Boooring! In Bear Boxing however, there are no weapons except your bare (excuse the pun) fists, and the only dress code is clean underwear. Both parties are prepped, the human through rigorous training (which includes a good amount of him being liquored up by his friends, and 911 being called in advance) and the bear through his ten-someodd years of living in the harsh wilderness. Right off let me dispel the obvious rumor that the man is much better suited to this test of wills - that is frequently not the case. Under many circumstances, the bear is almost as proficient a fighter and can take as many blows as the human can. Do not be persuaded by the animal rights activists! Both parties are then drawn to the designated arena, frequently on the bear's home turf, (although some battles have been held in the human's home, however impromptu they may be). The human, in his liquored state, is pushed towards the bear, already been angered by BB-shots. The human then engages the beast, and attempts to box him with his gloveless fists. A variety of maneuvers and specialty attacks can be utilized to this end, on both sides. The bear has access to claws and anger, adrenaline and sheer strength and size. He can also do the (aptly-coined) "bear-hug", or simply squash or crush his opponent. Teeth are also an important factor. The human, on the other hand, has a more diverse yet less effective set of options. He can take a severe beating, become knocked unconscious, wet him/herself, cry for his/her mother, listen to his bones crack with a sickening snap, or simply assume that he's wining. The majority of the time, the battle starts with the latter, and ends with several (if not all) of the former. Few rules are set in the Bear Boxing guidebook, but almost all rulebooks ban help from outside parties except when A) The bear is clearly beaten to an extent beyond being able to fight, or B) Their friend no longer seems to be breathing. In the case of the latter, EMS has usually arrived by this time. The case of the former has yet to occur, although enthusiasts do not consider it a setback. Few humans consider themselves experts, but this commonly unexplored yet inexpensive sport has endless possibilities for the new and untrained. It is generally recommended that a newbie begins on the smaller end of the spectrum, attacking raccoons or skiers before moving onto black bears. Scoring depends on one of two factors: Time in battle, and decibels of screaming. Time is more important as far as points goes, but lack of cries of mercy also can win a player a better rank. Bears are graded on form and finesse. As a final word: scores in Bear Boxing are almost always directly related to your blood alcohol content, so drink up before every exciting round! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, January 11th, 2005
12:55 am	The Tower of Babel: The Story of Conjugation As many of you know, the Tower of Babel was constructed by people unified by common language. So together wrought, they decided to build a tower up to the very heavens themselves. Feeling challenged by his creation, God scattered the people, and changed their language so that they would be unable to cooperate. What you don't know, however, is just how brutally God butchered the language idea. As we well know from historical first-hand sources, American was the original first language. Everyone spoke it an lived in peace, as Americans are prone to do. Sure, there was a couple of different dialects, and those Southern Africans may have slurred their speech, worn 10 gallon hats, and taken up Zebra raising, but they were generally okay in everyone's book. The original idea for the tower came from a small architectural planning firm that had previously confined itself to aqueducts, Stonehenge and a talking robotic dog name "Fifi" that caused a huge fourth-quarter loss. Fire was scarce, so cooking the books wasn't around back then, and they had to do things above the table to keep going. They decided to generate collective action through construction of a mega-skyscraper, one big enough to let the penthouse have a grand ol' view of heaven itself. They did some abacus number-crunching, and it all looked good on paper, so they set about organizing construction crews. Thanks to a great time-share program for penthouse real estate, enough investment capital to get the foundation poured and the needed healthcare packages purchased was generated. Several million gold coins and three union lawsuits later, "the Tower of Babel" as decreed by head of public relations Alfred Babel, was under construction. God, on the other hand, was not pleased by these developments. The whole Garden of Eden thing was one fiasco, but the last thing he needed was building code inspectors feeling their lot in life was more important than it really was - they had that job as punishment, and he wasn't about to do them any favors. Surely such a giant building would have tons of codes, and we can't have that. Thus, God broke out one of his twelve deadly plagues. It was a tough decision, but ten of them he was pretty sure he'd need later, and he was saving Richard Simmons until at least 1980, just to keep things going. Thus, he