Click to Biggie-sizeThursday, October 22, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
I'm Taking Over This Blog...For CRIME!!
Dave Lartigue over at Dave Ex Machina has just rolled out this week's installment of "Space Cabby Sunday," his ongoing chronicle of the eponymous working class hero. This latest adventure pits Space Cabby in a race against a ship controlled by "Piloton," the "super-electronic brain." Unfortunately, being "super-electronic" apparently doesn't mean "smart enough to avoid capture by bandits." The ship's captors, thieving villains though they are, are not without a certain flair for rhetoric, as they proudly proclaim that they're "taking over the ship...for CRIME!!"
Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to get through the whole day at work tomorrow without announcing, "I'm taking over this cubicle... for CRIME!!"
I love the way their announcement makes it seem like they're claiming the ship as the sovereign territory...of CRIME!! "We have been invested with plenipotentiary powers to conclude any and all treaties and establish extraterritorial zones of jurisdiction...FOR CRIME!!!"
Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to get through the whole day at work tomorrow without announcing, "I'm taking over this cubicle... for CRIME!!"
I love the way their announcement makes it seem like they're claiming the ship as the sovereign territory...of CRIME!! "We have been invested with plenipotentiary powers to conclude any and all treaties and establish extraterritorial zones of jurisdiction...FOR CRIME!!!"
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Fichigan Limbo
I would say that life in a college town has its drawbacks, but such an equivocal condemnation suggests that life in a college town has advantages as well, which, given the fact that used bookstores and independent record shops are things of the past, is no longer remotely true. Among the more obnoxious aspects of life in Studentia is the poor quality of most bathroom grafitti. Admittedly, the English Building on my local campus can usually be relied upon for more interesting - or at least amusing - scrawled offerings; one stall on the first floor was formerly home to an entire essay offering an impassioned defense of hip-hop artist MF Doom. Still, if I am forced to avail myself of a restroom on campus, I try to stick to the upper floors of the various halls and labs, as these tend to be the haunts of teachers, researchers, and graduate assistants, rather than drooling undergrads. Unfortunately, even here, the level of discourse can disappoint:
Sadly, no eight-inch tall dancers have ever undulated their way into that stall (at least to my knowledge), but whoever is responsible for that little snippet of random silliness certainly managed to make my day.
Yes, hurling crude insults at your school's sporting rivals is indeed a mentally trying task, so make it easy on yourself by just copying the slogan off the front of your shirt!
Inevitably, some wag complemented this anti-Michigan salvo by transcribing the reverse of the ubiquitous tee:
I'm sure the inhabitants of Ann Arbor, MI are stung to the quick by this dazzling invective.
Sadly, no eight-inch tall dancers have ever undulated their way into that stall (at least to my knowledge), but whoever is responsible for that little snippet of random silliness certainly managed to make my day.Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Thirty PSes of Silver
Now that Sony has finally stopped playing coy about the new slim version of the Playstation 3, it has been revealed that the garish original color scheme of the classic "PS" logo is being dropped in favor of an all-silver look that will be "standard across all platforms." It certainly fits in well with the Slim's matte black casing, moreso than the brightly colored original did with the "phat" PS3's piano-black chassis. However, now that the design of the PS logo has been called to my close attention, I'm noticing for the first time what a striking resemblance it bears to the ancient Chi-Rho christogram:
Further tomfoolery research on my part has brought to light possible evidence that those behind the Playstation project have been working since the early days of the Christian Church to control the destiny of mankind, as shown in this ancient image of an Imperial standard:
PS + PX = PSX???
Could the release of the Slim PS3 be merely the next phase in a millennia-old conspiracy to dominate the world? Is the installation of a Playstation in every home part of the ANNUNAKI LIZARD-MEN's plot to use BLUE-LASER DIODE TECHNOLOGY to MASTER MEN'S MINDS???
