Guys, I'm not sure why I am even posting right now because it is entirely possible that at this very moment there is shark related programming going on that I am missing.

In fact, I think it probably started earlier today in which case I am so despondent I would probably kill myself except for then I would miss the next SIX DAYS of shark related programming on the Discovery channel.




Anyway, I am going to go wake up the neighbors and let them know that it is shark week.

SHHHHAAAAARRK WEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!

The trouble with throwing axes is that if you miss, you've just given your enemy a throwing axe. Plus, you only get one shot.

What makes infinitely more sense is a throw a man holding an axe. He will be able to use it repeatedly and he won't just hand it over to the enemy (unless he is a pansy but then good riddance you'd rather have that pansy on the enemy's team anyway).



See?

Common sense.

Ghetto medical equipment has two principal advantages:
(1) It is much cheaper than officially tested and certified equipment.
(2) Using it instills your patients with an appropriate sense of fear.

First, I present my weekend project, an ophthalmoscope:



Made from PVC, binoculars, a digital camera, a child's toy, and some miscellaneous salvaged electronics parts, this device comes with an ON and OFF setting.

Now, of course, you can't be a doctor with just an ophtalmoscope, but I have some other ideas, too:

ECG (electrocardiograph): basically just an oscilloscope, which I already have. Granted, an oscilloscope won't beep when the patient flatlines, but in this economy we cannot afford to entertain such needless frivolities.
Colonoscope: a plumber's snake and a webcam should do the trick.
Anesthetic: ice for topical/local anesthetic, booze for general anesthetic. (being a ghetto physician in the 21st century is a lot like being a perfectly respectable physician in the 19th century)

Anyway, if anyone wants some free medical treatment, I am going to need some practice before I open my doors to the general public.

As you may know, I am a scientist, and as a scientist, I would like to share with you some of the things that scientists have discovered about earth:

*Earth may be the awesomest planet, but it is not the coolest. The coolest planet is Neptune, which has an average temperature of -225 Celsius.
*Earth is also not the largest planet. That would be your mom.
*If you were to observe what earth looks like from the perspective of its moon, you would immediately asphyxiate and die because the moon has no atmosphere.
*Earth is home to millions of living species. An example would be the blobfish.
*If you ever vacation on earth, you should take a towel, because most of earth's surface is covered in water.
*Water on earth is near its triple point conditions, which means it exists in three phases and nine unique flavors.
*Some cultures have worshiped earth as a deity. But these same cultures probably pooed on it, too, so take that as you will.
*Earth has a powerful magnetic field. This helps large metal objects such as washingmachines stick to its surface without floating away.
*The best way to save the earth for our posterity is to recycle. The best way to recycle is to stop consuming new things and instead use old things which are no longer serving a purpose. For example, you could use the fossil byproducts of ancient plant matter to power a joyride to the mall.
*The earth is not a perfect sphere. Its shape is actually that of an oblate spheroid, i.e., a sphere that is a little chubby around the mid-section. It also weighs approximately 5.9736 × 10²⁴ kilograms, so, yeah, not gonna win any swimsuit competitions.
*If you're stuck on earth, don't worry, outer space is only 73 miles away.
*Earth has survived solar storms, asteroid impacts, and magnetic pole reversals, but may ultimately be rendered uninhabitable by cow farts and oversize passenger vehicles.
*Earth's highest point is Mt. Everest. Earth's lowest point was when Dr. Phil appeared on the Tonight Show.

I feel we may want to stage a few armed guards in the area. Barbed wire, spotlights... setup a perimeter. I mean, we are talking about the veritable linchpin of our civilization. Saboteurs could wipe us out with a little sprinkle of silicon carbine on the axle bearings. No use taking chances... defend and fortify.

I don't like that we're leaving it out in the rain either. And those chickens, has anyone checked out their security clearances?

Run some background checks and get back to me.

There was a boy with saggy clothes
with sleeves that stretched down to his toes
whose belt and buttons could not be found,
whose pockets trailed down on the ground.

His classmates all would laugh at him.
His grandma said it was a sin.
His teachers told him that he could not,
(But Sally thought that it was "hot.")

At last the boy had had his fill
Of such unpleasing ridicule.
So he grew to be twelve feet tall,
and then his clothes were all too small.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bates?"

There was the small commotion of two people rising and gathering their things.

"This way please."

Mr. and Mrs. bates gladly followed the orderly out of the chaos of the hospital's patient waiting area and into the privacy of a small examining room. The orderly was stout and cordial and obviously tired.

Once they were situated they were told the doctor would be with them shortly. Mrs. Bates was still inconsolable.

Eventually, the doctor entered, closing the door behind him. His expression appeared somber.

"The good news is that we were able to save your son. The bad news is that... we were forced to amputate."

"Am... amputate?"

Mrs. Bates burst into tears.

"My baby! Oh, my precious baby!" Mrs. Bates wailed, "How will he ever live a normal life?"

"It's alright! It's alright! " the doctor reassured them. "We expect him to make a full recovery."

Mr. Bates began a violent tremor in his lower lip, which quickly spread to his whole frame, and then he was blubbering so as to put Mrs. Bates to shame.

"There, there" the doctor said, patting them on the shoulder, "I know just what will make you feel better."

He left the room to the tune of great heaving sobs, and returned sporting a big grin and two giant red lollipops.

* * *
In the end, the doctor's prognostications turned out to be true. Bridger Bates was out of the hospital within the week, and back at a school in two. He was well, and smiling, and seemed to get on much better than Mr. and Mrs. Bates, although they too eventually warmed to the child's condition, and began to think that things might not be so bad afterall.

"So, what's it like?"

Bridger was busy forming the keep of an elaborate sandcastle, which he imagined to house a race of friendly sand people who ate only algebra teachers. The address came from the freckled face of one Joanna Perkins.

"What's what like?"

"Having your belly button amputated."

Bridger began searching for twigs with which to build his portcullis.

"Oh, it's not that bad. I can't do all the things I used to do. Leastwise, not the things that require a belly button. But I don't have to clean it anymore, so that's a plus. And I got to eat ice cream for a whole week when I came home."

The other kids on the playground were clearly impressed.

"But I'm getting a new one."

There were immediately gasps of disbelief.

"A new one?"

"Is that possible?"

"A new bellybutton?"

"Will it go where they old one went?"

"How do they attach it?"

"When are you getting it?"

Bridger began digging a moat.