used the dreaded "Language Barrier". All of the peoples were condemned to speak different languages, and were scattered to the ends of the earth. Worst of all, however, was the introduction of the dreaded conjugation. You see, just to make things as complicated as possible, God took what was previously a very simple language, and introduced a lot of irritating, unnecessary things that supposedly make a big difference but in reality have little effect. One of these was tenses, a unique idea that lets people know just when you did or want something done. In theory, great idea. In practice, utterly useless. For example, take the sentence "Billy is on fire," versus "Billy will be on fire by the end of the night." There is only two important things to grasp here, and that's "Billy" and "Fire". The particular timing doesn't affect much: you just need those two words to know that you should go get the dustbin and make funeral arrangements. Other languages have taken this timing issue to the extreme, giving proper ways to say things that have happened, that will happen, that happened in a dream sequence, that won't happen except in the event of an emergency, that happened but no one meant to have happen, that happen to be really neat, that happen while wearing thong underwear and bouncing on a pogostick, but only on Sundays. Is this necessary? Why do I need a tense for the PastImparticipleAngioplasty? I don't. My conclusion? Languages should do away with these entirely. It shouldn't take years to learn a language, but merely hours. Look at Pig Latin, for example. Traditionally, Pig Latin is described as the less advanced cousin of its more accepted parent language. In reality, this is one of the simplest languages to learn and speak. Within hours of the basics being explained, even grade school children can form complex sentences with little difficulty. Why should be spend years teaching babies English, French or Korean when we can teach them Pig Latin within HOURS? Simplicity is key. Finally, I would like to point out that according to the Bible, language classes are against God's will. He seperated us for a reason, and we should stay that way. I see no reason why I should be forced to learn a "second" (hah! I got Pig Latin already!) language when it is clearly against religion. Stand with me and strike down the fallacy of mankind - before God does the striking down for us. We cannot survive another Richard Simmons. (Comment on this)
Sunday, October 3rd, 2004
6:05 pm	51 To Go. I remember I once had the unique pleasure of participating in a BBQ at Groom Lake, a beautiful scenic area that puts others in Nevada to shame (although that could be said about more than 50 different places). I was invited by my uncle Marty, good guy. It was being run by some friends of his. We were tossin' around the old pigskin, eating the munchies (all of which looked pretty alien to me, but they were good. Had some great cooks around there! Really colorless big-headed guy was the head of the whole thing - I think he was European.) I remember some people had these cool remote-controlled kites - no strings attached! I was blown away - I'd never seen anything like that before. Those crazy things were way aerodynamic, too - I was probably there for four or five hours at least, and I don't remember a single one coming down the whole time. A lot of people mistook the whole shebang for a masquerade, and some came dressed as doctors. They were really good at the thing - they came with scalpels, and they cut up the pig they were roasting on the spit like it was a dissection or something. Everyone was having a good time all-around. It was all going good, and I was starting to network. There was this cute gal with this big, beautiful eyes. Biggest eyes I ever seen. Deep, gray eyes. But she didn't speak English. We just kinda connected on some other level - she always was one step ahead of me, like she knew what I was thinking. A lot of people were foreigners, I think. Lots of people had weird customs, a lot of people were going up to a goldfish bowl and sticking them straight in the ears! Heh. Crazy folks. So then disaster struck. Some plane that I wasn't even paying attention to, it just BLAM! crashes out of nowhere. I didn't even hear the thing coming. Everything was chaos. There was screaming, and stuff flying, and it was just a mess. Then these hummers pull up, and started evacuating everyone. Lotsa military people. They all started diving into vehicles, and getting the heck outta there. So me an my uncle Marty dive into one too. They took us to this crazy building that everyone needed ID to get into. But see, I dropped my wallet back at the picnic, in all the hubub! It was bad, seriously. I tried to get my uncle to vouch for me, but they wouldn't have anything of it, especially since the only ID my uncle had on him was a fishing license. I think it would've worked, had it not been expired. Dang those things are expensive, who's the got the money to renew them? Anyway, so they were pretty ticked and kept asking us why we were there, and who we came with, and I kept telling them that I came with Marty, and he kept saying he came with me. It was nuts. It just wasn't getting through to these guys. So eventually, their superior comes up, and he's all "Okay, I see what happened. Here, look at this," and talked about how this thing was all cool and whatnot. And he pulls out like a silver cigar case, and goes "Look!" and we're looking, and then something really red flashed - but dude, I missed it! I blinked, and I missed the whole dang thing. I was all like "What?" and they're all "Nothing." and I was like trying to explain that I missed whatever it was, and Marty wouldn't tell me, that jerk. They shoved us into a car and left us in Vegas. It was kinda cool, actually. They gave us 15G's and told us we were big-rollers. So we took it, and had a great time. That was an awesome weekend. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 22nd, 2004
1:32 pm	Anger and Body Count Rising To help kick off our new Intelligence Commissioner's cabinet-level position, which allows him to lord over us in his official title: Lord of Privacy, Slayer of Secrets, Defender of the Terrorized, I've submitted in triplicate what I believe to be an orange or possibly fuchsia-level threat: The increasing influx of foreigners in my basement. Many are disfigured or handicapped. Some even have the audacity to bleed on my floor! There are enough spare body parts to rebuild a leper colony. It seems that every night, more pile up! These foreigners have infested my basement with their overseas culture, which seems to include lying on top of each other at odd angles, in their ugly foreign clothes (which frequently are dyed with what looks like faux-blood) and remaining motionless for days, if not weeks at a time. They refuse to respond to my queries, and have not even acknowledged my presence. I pay for the damned room! Just this morning, I found another three sleeping in the pile. I am fairly certain that at least one was French, or possibly a mime, as they dress equally. In addition, many have not showered for days, and despite my attempts to force them to evacuate through liberal use of my hose, I've found they do not comply. I am at my wits end. To top it all off, they seem to play tricks on me at night, while I sleep. I've frequently found my clothes bloodied with their foreign tricks, and I have not had a restful sleep in weeks... I imagine its due to their foreign fumes permeating the floorboards. Last week, they snuck onto my main floor and raided my closet, borrowing my baseball bat for a few rounds of night-time baseball. There must have been an accident, as they returned it bloodied! Not to mention the meat cleaver they borrowed for slaughtering some animal, the chainsaw they must've used to dice up some dead cattle, or the ballpoint pen that must've slipped - all were returned stained in blood. I've had it, and I'm calling the eviction office right now. Mr. Intelligence Commissioner, I hope that you can return these foreign freeloading scums back to where they belong. It’s about time the US flexed some muscle and showed the world just how much more money we spend on our military! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 19th, 2004
1:52 am	Why Assassins are Rarely Seen in Unemployment Lines I was waiting in line, as I do every Tuesday, for my Assassin's Guild check. They have a small office down on 45th, right between what used to be a Starbucks, and is now a Starbucks EXPRESS (it didn't meet the 5,000 sq-ft minimum to be full-fledged, and thus carried only 3/4 of the seven-hundred drink menu), and what used to be called a crack house, but is now politically-correctified into a "Addiction-Challenged Haven." The room reeks lightly of dead flesh, as just about everyone who's in here has been handling dead meat recently, if you get my drift. I won't bore you with the details of the assassination I commited against a band of nuclear-capable Czetchnian Rebels, who, demanding forty million rubles on penalty of returning the Prime Minister's youngest daughter in pieces, destroying Taiwan, and bringing back Furbies to mainstream America, had holed themselves up inside a nuclear fallout bunker (which happened to be located inside of Vatican city - long story), with two blind and deaf hostages apiece. It's not really as interesting as it sounds. Long story short, I ended up waiting in line for my check, provided through a reliable yet detached sect of the US government (run by none other than Al Gore). Instead, I will tell you the less interesting but easier to explain story of what happened waiting in the aforementioned line. In my hands was an extremely enjoyable McFlurry Burger, on advance loan from McDonalds secret headquarters in Antartica (the Assassin's Guild gets everything first, you all should see it debuting in 2006. I give it a 8.5, on account of too much icecream touching the mayo). As I finished the burger, I spied a trashcan 20 or so paces ahead of me, off to the side of the line. I held onto the garbage, and when I got to within 10 paces or so, I took off at a brisk walk, with the intention of immediately returning to line. Lo an behold, the forty-someodd people had collectively decided to push up and fill the void-that-had-been-my-spot. As you can imagine, I was stunned. My pace had been