If so, great! I'm gonna invest everything I got in Tinfoil Hats, LLC.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
GOP Gov Stuns Nation By Leading Remotely Interesting Life
Apologies to the Tonight ShowMarshall Clement Sanford, son of Marshall Clement Sanford,
(1)was born to a middle-class family in Florida,
(2)earned bachelor's and master degrees in business,
(3)worked as a student for Goldman Sachs,
(4)started his own successful leasing and brokerage firm,
(5)earned a 92 rating from the American Conservative Union during his days as a legislator, and
(6)transgressed against all his ostensible principles, cheated on his wife, and threw his gubernatorial responsibilites to the four winds by running off to South America and having a steamy, wildly passionate affair with a seductive, brilliant Argentine beauty.
It is a measure of the perversity of American values - and Republican values in particular - that the only one of Mr. Sanford's accomplishments people seem to think he should be ashamed of...
...is the one thing in his bland, by-the-numbers, white-bread, white-guy existence that he - by any sane standards - ought to be proud of.
Friday, May 29, 2009
By Popular Demand
This is an essay I recently wrote for a composition class. It was a self-assigned paper; the task to which I set myself was to write a catalog review in the style of S.J. Perelman's legendary skewerings from The New Yorker. Tens of people have been clamoring for its publication, so here is the fruit of my labors:
It's hard to believe, nowadays, that I was once a mere boy of nine years - harder still to believe that I was once a mere girl of nine years, but that is neither here nor there. Amongst the fast-fading memories of my halcyon days, there is still one that remains as vivid as only a small child's stark terror can make it. People in my family tended to speak in hushed tones of Great-Aunt Vi's kitchen; those who'd been inside refused to speak of it at all, or indeed to speak at all. Aunt Vi was like some dark priestess of cookery, whose culinary feats came at a price too great and terrible for a mere mortal to bear. From the day Aunt Vi oh-so-casually asked me to step into the kitchen and fetch a basket of yeast rolls, the idea of cooking has been inextricably associated with a surpassing dread. Within that realm of darkness and flame lurked more obscure devices for the manipulation of more obscure foods in more obscure ways than anyone ought to know about. I think it was the truly mind-boggling “eggplant defibrillator” that finally set me to shrieking and running for dear life. Aunt Vi found me, of course, about an hour later, cowering before a shelf of implements that must have come from the kitchen of Hieronymus Bosch. Still, cooking is all the rage these days, so, squelching my trepidation, I set out, at long last, to master the art with the help of the good folks at The Pampered Chef.
The antiseptic quaintness of the universe as envisioned by the P.C. makes one's kitchen look positively inviting - at first. The mind is set at ease by the alchemical mysteries of the "Suds Pump," a novel device which achieves new levels of cleanliness through a radical combination of "soap" and "water." I was a little fuzzy on the nature of the "Greek Rub," though that too sounds quite soothing. (Apparently some customers prefer to be rubbed by a Jamaican jerk - no accounting for taste, I suppose.) The P.C. bookshelf is packed with effervescent offerings such as Spin on Salads, spiritual fare like Stoneware Inspirations, and the heart-pounding action of 29 Minutes to Dinner. The promise of a "Small Oval Baker" made the P.C. kitchen seem friendly and innocuous, though I couldn't help but feel they were being a little insensitive toward the man. (There was also mention of a "Deep-Covered Baker," presumably involved in culinary espionage of some sort; I would guess he is either the author or the protagonist of 29 Minutes.)
However, just when I felt I was beginning to feel comfortable amongst all the culinaria, the bewildering profusion of gadgetry on display sapped my newfound confidence. The "Bamboo Cheese Board" left me concerned about the inexorable progress of genetic science - what couldn't they get cheese out of these days? I worried also about what Olympian quantities of carné would necessitate the use of an industrial-grade "Meat Lifter." (A roast piled high with bamboo cheese, perhaps?) Ice cream must be tougher than I remember, since P.C.'s "Ice Cream Dipper" relies on some mysterious liquid that draws heat from the very flesh of your hands. (In my day, ice-cream scoops were all-metal affairs that relied on the tried-and-true "drawing heat from hot things" method.) The "Pie Crust Shield" sounds like some particularly laughable artifact from Dungeons and Dragons, and I take strong exception to anyone passing off a thirty-nine-dollar piece of tableware as a "Trifle Bowl." And while I applaud Pampered Chef's exhortation to help "Whip Cancer®," I can't help but be more concerned by the implication that Cancer® apparently now has its own brand nameTM, legal team®, and image consultantsECCH. The final straw was the expectation that I should fork over $59.50 to buy my food an "Ultimate Mandoline." If my “penultimate guitare” isn't good enough for the rutabagas, they'll just have to make do.