"Tomorrow. I have an appointment to see the doctor. It's not a real bellybutton, just a prosthetic one. But the doctor says that it will work the same. Mostly."

The news spread like wildfire. Boys made way for him in the hallway. Girls shyly averted their eyes. This was significant. This was monumental. This was the most interesting thing to happen since Samantha Puddings had lost three of her teeth at the same time.

The next few days the school yard was full of apprehension. When at last Bridger returned, there was only sheer-unadulterated awe reflected in the faces of those who saw him. Somehow he seemed more confident, more purposed, more awesome. This time, no one asked questions. They waited expectantly.

All except Victor Brassario.

Victor was the classic brute, an oversized bumpkin with a distinct sense that if he wasn't throwing his fist at something, he just wasn't making a contribution. And he didn't much care for upstarts like Bridger being doused with sudden awe and popularity. It would be Victor's job to set everything back in its proper place.

With a thuggish jaunt, he approached, stopping with his nose just inches from Bridger's face.

"I don't care if you have new belly button," said Victor, "You are still a mega-doofus. " And with that, he cocked his fist to lay Bridger out with a fantastic punch.

The onlookers flinched. Some covered their eyes. Others ran to go get a teacher. The next few seconds were not looking so good for Bridger.

Suddenly, Victor was tackled by two brawny men in suits, who immediately began to pommel him with their fists. Everyone was quite surprised, except for Bridger.

"My belly button is a very expensive government prototype," Bridger explained, "Those guys make sure it doesn't get muffed up any."

There was a general round of approval at this development, although the students were disappointed that Bridger had not actually used his new bellybutton to defeat the bully. As the school bell rang the crowds grudgingly dissolved, ambling back into the interior buildings to begin classes.

Bridger, however, thrust up his arms, and hurled himself into the sky, flying off into the city. The two men in suits jumped into a rocket powered scooter to follow him.

"Eh, Jibes, that Mon Calamari molding is just ghastly! Look how it clashes with the duct flashing and the ornamental flanges, will you?"

"Makes me eyes bleed."

"And the paneling, who did the paneling is what I want to know. It's garish."

"Same twat who done the conduit, most likely."

The two conversants were huddled over the entryway viewport of a hydraulic docking station on The Executor, Darth Vader's flagship. They were taking turns peering in, confirming each other's examinations. On the opposing side stood the interior of a rebel blockade runner, forcibly docked by the star destroyer's massive tractor beams.

"They couldn't even get the lighting right. It is without a doubt the worst decor I have ever seen. What do you say?"

"I say we shoot it up a bit."

"Shoot it?"

"Put it out o' its misery."

"Don't you think that's a bit extreme?"

"What, just a few dings in the ship. No harm."

"I suppose it's not possible to do any disfavors to that decor."

"Exactly."

"Ok, so the plan is... open the blast doors..."

"Check."

"Run inside..."

"Check."

"And shoot the walls."

"Check."

"Well, are we we ready?

"Ready."

"Right, then, CHAAAAAAAAAAAARGE!"

--My theory on why, in the opening battle scene of Star Wars a New Hope, the Imperial Stormtroopers utterly missed the rebels standing 20 feet in front of them.

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

It's all well and good to spend Friday the 13th running away from some crazy guy in a hockey mask who is violently dismembering people, but after he kills everyone else, and you slay him in the climactic final showdown, who is going to help you clean up the mess?

I want this:



My plan is to become a superhero who can fly over any puddle of sufficient depth.

When your head is lopped off,
You may lose some weight,
You may float away,
You may think it is great.

When your head is lopped off,
You can skimp on your bills,
You can chase after cats,
You can work on your skills.

When your head is lopped off,
You will not need to wear socks.
You will party all night,
You will think that it rocks.

But when your head is lopped off,
You might possibly sneeze,
And fly off into space,
And there you will freeze.

Upon entering my house, you might find the atmosphere mildly inviting. A big comfy chair in the living room. A pool of sunlight filtering in through the branches of the trees out front. A thin, lightly splotched carpet, which eeked out the last of its useful life during the 60s, but which will probably never be replaced.

By the time you have noticed these things, the light from your eyes is already fading, your cheeks have paled, your forehead is clammy, and you peer up from the floor amidst a discombobulated pile of your own limbs, gazing into four pairs of dark, unfeeling eyes. You have met my cats. They killed you. Sorry.

You may be thinking that this scenario is mere hyperbole. Permit me then, Mr. Skeptic, to introduce the ferocious felines with which I cohabitate:

Sassy Shoelicker.
A sexy double agent who has racked up a fish and lizard body count to rival Thug Behram. Reach down to stroke her supple, alluring belly, and you will find yourself in a death grip, her powerful back feet rending you at their leisure.


Joe 'Sharpclaws' McMuggins.
A retired brawler, Joe is known inside and outside of alleys all the way to the east coast. His thick coat makes him impervious to most forms of attack, and his sharp claws are the last say in any dispute.


Shaykh Muhammad al-Haafidth.
An Islamist convert and militant formerly known as "Pooty Scruffball." af-Haafidth has a talent for disappearing and operating behind the scenes. She frequently uses biological agents to disable footware, leaving the unsuspecting target to hobble back to safety, if he can make it.


Dr. Lisa Mindrender.
Packing 27 pounds of pure hatred and an IQ that can only be described as evil, Dr. Lisa Mindrender is one of the most villainous characters in modern history. Her league of disreputable henchcats has terrorized the globe, decimating the sock market and advancing global warming through a calculated pogrom of potted house plants.


And I live here, too!

A more wretched hive of scum and villainy there never was.

Inspired by the History Channel and Geoffrey Chaucer.

When the Jews once slaved on Egypt's soil,
God spared them from their life of toil,
But just as quick they were downbeat
To find they had no food to eat.
So the Jews, they cried "Hosanna!"
Therefore God then sent them manna.
But what if rather than holy bread
God had sent them cheese instead?
Feta brought in blocks from Crete,
Great balls of Gouda, smoked and sweet.
Romano, Münster, and Gruyere.
Colby-jack (to name a pair),
Roquefort with its striking veins
And Danublu, made by Danes.
Ricotta cheese that comes from whey,
Camembert culled soft and grey.
Cheese that varies in how it ripes
Producing untold tastes and types
Salty, piquant, or a subtle nut,
Plus Limburger, which smells like butt.
Now imagine Moses in his great surprise,
When hurling forth from Heaven's skies
Drops wheels of every kind of cheese
Causing serious injuries.