brisk, had it not? Surely they would recognize my intentions! But no, as it happened, they did not. In fact, there was a severe lack of recognition for my plight, as well. As I approached the line for re-entry - a bi-plane without landing clearance, doomed to circle the airport until it ran out of gas or went to the bottom of the queue - I was met with indiference. Not only were they ignoring my former posistion, they seemed to have no intention of breaking a spot open for me to stand. I'd been here for a solid ten minutes now, and had no intention of waiting through that again - my favorite syndicated shows began in less than two hours! I made up my mind. Like a young, pre-plastic surgery David Copperfield, I was going to walk directly through this wall. I strutted up to them, these heartless, line-cutting murderers. I cleared my throat a bit, and made as though I was going to cut through the line, to the opposite side, where there stood a dillapidated and abused coke machine, still accepting nickels as payment. They fell for my ruse like a twelve year old girl for a young, pony-tailed English teacher. The forty-someodd looking lady who had orchestrated the devilish line-cutting pulled back a half-inch or so, leaving an avenue that would be uncomfortable at best to cross through. A smiled in thanks, then stepped between her and the seven-foot-tall behemoth that had been the man in front of me. But to her great surprise, rather than continuing to glass-bottles filled with 1950's coke, I stopped dead still between the killers, pressed against their sweaty, murderous bodies, (air-conditioning had been broken since September, when the shootout between Charlton Heston (long time member of the Assassin's Guild) and a half-dozen schoolgirls (trainees) broke out over rights to a 2006 Missus-Wet-Pants doll we'd gotten on advance order), and the denial soon wore off of the woman behind me. "Uh, buddy: this is a no-cutting zone," she grumbled, gesturing at the sign posted above the counter. In black lettering on a bright yellow sign, read the words "NO CUTTING." It was some worker's clever attempt to lighten the mood in the area, as it featured a teddy-bear cutting a line with a rather large machete. The sign applied less to line-cutting, and more cutting in general - there were more knife-fights in the confines of these cheerfully-painted walls than in Washington DC, our nation's homicide capital. I turned to her, as if her existance had just occured to me, and it was a unique occurance to see her pressed up against my back in that way. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was here before, I just stepped out for a moment." She scrunched up her face. "We've all been here before, doesn't mean we can come and go as we please." I tried to explain that it wasn't just the metaphorical here, but the physical here, as in in this spot, just seconds before. She didn't seem to want to believe me. She countered with the fact that it was unfair to all of the people behind me to cut in like that. She didn't seem to understand. I decided to change tacts, as she still refused to begin the arduous process to backing everyone back up. That's the funny thing about lines - people will stand for three seconds, move forward a half inch, stand for two seconds, move forward a half inch, stop, repeat, and feel accomplished, like they're getting somewhere. But god forbid they move forward three feet and have to move back six inches. All hell will break loose. Which it did. When the dust settled, sixty people had fallen to my ballpoint pen, which I had been planning to use to sign for my check, and had not considered a lethal weapon previously. Surprisingly enough, it functions more like a ink-dispensing syringe than you'd expect. I ended up collecting a decent sum that morning, as at least half of those that fell to my blue-inked madness had bounties on their heads - not a bad morning. Dry cleaning bill wasn't too bad either, but try explaining blue ink and blood stains. (Comment on this)
Friday, March 26th, 2004
6:30 pm	Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head I trudged soundlessly through the forest, the heavy rains dripping off my brow and masking my path even as I cleared it. There would be little chance of being followed - and little hope of being found if I couldn't plod on. I'd be moving at a pokey few kilometers an hour through the thick brush, my machete dulled by the wet vines and saplings blocking my path. I blinked the water away, and took pause for a moment, tilting my head towards the heavens and gulping down a mouthful of the warm water. It was slightly salty, polluted by my sweaty face, but the refreshment was unmatched - I could move a few feet further. My left boot was in tatters, a sad example of poor craftsmanship. I'd briefly thought of buying the more expensive model, but I couldn't justify the forty American dollars at the time. That was back at basecamp, before meeting Banvy and setting off a chain reaction that lead me to my current state - somewhere in North Africa, carrying a prize worthy of kings. And slim chances of getting out with it. I could peg myself at somewhere between 02°00' - 08°00'S and 47°00' - 