I wish now that morbid curiosity hadn't compelled me to take a peek at the cutlery section, for there I found a parade of horrors that would have warmed old Auntie's heart. The "7-inch Santoku" looks like it would do as well for a shiv as my old "6-inch Stiletto." The Pampered Chef "Salad Chopper" is fooling no one: it's clearly just a repurposed taser gun. For those with an inveterate hatred of fresh fruit, there's the "Apple Peeler/Corer/Slicer," a vise-like monstrosity that could probably not only process your Granny Smiths, but also isolate, sleep-deprive, and water-board them as well. Amidst all this black-and-chrome armament, the bright red plastic of "My Safe Cutter" draws the eye like a bloodstain. This purports to be for children; however, I've noticed that my neighborhood "Safe Cracker" carries a similar implement. The endless parade of sharp edges includes the "Serrated Peeler" and the "Rotary Grater" and I'm sure the "Spring-Loaded Eviscerator" would have come along in due course if I hadn't lost my nerve at that point and pitched the catalogue into the potato cupboard.
So I admit it, folks: I'm no Aunt Vi. I haven't the intestinal fortitude to dabble in the diabolical art of cooking, no matter how deceptively domestic it may seem. I’m sure Auntie is watching me from the afterworld, smirking at me in that endearing way she always had, and dragging one finger suggestively across her throat in that maddening way she always had. Well, old girl, I concede: you were more of a man in the kitchen than I could ever be. I have quit the battlefield in shame and disarray, and I’m sure it would be a balm to your soul to know it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I going to hop back into bed, put a damp towel on my forehead, and order out for dinner.
It's hard to believe, nowadays, that I was once a mere boy of nine years - harder still to believe that I was once a mere girl of nine years, but that is neither here nor there. Amongst the fast-fading memories of my halcyon days, there is still one that remains as vivid as only a small child's stark terror can make it. People in my family tended to speak in hushed tones of Great-Aunt Vi's kitchen; those who'd been inside refused to speak of it at all, or indeed to speak at all. Aunt Vi was like some dark priestess of cookery, whose culinary feats came at a price too great and terrible for a mere mortal to bear. From the day Aunt Vi oh-so-casually asked me to step into the kitchen and fetch a basket of yeast rolls, the idea of cooking has been inextricably associated with a surpassing dread. Within that realm of darkness and flame lurked more obscure devices for the manipulation of more obscure foods in more obscure ways than anyone ought to know about. I think it was the truly mind-boggling “eggplant defibrillator” that finally set me to shrieking and running for dear life. Aunt Vi found me, of course, about an hour later, cowering before a shelf of implements that must have come from the kitchen of Hieronymus Bosch. Still, cooking is all the rage these days, so, squelching my trepidation, I set out, at long last, to master the art with the help of the good folks at The Pampered Chef.
The antiseptic quaintness of the universe as envisioned by the P.C. makes one's kitchen look positively inviting - at first. The mind is set at ease by the alchemical mysteries of the "Suds Pump," a novel device which achieves new levels of cleanliness through a radical combination of "soap" and "water." I was a little fuzzy on the nature of the "Greek Rub," though that too sounds quite soothing. (Apparently some customers prefer to be rubbed by a Jamaican jerk - no accounting for taste, I suppose.) The P.C. bookshelf is packed with effervescent offerings such as Spin on Salads, spiritual fare like Stoneware Inspirations, and the heart-pounding action of 29 Minutes to Dinner. The promise of a "Small Oval Baker" made the P.C. kitchen seem friendly and innocuous, though I couldn't help but feel they were being a little insensitive toward the man. (There was also mention of a "Deep-Covered Baker," presumably involved in culinary espionage of some sort; I would guess he is either the author or the protagonist of 29 Minutes.)