INTRODUCTION
A lot of people seem to think that the world will end now that Obama is president. My attitude is, come on guys, what is the worst that could happen? Giving Obama the keys to the Whitehouse is like giving a two-year-old an Abrams tank. Sure, it's not the most prudent decision, but what damage could the little tyke possibly do? He's only got two years of experience!

Unfortunately, Obama is much taller than your average two-year-old, which means he can reach places a two-year-old normally couldn't, such as the top shelf of the pantry, or the launch button of a nuclear missile silo. So it's actually a bit more dangerous than I've made out.

Even so, our nation should be pretty safe through to the next election. Unless. . . .

The Mummy IV:
A President's Curse

It was not far from the outskirts of the nation's capital that a group of men were digging furiously under direct orders from the president. Their shovels pattered and clanged against hewn stone as they excavated the encompassing earth. A pitched tent obscured their work from any intrusive onlookers.

At last, as the night drew close to morning, their efforts were rewarded. Before them was a small marble door, plastered over with lime.

A man who had been watching them, tall and gangly and wearing an expensive suit, stepped forward to assume the honor of breaking the seal.

"No, wait!"

Biden grabbed hold of Obama to pull him back.

"The ex-president was no fool. Why don't we let the illegal immigrants open the tomb?"

"Oh, good thinking Joe. You're so smart."

Obama gestured to the workers, who had been shoveling tirelessly and were now smirched with dirt and sweat. "¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!" he said, pointing at the tomb.

The workers stared at him blankly.

"Get over there and open the tomb right this instant or no salsa for you!" commanded Biden.

"¡Odio a los putos gringos!" muttered one of the illegal immigrants as they picked up their tools and went over to break open the seal on the tomb.

Predictably, they were dissolved by salt acid, or impaled by giant spikes, or forced to listen to the latest Linkin Park album. Obama and Biden continued on into the tomb without paying particular attention to the workers' horrible fate.

"At last!" declared Biden, "We are inside the tomb of the the thirty-second president!"

"That's not very long to be president," remarked Obama.

"No, you fool. This is the tomb of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, America's first socialist president. Because of his efforts to pack the Supreme Court and override the Constitution, at his death he was mummified and placed under a horrible curse. He was buried here, along with his presidential cabinet. Once we release the curse, he will rise again from the dead in order to feast on the paychecks of the living!"

"I thought you said we were coming down here to find cookies?"

"Never mind that now!" snarled Biden angrily, "I will buy you cookies later! Thousands and thousands of cookies! But what we are doing right now is raising an army of the undead!"

"My favorite is chocolate chip," sung Obama happily, following the perturbed Biden down the dark corridor into the lower recesses of the tomb.

At the end of the passage they entered a large antechamber. Biden handed his torch to Obama and stooped down in front of an elaborately engraved wall.

"What are those strange symbols?" asked Obama curiously.

"That is the atrocious handwriting of James F. Byrnes," replied Biden, "Truman's secretary of state. I will need a few a minutes to decipher the inscription."

As Biden was poring over the lettering, an eerie breeze circulated the chamber. The torchlight flickered, and a sinister silhouette emerged from the entryway.

"Rrrrugh!" it said.

Obama lept back in fright and tried desperately to seek refuge behind the figure of Joe Biden.

"It's the mummy!"

"No, you idiot, that's John McCain."

"Rrrugh!" said John McCain again, lurching forward in his old person gait, arms raised at shoulder height.

"I've come to stop you, Barrack Obama!"

"It's too late, McCain!" hollered Biden, "We already have the electoral votes we need to unlock the curse! Nothing can stop us now!"

With that, he read the last of the inscription--something quite boring about agricultural futures--and the whole tomb began to shake. The rocky wall of the antechamber receded, and beyond it was a room filled with all sorts of gold and gem-encrusted artifacts from the 1940s. At the room's center, surrounded by the mummified remains of his cabinet, was the sarcophagus of Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"A ha ha ha!" Biden charged into the room, followed closely by Obama.

"Rrrrugh!"

McCain tried to lunge after them, but while he'd been distracted something had latched onto his feet.

"Gah!" he yelled, seeing that it was George W. Bush, "Why are you always holding me back!?"

"It's my legacy!" Bush replied.

Meanwhile, Obama and Biden were summoning all of their strength to slide open the lid of the sarcophagus. Inch by inch it gave way, until finally, with a loud cladder, it slid off onto the rocky floor.

"Rrrrugh!"

"Oh no!" cried Obama, looking around fearfully, "It's John McCain!"

"No, stupid, it's the mummy!"

Franklin Roosevelt rose purposefully from his sarcophagus, crackling his deceased, mummified joints. A grisly chill came over the room, as if someone's mom had just turned the thermostat back to 60 again.

Meanwhile, McCain was still struggling to get free of Bush.

"Bush, you have to let me go! This is important! Now that Roosevelt has returned he is going to unleash all the plagues of the Great Depression! He will feed off of taxpayers, waxing in power until he is able to solidify immortality in the form of massive entitlement programs. And the economic crisis will be eternally prolonged. We have to shutdown congress before he gets there. There is no other conceivable way he could be defeated!"

With that, a loud shot rang out from the shadows. Roosevelt's corpse staggered at the force of being hit. Sarah Palin stepped into the torchlight of the antechamber.

"Doggone mummies," said Palin, sighting another shot with her moose rifle, "Dontcha know you gotta be shootin' em fer they get all-powerful and stuff?"

"Noooooooo!" moaned Franklin Roosevelt, "It is my one weakness! Bullets! Bullets fired from a gun!"

He thought a moment. "And polio. I guess that's a weakness of mine, too."

With one last gasp of musty mummy breath, Franklin Roosevelt dissolved into dust.

"Ah well," sighed Obama, stepping out from his hiding place behind the sarcophagus, "I guess that we'll have to find another way to defeat the Republican filibuster. You alright, Joe?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly fine," said Biden huffily.

"That's good, because as I recall, you are buying me cookies now."

"Nice seeing you again, McCain. You too, Bush. Sarah. No hard feelings, I hope?"

"Rrrugh!" replied McCain.

With that, the Chief of State and the Vice President made their way out of the chamber.

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

One hundred dollars invested at seven percent interest for one hundred years will become one hundred thousand dollars, at which time it will be worth absolutely nothing.