70°00'W, but even if I could radio to a rescue team, they'd be hard-pressed to locate me through the thick canopy. I laughed to myself - I was informed by my guide upon arrival that an acre and a half of rainforest is destroyed every second - the longer I held out, the better their chances of finding me. I slashed through another vine, a banisteriopsis caapi which I swore I would fully destroy if I ever got out of here. Banvy happily told me it was called the "vine of the dead" by the shamen inhabiting the region, and I could testify to it - if anything was going to kill me through impeding my progress, they would. The wrapped package cut viciously into my side after the last slash, and I shifted its weighty contents to my other side, slinging the cured leather over my opposite shoulder for what seemed the hundredth time in the last hour. Last hour? Last day? How long had I been cutting? How long had I been burning my reserves, resting to recuperate, and then allowing the rainforest to slaughter me again, a cruel reversal of swidden agriculture? And more importantly - how much longer could I go? I thought briefly about dropping the package, running as far as I could and praying for a merciful deity to salvage my body. The idea quickly passed - if I left my burden behind, I might as well have been dead upon exiting. Exactly 3.194 kg of uncut rubies was bundles in that pouch, enough to make any man rich. Until the early 1800s the ruby was defined only by its color - the transparent to opaque carmine red. Red spinel and red garnet were equally considered rubies. Eventually, science gave way, recognizing the ruby as part of the corundum species, to which sapphires also belong. It derives its name from the red color, Latin "ruber." Any "ruby" which carries the same makeup but is not red is a sapphire. The package I carried held the rarest of the natural rubies, the prized "pigeon's blood," pure red with a hint of blue. I complained when they were first shown to me - the uncut rubies looked dull and greasy. Banvy explained that they would only achieve their luster after being cut and facetted. I laughed at the time, and asked him how he could know he wasn't sold a pile of reddish rocks. He didn't return with his usual chuckle, and drew attention to his hand, missing the tip of his index finger. "People don't torture you for red rocks," he said in a subdued breath. I didn't question him again. My attention snapped back to the present in an instant, feeling the leather strap pulling against an outstretched hook-like protrusion of a tree. I stopped faster than my body should have ever been able, but it was still too late. The sharp branch afforded a tiny rip in the precious package, but it was all I needed to dash my hopes. Thousands of tiny unprocessed rubies, ranging from delicate 5ct to the colossal 40ct spilled out, tumbling towards the muddied waters I stood calf-deep in. My mind worked faster than it should have ever been able, and my hands lunged out to catch the cascading, twinkling waterfall pouring from my hips. I only served in scattering them to the trees and mud. A few, a tauntingly few, landed on the mud, resting quietly. They shimmered with a careless wink that did little more than fuel my passion, lunging at them, only to arrive an instant too late as the heavy rains pushed them under and out of sight. My mind and body may have worked faster than it ever should have been able, but it was no match for nature reclaiming her prized possessions, sifted from river gravel and picked by human hand. My actions had thrown me off balance, my machete carelessly tossed aside. I toppled headfirst into the mud, breaking its gentle surface tension and falling into the depths. I felt it flow over my back, surrounding me in its coolness. I thought back to Banvy, I thought to the scattered corundum species that lay around my to-be grave. I thought to the banisteriopsis caapi, and the Amazon jungle that was to be my grave. Finally, I thought of rising - of getting back up. I had no hope of collecting the precious gems, their resting places disrupted by the rains and my food supply insufficient to even get me out. I was riding on a dream that became a nightmare. Inside my muddy coffin, I made a conscious decision not to rise. I stayed down, holding my breath while I was able, unconsciousness turning my life to a gentle repose. No pharaoh has even been buried with such treasure. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, March 17th, 2004