However, just when I felt I was beginning to feel comfortable amongst all the culinaria, the bewildering profusion of gadgetry on display sapped my newfound confidence. The "Bamboo Cheese Board" left me concerned about the inexorable progress of genetic science - what couldn't they get cheese out of these days? I worried also about what Olympian quantities of carné would necessitate the use of an industrial-grade "Meat Lifter." (A roast piled high with bamboo cheese, perhaps?) Ice cream must be tougher than I remember, since P.C.'s "Ice Cream Dipper" relies on some mysterious liquid that draws heat from the very flesh of your hands. (In my day, ice-cream scoops were all-metal affairs that relied on the tried-and-true "drawing heat from hot things" method.) The "Pie Crust Shield" sounds like some particularly laughable artifact from Dungeons and Dragons, and I take strong exception to anyone passing off a thirty-nine-dollar piece of tableware as a "Trifle Bowl." And while I applaud Pampered Chef's exhortation to help "Whip Cancer®," I can't help but be more concerned by the implication that Cancer® apparently now has its own brand nameTM, legal team®, and image consultantsECCH. The final straw was the expectation that I should fork over $59.50 to buy my food an "Ultimate Mandoline." If my “penultimate guitare” isn't good enough for the rutabagas, they'll just have to make do.
I wish now that morbid curiosity hadn't compelled me to take a peek at the cutlery section, for there I found a parade of horrors that would have warmed old Auntie's heart. The "7-inch Santoku" looks like it would do as well for a shiv as my old "6-inch Stiletto." The Pampered Chef "Salad Chopper" is fooling no one: it's clearly just a repurposed taser gun. For those with an inveterate hatred of fresh fruit, there's the "Apple Peeler/Corer/Slicer," a vise-like monstrosity that could probably not only process your Granny Smiths, but also isolate, sleep-deprive, and water-board them as well. Amidst all this black-and-chrome armament, the bright red plastic of "My Safe Cutter" draws the eye like a bloodstain. This purports to be for children; however, I've noticed that my neighborhood "Safe Cracker" carries a similar implement. The endless parade of sharp edges includes the "Serrated Peeler" and the "Rotary Grater" and I'm sure the "Spring-Loaded Eviscerator" would have come along in due course if I hadn't lost my nerve at that point and pitched the catalogue into the potato cupboard.
So I admit it, folks: I'm no Aunt Vi. I haven't the intestinal fortitude to dabble in the diabolical art of cooking, no matter how deceptively domestic it may seem. I’m sure Auntie is watching me from the afterworld, smirking at me in that endearing way she always had, and dragging one finger suggestively across her throat in that maddening way she always had. Well, old girl, I concede: you were more of a man in the kitchen than I could ever be. I have quit the battlefield in shame and disarray, and I’m sure it would be a balm to your soul to know it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I going to hop back into bed, put a damp towel on my forehead, and order out for dinner.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Before humans walked this land...
...an elder race of maggot-men erected a crude ziggurat to their unspeakable god.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Bad Ways to Go
Execution, Gangland-Style
Ginger and Sugar together was sweet - short and sweet. Sugar was Boss Starchi's moll... and Ginger found out the cold, hard way that you don't pitch woo at the boss's girl.Stuck in the Event Horizon of a Clickwheel
Poetic justice, you bastard. You downloaded that song so that you could mercilessly Rick-roll your friends and loved ones. Thanks to time dilation, you'll have eternity to regret it. Struck Down By the Hand of God While Wearing a Cartoon Character Costume
The puddy-tats above, not satisfied with taking your life, have decided to rob you of your dignity as well.Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Pseudomonarchia Daemonum for the 21st Century
DOMINATOR OF SOULS
CONDEMNER OF SOULS
WATCHER OF SOULS
REAVER OF SOULS
EATER OF SOULS 
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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