When Anton's alarm clock began to beep, it was 8 am on a Wednesday morning, and the sun had just barely begun its cheerful ascent. It took a few moments for it to rouse Anton from his dreaming, but when it did, he shot up from under his covers in an explosion of sheets and stuffed animals.

"Today is not a day for going to school," said Anton, resetting his alarm and fetching a coat from his closet.

"Today is a day for buying a pet goat."

Anton had a quick breakfast before he slipped out. It consisted largely of chocolate marshmallow puffs and partly of a potato. Anton was in the process of conducting a series of experiments whereby he was set to find out whether it was possible to make vegetables taste good. The idea was kind of crazy but in the event that he found a solution he did not doubt that a few Nobel Prizes might be found waiting at his doorstep the next morning. Probably wrapped in bubblewrap to keep them from getting all scuffed.

As soon as he finished his potato he zipped out of the house. A few seconds later he had returned.

"I will need the money with which to buy my new goat."

Anton fetched his piggy bank. It was empty, as always. This happened because Anton's neighbors had got into the habit of insisting that he pay them back for all the things of theirs that he had broken.

"There is only one thing to do," he remarked, after his most grave assessment of the situation, "I will have to take out a loan from the mafia."

The mafia was not far away. They were hanging out at a bistro down the street.

"Excuse me," interrupted Anton, "I need to take out a loan."

"A loan!" the big man with hairy ears exclaimed as they all laughed, "What's a little tyke like you gonna do with a loan?"

"I need to buy a goat," was his simple reply.

"Is that right? Fellas the kid needs a goat. You got any goats, Eddy?"

"No, Joey, fresh out."

"Look kid, we don't got any goats, and we ain't gonna give you any money, so you's better scram. We got business here we gotta do."

The mobsters turned back to their discussion. Anton was going to interrupt them again but then he saw that the big man's wallet was hanging out of his suit jacket.

"I'll just save them doing up the paper work" murmured Anton quietly to himself, as he snuck up and filched the wallet. "I better leave them some collateral, though."

He replaced the wallet with a large mushy ball which he had been building up from his used chewing gum. He figured it must be worth at least a thousand dollars on account of being art. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be able to trade it for the goat instead of taking out a loan, so he tried to switch it back for the wallet again, but it was already firmly adhering to the fabric of the coat. "Oh well," he thought.

In no time at all Anton had made it down the block to the bus stop where he caught a bus into the city. He didn't have any quarters but the bus driver didn't seem to mind taking one of the bills that was in the mob bosses' wallet. In fact, for a few more, the bus driver said he would take him wherever he wanted to go. This was quite alright with Anton, who wanted to go to the petting zoo. It did not take him long to convince the petting zoo that they should sell him a goat, although the man there told him not to mention it to anyone.

When the bus driver took him back home Anton gave him the rest of the bills in the wallet, since he did not think it likely he would need to buy anymore goats that day. The bus driver tipped his hat and sped off to go pick up his now-very-angry morning passengers.

"Come on, goat!"

Anton half-pulled, half-coaxed the goat into his house.

"Goat, you must learn to obey what I say! Now. . . stay!"

Anton was pleased that the goat did not seem very intent on leaving the foyer as he raced off to the kitchen to find something for it to eat.

"Hmm. . . ."

In the end Anton grabbed an armful of things and ran back to the foyer.

"Goat, no!"

The goat had emigrated from the foyer into the living room, and was eating the antimacassar off of his father's armchair.

"Goat, I have brought you real food. Do not eat that. Did you eat the curtains, too? Bad goat! Very bad! Have some ice cream."

The goat seemed to like the ice cream. It ate half a carton, plus three bags of cheetos, some carrots, a bagel, and two boxes of chocolate donuts. After that, it waddled around for a bit, before falling over and going to sleep.

"Now it is time to test your goat skills!" declared Anton.

While the goat was napping he began collecting things from around the house and piling them on top of the living room sofa.

When he was finished, he nudged the goat awake.

"Come on, goat, it is time to climb a mountain, just like back home."

After substantial effort, Anton managed to get the goat to make an embarrassed stumble up onto his sofa.

"Hooray!"

Anton could not be happier that the goat had passed his first test of goatliness.

However, he was getting very tired of pulling the goat everywhere when he wanted it to do something. If only there were a way to make that easier? Of course!

It only took about an hour to drag the goat outside to the middle of the street and to find some old rollerskates from his closet. But getting the skates on the goat was a lot trickier than he had anticipated, as the goat did not like being off balance on any one of its legs.

Anton had almost given up all hope when he remembered the jack his dad used for working on his car. Also, the horse saddle stored up in the attic.

So Anton went and fetched the jack and the saddle. He then proceeded to strap the saddle under the goat's belly and use the jack to lift it off the ground, after which he strapped the roller skates on to each hoof, and then lowered the goat back down again.

"Hooray!"

Now Anton could pull the goat wherever he wanted. His family could probably even tow it behind their RV on camping trips and whatnot. It was the perfect combination of nature and technology. The six million dollar goat.

This wonderful elation of success lasted approximately thirty seconds.

"Come on, goat!"

Anton gave the goat a big tug and it rolled forward like he wanted. Not like he wanted, it continued to roll. The street in front of them had started off mostly level but as the goat continued forward the slope increased. And the goat went faster and faster down the road.

"Goat, wait! Stop! Stop, goat! Stop!"

What happened next went something like this. One car swerved to avoid the goat and ran into a barber shop. One swerved to avoid the swerving car and ran into a fire hydrant. One car came to a screeching halt and was consequently rear ended by the car behind it. A lot of people on the sidewalks were screaming and running variously from swerving cars and bicyclists and of course one very fast approaching goat, which, suddenly aware of its desperate situation, had begun to bleat pitiably. At the base of the hill the road came to a T, the head of this T being formed by Mrs. Daugherty's bridal shower emporium, the doors to which hung conveniently open as the goat rocketed inside and continued to propel through six or seven display racks, accumulating some very sexy looking lingerie in the process.

By the time Anton managed to navigate his way through the ensuing calamity to the base of the hill, the police had already taken his goat into custody.

"Officer! Officer! Wait! That's my goat!"

The officer balked.

"This little whirlwind of destruction is yours?"

The officer did not make this sound like it was going to be a good thing for Anton. In fact, Anton was vaguely suspicious that he might now be in some kind of serious trouble.

"Look, officer, I don't have any more money, but you can have this."