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1:37 am	Airline Safety Translations Comment: In the event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a floatation device. Translation: Lets be honest: this plane made of metal. When we said "Water Landing," we meant "Water Deathtrap." Comment: People seating in exit rows should be prepared to assist the flight attendants and other passengers should the aircraft need to be evacuated in an emergency. Translation: If you are questioning your ability to meet the requirements of sitting in this exit row seat, remember your ability to remain calm will not matter when you head is severed from your crumpled torso. Comment: On most US domestic flights, smoking is prohibited. Translation: Be sure to visit our sponsor, Nicorette! Comment: Please take a moment now to make sure your seat belts are fastened low and tight about your waist. To fasten the belt, insert the metal tab into the buckle. Pull the metal buckle to release. Translation: Seatbelts have been proven to be entirely ineffective at speeds of 750 mph, the flight speed of a Boeing 747. Seatbelts are a carry-over from the golden age of biplanes, giving the stewardesses something to check on as they peruse the plane's population. Comment: If you are seated next to someone who might need some assistance, such as a child, an individual with limited physical or mental capabilities, you should put your own mask on first, then breathe normally as you assist the other person. Translation: There's not enough for everyone, so get yours while you can! Comment: In the seat pocket in front of you is a pamphlet about the safety features of this plane. Translation: You'll notice the "safety features" pamphlet is primarily composed of pretty pictures, as listing the safety features would have been a very short sentence: 'None'. Comment: In the event of an emergency, blinking lights on the floor that will blink in the direction of the exits. White ones along the normal rows, and red ones at the exit rows. Translation: Studies have shown that flailing your arms will help exit a crowded plane faster. Comment: Please be sure your seatbelt is properly fastened. Translation: In event of impact, you will die. Comment: Our stewardesses will be bringing around complimentary peanuts and beverages. Translation: Your counterparts in first class have gobbled down all the steak, so all we have left to offer is a salty quarter ounce bag that will serve as your meal for the next six hours. A big laugh to all you allergic folks. Comment: Contents of baggage compartment may shift during flight. Translation: Please remove the object that best resembles what you put in. Comment: We're glad to have you with us on board this flight. Translation: I always wanted to die with others. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 16th, 2004
5:14 pm	"Robotic Operations", or "When Good Robots Run Windows" I once heard a story about a farmer who decided one day to train his donkey. He determined that if he slowly fed it less and less, if wouldn't expect as much, and wouldn't eat as much, and would simply get used to it. He was right, of course, and the horse got used to it. Then he decided that the mule could go without sleep, and progressively prevented it from sleeping, working all the while. Eventually, he said that the mare would need neither, as he'd trained it so well, and gave it neither rest nor food. He was a very good trainer. Needless to say, it all worked out fine. Like I said, he was a good trainer. I can't really remember the moral of the story, I think it was something like "Be careful what you wish for". Anyway, I decided to try the same thing. Except not with food or sleep, 'cuz that's already been done (and I like both too much to give them up). Instead, I'm applying the formula to internal organs. A quick trip to WebMD tells us that the kidney is removeable, and even worth some money in foreign markets! This 1-lb heap o' flesh is actually redundant, you've got two of them! What a waste. In fact, by removing it, I'm actually getting thinner, too! That's first to go. I've also heard good things about appendectomies, which is supposed to be a relatively simple procedure. Now, the primary problem with conducting my experiment is putting myself under the knife, by myself. I worry about involving other people. I think they'd try to steal some of the glory, so I've got to keep them at bay. Enter my solution: I've designed a robot to help me with the procedure, which I built myself out of cardboard and napkins stolen from fast food chains. I've named him "MAX", for Multi-Armed-Xtreme-Super-Robot. I thought about naming him "MAXSR", but that sounds stupid. I programmed him to support punchcards, and to read my handwriting. Thus, I need only write out the specific instructions, push them into the slit I cut in his chest with an exacto-knife, and he follows them with careful and robotic precision. I wrote out my first set of instructions: "GUARD THE DOOR". He stood motionless, a silent and deadly mass of robotic death, waiting patiently to pounce on any intruders who dare enter and disturb my operation. I'd equipped him with a light saber I bought at KB-Toys, which I found fittingly futuristic. I set about my preparations, moving my bed and table lamp to the center of the room in a mock-OR. I moved the scalpel and mayonnaise jar, balancing in a bucket of ice (my impromptu transport device) to the side of the bed, and took up my pen and paper, writing the next instructions for "MAX". It had to be something that got the message across, yet was simple enough for a robot to follow exactly. It's kind of like dealing with an all powerful genie, (although few genies have Darth-Maul's double blade duct-taped to their sixth appendage), you have to make sure that they can't twist it against you. I finally settled on "REMOVE MY KIDNEYS". I wouldn't want