Anton handed him the wallet he had filched from the mob boss. The officer opened it up, looked back at Anton in astonishment, and then continued to sort through its contents. He recognized who it belonged to as well as lists of accomplices and meetings, with some very significant dates next to them.

He looked back down at Anton as though he did not quite know what to make of him.

"Tell you what, son," he said, putting his hand on Anton's shoulder, "It's really good that you gave me this. I might even be hero out of it. But this goat. . . even if I tried my best, I wouldn't be able to get him back to you. And, honestly, it would be pretty good for you not to mention that he was yours. But I'll make sure he gets put in a good home where he'll be happy and enjoy himself. And I won't say anything about you. But you better get out of here. You don't want people thinking any of this was your fault."

Anton loved his goat more than anything, but he knew a good deal when he heard it. He ran up to give the goat a hug, and then he ran home, where his parents grounded him for an entire month.

THE END

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

Human beings are nothing more than vaguely philosophical sacks of meat.

Rather than perplex over their quaint diversions in violence, false pride, and embitterment, it is far simpler just to eat them.

Do you need friends, protection, mentors, a felonious deputization into a life of crime? Then join my gang!

Things we will need

1. A name.
2. Symbols and handsigns.
3. Colors.
4. Spraypaint.
5. Weapons.

Everyone who wants in is also going to have to act cool and tough.

Example:


Also, you will probably want some peel-and-stick tattoos. (The ones with needles hurt!) I'm guessing that guy's tattoos washed off in the pool, so please remember not to go swimming before any big rumbles or drive-bys.

Don't worry if you don't have any experience with gangs. It's not like you need a high school diploma or anything. I figure we'll start out real slow, you know, jaywalking, loitering, littering, that kind of stuff, then work our way up to more serious crimes, like 1st degree premeditated jaywalking, and cow tipping.

It would also be pretty cool if we all bought electric guitars with swords built into them and rode around on dirt bikes playing heavy metal riffs. (Ok, so I am only starting this gang to impress girls.)

Come on everybody, join my gang!

An ongoing series which offers practical insights divest of traditional human romanticisms.

You are never going to be Batman.

The economy is in peril. Markets are crashing. Banks are failing. My cat has severe nasal congestion. Things could not possibly get any worse. (Well, not until November 4th, anyway.) To quote one Nobel Prize winning economist, "AHHHHHHHHH!"

But I urge you not to panic. There are steps you can take to mitigate the impact on your finances. For example, if you are the CEO of a failed banking enterprise, you can always accept a multimillion dollar severance package when your firm is bought out by taxpayers. If, however, you are not a CEO of a failed banking enterprise, you may as well re-invest your IRA retirement fund in buying a nice pair of hobo pants.

Just kidding! As usual, I have the solution.

One of the major problems at present is a loss of market liquidity. For some undecipherable reason, nobody wants to loan out money now that nobody is paying back their loans. The problem is that it just doesn't seem like such a good idea. Nor does investing in stocks, houses, securities, etc., on account of all of these things being totally worthless.

But, as it turns out, capitalism has already developed extensive technology and resources to solve this exact problem. That's right! It's about time we brought to bear the forces of the Consumer Market on the Financial Market.

I'm talking two-for-one deals on failed banks, cheesy commercials with Mr. T saying he pities the foo' that doesn't buy up inner-city condominiums, frequent flyer miles included with every purchase of Mortgage Backed Securities. We could have a million dollar sweepstakes giveaway where every Morgan Stanley stock has a peel-a-way Monopoly board sticker on it. You know, gimmicky things that trick people into buying stuff they really shouldn't.

"Mommy, look! I found a free Credit Default Swap in my cereal box!"
"That's great, honey! Collect 12 and you can trade them in for a stuffed dinosaur!"

Stock traders could also capitalize on the very reliable parents-of-petulant-four-year-olds demographic by vending stocks at supermarket checkout lines attached to Pop Rocks or small breakable action figures.

And have I mentioned late night infomercials?

Clearly there is a huge segment of the American economy that is dedicated to buying useless crap for way more than it's worth, and it is precisely this segment of the economy that financial institutions need to start tapping into.

I like monkeys.

The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead. Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Darn cheap monkeys.

I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.

I tried throwing them way but the garbage man said that the city wasn't allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.

"No publicity is bad publicity" -- Adolf Hitler
"Well, you know, no matter where you go, there you are." -- Ferdinand Magellan
"No one becomes depraved in a moment." -- Hugh Hefner
"Either that wallpaper goes or I do." -- Benedict Arnold
"I've had a wonderful time, but this wasn't it." -- Anne Frank
"They ought to make butt-flavored cat food." -- Sir Walter Raleigh
"It is only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation, that it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion; and that the sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable loathing and disgust." -- Ronald McDonald
"One would like to stroke and caress human beings, but one dares not do so, because they bite." -- Michael Jackson
"Do nothing unless you must, and when you must act, hesitate." -- former FEMA chief Michael Brown
"'Shelter,' what a nice name for for a place where you polish your cat." -- Mother Theresa
"A single death is a tragedy. A million deaths is a statistic." -- Chuck Norris
"I drank what?" -- Socrates

These are my ideas on how to kill white people. It's ok; they're white! It is also ok to kill people who just act white. It is not ok to kill Belgians. They are the master race.

How to Kill White People

*Lure them into a UV chamber with the bait of small, crustless tuna sandwiches. Their inferior pasty skin tone will offer no protection against the deadly rays.

*Advertise "Beginner's Ski Lessons" near deadly escarpments.

*Fumigate cities with aerosolized snake venom, and sneak the antidote into the reservoir. Those who drink only Evian bottled water will perish horribly.

*Raise a den of angry cougars and always leave their meals on top of a Segway.

*Create a drama series about the heroism of Andrew Jackson with subliminal messages advocating chuteless skydiving.

*Begin holding international folk festivals inside active volcanoes.

*Develop ugly sweaters with collars that lethally shrink when it rains.

*Hold a "Poetry Jam" in downtown Harlem.

*Start manufacturing bumper sticker adhesive and car bumpers out of binary explosive.

*Pick a really dangerous hobby and tell them that all the cool black people are doing it.

The phone was ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Like some incessant church toll, declaring the increasing lateness of the hour.

John Raulton, who on bad days was an atheist and on good days was an angry agnostic, snatched the phone with a mind to give the witching spirit a good dose of hell.

He was instead startled to find that it was still ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Perhaps it was another phone?

No, they were all on the same line, weren't they? It did not make any sense. It especially did make any sense because it was not making sense at 4 am. And his feet were cold. Slippers? No, they must be under his bed still.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

"STOP RINGING!"

The noise stopped.

It was replaced by an emphatic pounding at the door.

"Dang it John, let me in!"

"What?"

"Let me in, you idiot! It's Kasey."

John waddled over to the door and fumbled for the lock. The clunk of the latch turning was followed by a rush of cold air as Kasey bustled her way in and slammed the door behind her.

"What wouldn't you let me in for? I've been out there half an hour!"

Not having yet reactivated his conscious vocabulary beyond the basic but versatile "What?" John remained silent.

Kasey began brewing a pot of tea, discarding her gloves and winter cap and pulling her matte black hair into a pony tail for whatever reason it is that girls do that sort of thing. John left his hair the way it was which happened to be a disheveled mess, but combined with his ketchup stained undershirt and blotched and frayed boxer shorts, it was what you could call "a look."

Now Kasey was searching for sugar and cream. John did not indicate that he observed this or that he had any idea where the sugar and cream might be because he was fairly certain this would involve showing his guest a dead rat.

When Kasey had finished ransacking his kitchen John made his first tentative start at asking why she had come by in the middle of the night, but he was interrupted by yet another clammer at his door.

"That's them!" she shrieked. "I have to hide!"

John nodded, but as Kasey dived for cover he remained still.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

There was no evading the sound. It washed over and through him, permeating every crevice of his apartment.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"It's Mickey the Nose" came a muffled voice from behind the couch. "He must have followed me here. I owed him money I couldn't pay. I'm sorry John but I knew you were the one who could handle him."

John nodded grimly.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

"OPEN UP IN THERE!"

There was a frantic rattling of the knob and the door burst open in splinters. Three large men poured through and grabbed John, pinning him up against the wall. From behind capered a tremendous nose, which was loosely attached to a much smaller gentleman in a dark pinstripe suit and matching homburg.

"I'm Mickey the nose" the nose intoned nasally, the face behind it scrunching up in undisguised horror as the nose took a whiff of the surrounding air, vacuuming up a few errant fruit flies in the process.

"What is that horrendous stink!"

"It's just my apartment" John replied, feeling it was probably best not to start off on exactly what it might be in his apartment.

Mickey took a moment to recover from his sense of nausea, and, anxious to leave, got to the point.

"Girl. Kneecaps. Pick one."

John looked confused.

"What do you want with her?"

"Lass owes me money. Hasn't paid. I'm not unreasonable, but she's going to pay up one way or the other. Business is business."

Mickey's eyes began to water.

"So where is she?"

John considered carefully. He was very attached to his kneecaps. They were practically part of him. But he also vaguely tolerated Kasey, sometimes to the point of not explicitly avoiding her company. And she was the only one who ever spoke to him. So he was probably under some kind of obligation to help her.

Mickey's cheeks began to swell, his nose turning a frightful shade of lavender.

John just needed to get them away from the fresh icy air, which was making venturous intrusions through the demolished doorway.

"Right this way," John indicated, helpfully demonstrating the route to his hallway.

He waited for Mickey to fall in line behind his goons before leading them on. It was only a few steps later that John started to change.

At first, it was not noticeable. A bit of fur around his belly. A claw, a nose around his right nipple. Another patch of fur along his back. But then, suddenly, the belly of his shirt sagged and he let out a roar, ripping away his clothes to reveal his spandex underarmor, emblazoned with the bright, fetid insignia of DEAD CAT MAN!

"Nooooooooooooo!" screamed Mickey and his cohorts, rushing for the door, now much too far away.

The gangsters collapsed to their knees, clutching wildly at their throats, trying miserably not to breath.

"Scratch and sniff!" shouted John Raulton, the latent Dead Cat superhero, as he rubbed his maggoty belly to release a puff of necrotic vapors.

Mickey began exhaling for breath--a feat of anatomy that few humans ever provoke the desperation to experience.

"Curse you Dead Cat Man! Curse you!" Mickey wheezed, struggling to take his final breath.

"My hero!" shouted Kasey.

She popped up from behind the couch and went to fling her arms around John, but then decided to go puke out the window instead.

"All in a days work, Kasey," said John, "All in a days work."

Mr. Nipples

Mr. Nipples is a veteran contract killer who likes to strangle his victims in olympic size swimming pools, half-size pools, kiddie-pools, public fountains, and in the shower. Frequent bathers are frequent corpses.

The Republican Guard

Well-paid and well-educated. This is what Death would look like if Death wore a suit and listened to Rush Limbaugh in the morning.

Chinese Guy With A Little Gun

Impossible to spot in crowded areas. Knows Kung Fu.

Arabian Ninjas

Like Japanese ninjas only with less human rights, the Arabian Ninjas are the perfect hybrid of deadly assassin and discount curtains.

Hitler Reincarnated

A pint-sized bundle of pure evil, and he is pissed about losing the mustache.

You are now faced with nigh-certain death. Your only hope is to hire your own hitmen to take me out first. Too bad I already hired the top assassins.

Yeah everybody does "try to cure cancer" or "make a difference" but I thought I'd try to be original.

Oh, I know lots of people steal pens, but not as their life goal.

Maybe I'll even become a connoisseur and start picking them off from rich and famous people. Or scientists. Or news journalists. Or I might just go for straight up quantity and start hijacking entire pen trucks en route.

When I die, I will leave a bunch of fake treasure maps directing seekers of my vast pen wealth on perilous courses of danger and intrigue.

Fans will be able to subscribe to my Nicked Nib Rewards Program where for every five pens I steal, they get one back.

Truly, I can't help but feel that I deserve my own little inglenook of history among Hitler, Stalin, Mao Tse-tung, Art Garfunkel, and all the other greats. People will remember me in centuries to come because whenever they can't find a pen, it will be, in some small way, entirely my fault.

Sincerely,
The Pen Pirate, Pernicious Purloiner of Pens and Pencils.

State of the art tech makes the cold naked scalp of the middle aged white guy a thing of the past.

I have sent the following email to Rogaine in the hopes of marketing my new technology. So far I have yet to hear back from them, probably because they are busy celebrating how awesome I am:

Dear sirs,

I have invented a cure for baldness. This technology is capable of transforming a shiny bald scalp into a furry mantle of womanizing allure.

I would have to await your bid before going into further detail about the device, but I will let you know that I have decided to name it the "Cat Hat."

Minor side effects include various scratch marks, allergies, and being peed on.