to have to repeat the procedure if it was successful the first time through - might as well get rid of both in one go. I leaned over to "MAX" and slipped the scrap of paper into his slit, and heard it flutter quietly to the bottom of his cardboard chest, laser-scanners processing the handwriting and request as it descended. I waited for his internal circuitry to acknowledge and begin the procedure. And I waited more. Nothing. What had gone wrong?! I thought back through the programming I'd given "MAX"... damnit! I'd told him to GUARD THE DOOR. While I'd invested minutes of research in his programming and interface, I had no means of flushing previous programming! He couldn't operate while guarding the door, so with the conflicting messages, he opted to follow the oldest. Damnit! I'd have to get my programming tools and scotch tape from the next room over. Suddenly, realization dawned on me. I was trapped in a catch-22. A paradox, if you will. I could not reprogram "MAX" without getting the necessary tools from the next room. And I could not go through the doorway into the next room without "MAX" lashing out at me with his double-sided plastic blade of pure light. I was in a horrible predicament. Starvation like a donkey was not the way I was going to die. I steeled myself against the task ahead, and slowly crept to the door. I silently reached out for the handle, and MAX's eyes lit up in a terrifying visage, spinning his double-blades like a grandmaster towards me... (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, March 12th, 2004
11:47 pm	Ninjas are people too. Except when they're not. I breathed a slow breath as I stepped out of the van. McClintock ran a quick mic check. "Hear me okay?" he crackled over my hidden earpiece. "Yeah - loud and clear," I whispered back, under guise of coughing. I headed toward the warehouse, apprehension stinging my face. I took another deep breath, mentally going over my training. I was prepared for this. I could do it. FBI Special Ops, check. Ninjitsu, check. Basic Firearms, check. Restraining order versus the ex-wife, check. Advanced meditation, check. Yoga, check. Ninja-like ability to run on water, vanish, and deflect bullets through only my sheer force of will, check. Clean underwear, check... The metal door loomed before me. I listened against it for a moment, and hearing movement, pushed it open. A loud screech rang out through the air. The gang stared at me, and I stared back. I'm the best, that's why I'm here. Another breath. McClintock was ready with a full SWAT team outside for my go. No turning back now. One of the gang holstered his .22 in his pants and walked towards me. I made a new list in my mind, this time all the things I hadn't accomplished. Never went SCUBA diving. Never finished a five-course meal. Never completed my Ninjitsu training after my sensei died. All of my really impressive moves I learned off of Bushido Blade for the PlayStation. I trained hard, but it was the demo version, and I inevitably felt that I hadn't mastered it. Now was the moment of truth. The beyond-buff-bodyguard approached me, patting me down. Finding my sidearm, he pulled it out of its holster, "for safekeeping" as he said. He ran his fingers delicately over my stomach, over my wire. A quick look to a friend of his, and I knew this was taking a turn for the worse. He hadn't even finished frisking me - his mistake. "Hey man, you got the stuff?" the friend announced announced, citing the most cliche line I've ever heard. It was less for me and more to get the attention of the twenty or so roughnecks in the room, and all attention was focused on me. Or, I should say, WAS focused on me, AFTER my comrade drew a shiny blade and deftly sliced open my shirt, revealing my wire. My training all lead up to this. I would've called in the SWAT team, honestly. But this now became a matter of honor. That was an italian shirt. Besides, I didn't have breath to spare to call for backup as I drew my katana, its steel blade flashing through the air. Cliche-gang-member's head rolled towards his friends, a stunned-yet-contemplative look on his face. Likely contemplating how the back of his shirt was untucked, and his decapitated body looked kind of slovenly, although his back did him justice, excellent posture. Either way, the coroner would have to use a lot of spirit gum to reattach that one. The response time from the gang was impressive. It took them only 2.83 seconds to acknowledge what had occurred, draw their weapons, and begin firing. As it turns out, however, 2.83 seconds is the exact amount of time it takes me to remove two arms from a man, sever the major arteries of another, and remind a third of how important his lungs were. While slower, shurikens can be just as effective as guns - two more down. And that was under-handed. Deep breath. Exhale. Time to deal with all those bullets. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
2:11 pm	Ode to Rick James I spent my morning doing lines. Everything's kinda blurred now, but in a more fun way. Like drying clothes in the sunlight, but with a rock band slamming out in the background, with thousands of people rioting in your front lawn. I made a riddle to help: What is white, powerdy, and flat, Stands on it's head, and wears a hat? What is it? No, seriously. What is it? I have no idea. I don't think I made an answer. But if you know, please tell me. Cocaine's a helluva drug. (Comment on this)