You may also be interested in my breast augmentation device, which is based on the same technology.

I am glad that I will be able to share my brilliance with others. Genius is not an easy burden!

Well, lately I have been thinking about the remaining presidential contenders. They all have their various qualities, but there are also some significant drawbacks to electing them.

McCain: In my opinion a cranky old man who's a bit off his rocker is a great idea for a president, but I'm not sure I approve of his plans to round up conservatives into special camps and pee on us.

Hillary: Hillary is slightly better because her allegiance to the Dark Kingdom and hunger for human souls could do a lot to consolidate and strengthen America's power around the world and make our enemies afraid of us. The only downside would be the total usurpation of evil over all we once held dear.

Obama: Sort of like a mix between Jimmy Carter, LBJ, and Dan Quayle, if any of those people had wanted to invade Pakistan for no apparent reason. A great bet for the Republicans if they want to make GW look like not such a bad president afterall.

But upon careful reflection, I have begun to think that that there may be a better option for America. Not much better, but better all the same. A man of quasi-integrity. Well-groomed. Good at remembering to put out the trash on trashday. A man who has lead a long and, ultimately victorious struggle against his neighbor's efforts to park in his driveway. A man like me.

I am therefore announcing my independent bid for the American presidency.

To be begin with, I would like to acquaint the public with my positions on the issues:

Illegal Immigration
I will finish building the border fence, electrify it, put machine gun installations and landmines all up and down the length of it, bioengineer zombie attack dogs, create robotic assassin guards, and build a long series of tunnels underneath which are full of boobytraps that can only be disabled by complex lateral thinking.

Anyone who gets across will receive automatic citizenship and $10,000 to help them get settled in.

Gay marriage
I believe Tom Cruise should be allowed to get married.

The Drug War
To me, a drug war is when you smoke lots of a hallucinogenic substance, strip off all your clothes, paint yourself blue, and charge a Roman garrison.

So that is what the national narcotics agency will be expected to do.

Crime
Murder and theft are the sole province of government. Anyone else who wants in will have to make a generous contribution to my campaign.

Iraq
I am so freaking tired of hearing about it. I hear about it on TV, I hear about it on the radio, I read about it in the news, I go to parties and guess what they are arguing about! The day I assume office I plan to withdraw all of our troops immediately and have them instead execute a prolonged military occupation of Canada.

Nobody ever talks about Canada.

Ducks
I am in favor of ducks.

Government Conspiracies
Any conspiracy theories I hear I shall immediately acknowledge as true, such that they can no longer be considered conspiracies.

This is mostly just to annoy people.

Gold Standard
I plan to spend most of my spare time as president sneaking out gold bricks from Fort Knocks hidden under my suit jacket. Therefore, it would be much wiser to back the national currency with something I did not plan to steal, such as sand, or cat poop.

Taxes
I don't believe in taxes, but neither do I believe in having American soldiers on the streets begging for bullet money. If you want things to be shot and blown up, you have to pony up on the bill.

To increase efficiency in tax gathering I will be disbanding the IRS and instead subcontracting out to the Italian and Russian mafias, who will receive a gross percentage. Anyone who does not want to pay taxes can take it up with them.

Socialized Healthcare
While rabidly individualist, I think there is room for a special socialized healthcare program to take care of the elderly and the infirm. I intend to model mine after the one they had in The Giver.

Net Neutrality
I won't stand for it. The internet is either with us, or against us.

Abortion
If fetuses were to declare war on us or ally with an insurgency or blow up an airport, I would be the first to advocate their wholesale extermination.

But while they remain weak and non-aggressive we have no choice but to let them live.

Doomsday Device
I will build one.

So vote me for president. I will make all of your wildest dreams come true!

I'm a guy, and because I'm a guy, I do things. Not necessarily good things. Not necessarily smart things. But definitely... things.

So it will come as no surprise to you that, while less adventurous than I might have liked it to be, my recent excursion with the NMT caving grotto had a few highlights to it.

The first was peeling out, twice, in front of a dozen cops, at a DUI checkpoint.

It happened something like this:

"Hey officer."
"Hello. May I see your license and registration please."
"Why, certainly, I--
*VROOOOOOOOMMM!*
*SCREEEEEEECHHHH!!!*
*VROOOOOOOOOOOMMM!*
*SCREEEEEEEEEEECHHHH!!!*
"WHAT THE H***!?"

May I just remark that the looks on the cops' faces--to say nothing of my passengers--were exceedingly priceless. :)

In the chat I had with the nice officers afterward, I explained that I had neglected to put the car in park, hit the pedal in stretching to pull out my wallet, and then, in the subsequent drama, became confused about the pedals. It was funny because in course of that conversation they didn't even bother to ask me if I had been drinking, or if they could search the vehicle. They just ran my numbers. Apparently, peeling out in front of cops at a DUI checkpoint is a pretty good way to convince them that you could not possibly be anything but sober.

Oh, and I literally came within an inch--an INCH!--of smashing into the Jeep in front of me (also with the NMT grotto). Their expressions of horror were at least as enjoyable as those of the cops. :D

My spaceyness continued to have a prominent effect on the adventure, resulting in being lost at least four times, and in one of those cases, accidentally detouring to the great state of Texas.

I also procured a manual to one of those three line message signs (soon to be put to good use), nearly tripled the speed limit on a completely justifiable strip of road, went bowling, had the manager at Denny's threaten to call the cops on me (I was innocent, I swear!), ate cheesecake, learned about the excellent band "DeVotchKa," surprisingly did not roll my vehicle, and team-drove down a windy mountain pass whilst eating tuna.

It was good tuna.

Aperture Science: We do what we must, because we can.

Also in the news of campus affairs, my school now has a Jedi Council. (It's become somewhat controversial so I can't guarantee the page will continue to accurately reflect this change.)

In patience seeks my gaze upon the night
Imbibing all the treasures of its sky,
Waxing fruitful in the secret hope,
That God would thence a piece of heaven pry.
So like the cherished heart both chaste and true
In rarest kindness wherewith being crowned
Fit thus to make God's lofty goodness shew
And in Christ's work His holy will abound.
How less compares the fallen star of night,
To the blesséd gem that God has given!
Although its burning sets the sky alight,
Yet then it to a coldly death is driven.
Like 't not to the spirit that shall aye endure--
Bright, gladsome, dazzling, exquisite and pure!