12:45 am	The Pirates of Pants I was minding my own business on the high seas, sipping a gin and tonic and stroking Whiskers (oh, how many of my greatest love stories begin this way!) when my 180' double-masted sailing vessel, Dinghy, was boarded by pirates. They quickly made their demands: "We want yer tonic and yer sailz, ye scurvy dog!" (Obligatory pirate accent added by me, he actually spoke eloquently, with a hint of a Northern British dialect), he bellowed at me, spittle splattering spontaneously across my scrubbed and shined ship. I kindly made known that I was in no mood to part with either my sails or gin (my candor may have been because of my clear and bubbly friend), and drew my sword, a rapier given to me by the king of France after my assistance in defeating the Austrians at Nottingham. I made my counterdemands. It is a well-known fact that if you wish to barter with a shipmate, you declare your demands, and raise them to the second power. "Instead, I will see your gin and sails, and raise you your ship, sails, first-born child, mortgages, investments in NASDAQ, and your pants." I wasn't expecting all of that, obviously, but when bartering, it's best to start high and go down from there, as it's considered impolite to raise the stakes afterwards. As it turned out, my demands were near on-the-money, and he staggered backward, shocked: "My pants? These are my finest pair!" he said, clutching his pants in a manner that suggested he did not know how to not suggestively clutch his pants. I felt a momentary pang of remorse. While I did want to show my captor that I meant business, I did not want to be mean about it - they were a fine looking pair. It appeared that we had reached a stalemate - his honor and my charity, or a ruthless battle to the death. I will miss his accent. (Comment on this)
12:17 am	The New USSR I have decided to reconglomerate the USSR, or former Soviet Union, as some of you may recall. Unfortunately, my one-and-a-half minute search on the internet has proven fruitless in determining what USSR previously stood for, so I am obliged to assume that no one knows. It was probably something in Russian, anyway. Thus, I re-dub it the "United Super-Soviet Region". Many people doubt the effectiveness of this move. I will recite a statement my press advisor suggested, then elaborate as I see fit: "No Comment." Also, while the USSR may be financial unstable as of late, I'd like to remind everyone that the only requirement for being a super-power is having Super-Powers. Clearly, several million megatons of nuclear material constitutes Super-Powers. Should they choose to under the interim government I have yet to appoint (but will likely include at least one of the Marx brothers), the United Super-Soviet Region could release said nuclear material on it's population to induce more Super-Powers in its townfolk, hereafter refferred to as "mutant freaks". As can be seen in such source material as Spider-Man and Captain Planet, nuclear material not only induces Super-Powers, but turns you green (it's a little-known fact that Captain Planet was battling radiation primarily, the atomic strength of which turned him green and confined him to an alternate dimension, released only through the combination of Fire, Earth, Wind, Water, and the all-powerful (and culturally-balancing) Heart). These green mutant-freaks will help bolster the crumbling economy, and sweep terror throughout the rest of Europe, and possibly India. I have yet to decide. Also, they will bake cookies, when not conducting terror campaigns. Many will ask what justification I have for enacting such a diabolical plan. To this I respond with a quote from Confucious or Janet Jackson, depending on who you ask: What justification does you have? (Comment on this)
Thursday, March 11th, 2004
10:11 pm	My First Post, or "Hello World, I'm here to take your down from the inside". I would like to take the opportunity of my first post to address the people I hate most, whom I will list by full name: This content edited by LiveJournal staff -ed Please note, I am by no means saying to "kill" them, but if you happen to find them on the street and have nothing better to do, you're welcome to maim them. Except the fourth one, as he still owes me three dollars, and I want to be sure he's capable of working that off. Disability payments are affected by the economic slump like us all. You can consider this my ultra-secret alternate identity. Secondly, I would like to address the primary problem with keeping a secret alternate identity: Telling people. If people find out, it's not a secret anymore. Consequently, anyone reading this can consider themselves added to the above "hit" list. If this is a subpoenaed document, by "hit," I mean "friends". More to come the next time my secret island is within the window of the satellite I'm haxxoring into to transmit this. I fear the last few bytes might not even reach it... (1 Comment |Comment on this)