You've probably realized that most people you know have pretty astoundingly awful tastes in music. They listen to trite, trendy, popular bands whose main claim to fame is that their album covers feature male underwear models (with individually dyed hair roots) who can also, given sufficient training, lip sync their own music. Or they listen to classy low-key indie bands whose main feature is being exclusively bad enough to avoid having a large following (musical taste is nothing if not snobbery). Or--and I shudder to think this--they are of the opinion that what sounds like the last worldly petitions of a cat being sucked into a vacuum cleaner, if played loudly enough and with a good guitar solo, is pretty much the moral epitomization of acoustic refinement.

These people should be removed from the gene pool, I agree. But the root of the problem is ultimately more fundamental than that. In fact, the reason most people's taste in music sucks so horribly is fairly simple. These people like bands. And bands--all bands--suck.

You're probably surprised to hear this, but I doubt you've been completely ignorant of the fact. Most people realize that many of the bands they hear suck--just not all of them. Usually there are also at least a few bands for whom any given person will fail to realize this essential truth. However, that does nothing to contradict the simple fact that a general vote of the world's populace would be more than enough to relegate just about any band to the fully non-exclusive "Hall of Suck."

Even if bands did not suck, a more culturally advanced species would be at a loss to explain the idolatrous worship they receive. The only thing your favorite band has ever done for you is make your daily commute slightly more diversionary than it otherwise would have been. But compare your enthusiasm at seeing them to your enthusiasm at seeing your mom--the woman who gave you life. I think you'll find that your psychological sentiments are as absurdly disproportioned as a bulimic Barbie doll.

So why do people care so much about bands? Why not music company executives, radio DJs, or sound processing engineers?

I believe this is an instance of the "crack dealer effect." The perceived proximity of the agent to the transfer of the product determines the loyalty/devotion of the customer. One's drug habit may ultimately depend on the shrewd practices of some clever crimelords in South America, but it's the guy who eventually dilutes it and sells it to you at a few hundred percent margins whom the average crackhead winds up willing to take a bullet for.
(In the case of some of the boy bands that I've heard, perhaps this aberrant psychology might be more akin to "Stockholm's syndrome.")

This is why I'm proposing a government sanctioned "War on Suck" to wipe out the truly sucky music. Moderately sucky music would still be ok, kind of like cigarettes and alcohol. But anyone who listened to "Panic! At the disco" would be looking at a hefty fine and probable jail time.

Yes, it's definitely time to cleanup some of the riffraff in the soi-dissant music scene.

Problem: "I hate making my bed, but when I don't, people think I'm slobbish and uncouth. What should I do?"
Solution: Sleep on the covers. Your bed will always be made, and you'll never have to make it.
As a bonus, if someone had hidden poisonous scorpions under your sheets in an attempt to assassinate you, they would fail miserably and have only a few squished arachnids for their trouble.

Problem: "I am feeling a sharp pain in my chest and shortness of breath. The world is slowly going dark."
Solution: You are having a heart attack. Save any important documents, inform your WoW raiding party that you may be out for the night, turn off your computer, and seek medical attention.

Problem: "My roommate's feet smell like a raccoon whose body has died but whose various glandular disorders live on and thrive."
Solution: Try talking with him about it. Then fill his shoes with dish soap while he sleeps.

Problem: "I am hungry, but the fridge is out of reach."
Solution: Do not despair, pizza can be ordered.

Problem: "The phone is also out of reach!"
Solution: Now you can despair.

Problem: "I have a research paper due in half an hour!"
Solution: Spend half an hour contemplating possible resolutions to this problem.

Problem: "My roommate listens to crappy music."
Solution: Smash his computer with a hammer. Blame faeries.

Problem: "Science is attacking me."
Solution: Deliver a solid roundhouse kick to science.

Problem: "Friends, family, and unknown citizens have been complaining about my body odor--usually by telephone and postcard--but I don't particularly feel like taking a shower."
Solution: A can of Febreeze may take you places. In fact, if you use too much of it in an enclosed space, you may wind up riding a tie-dye carasel through outerspace wondering why ducks are so freaking cool.

Problem: "My dorm is being haunted by poltergeists."
Solution: See if you can stuff one up your nose. I've always wondered if it was possible to do this.

Scientists estimate that, at any given moment, the earth holds approximately 10 quintillion insects. The way they have calculated this is by knocking on my door and asking me how many bugs I have seen scurrying across my kitchen. (For reference, 10 quintillion is the same number used to describe, on a scale of one to ten, how embarrassing it would be if the high school cheerleading team found out that you had parents.)

In fact, to all appearances, my dorm has lately become some kind of bug Mecca. Every manner of six and eight legged fiend has been pilgrimaging to my kitchen floor as its last mortal venture. Since I've moved in these devout insectoids have been scurrying about, dropping from the walls, and leaving their little carcasses in piles in the ostentatious mausoleum of my hallway.

So I have decided to deal with this problem how any modern, civilized, eco-conscious person would go about it: I have put up a little sign at the base of my exterior door informing the insects and arachnids that they shall no longer be admitted to the premises.

Now I can turn to an altogether more pressing question, which is how to reanimate the ubiquitous corpses to fill the ranks of my planned evil zombie cockroach army.

Cower, mortals, for your doom is nigh!

It's important to make routines in life... routines help keep everything rigid and organized. One of my favorite routines is the one I presently have going on with the campus housing department:

1. The administration sends them a silly idea.
2. They forward the silly idea to me.
3. I send them a silly idea back!
4. They tell me they hate me and not to do it again.

Here are some examples of this routine in action:
From Sarah-Weather-Changer, the evil enchantress of the weather:

Dear South Hall Residents,

I don't know about you, but my room in South has been pretty chilly these past few mornings. South Hall is on a community air conditioning/heating system, which means everyone's air conditioner has to be changed over to heat at the same time. Please let your RA know when you personally are ready to switch to heat, and we'll make the conversion as soon as the majority of South residents are ready. Please keep in mind that once we turn the heat on, we won't switch back to A/C until the spring.

Thanks!
Sara

My reply:

YOUR THREATS DO NOT INTIMIDATE ME, SARA WEATHER-CHANGER! I AM AN ARCTIC PENGUIN! YOUR ICY WRATH SHALL PRODUCE NO CONVERSION! RA IS A FALSE GOD AND I WILL TELL HIM NOTHING!

From the plotted malady of Sarah-Weather-Changer:

Dear Residents,

I wanted to let everyone know that Monday, February 19, is Research At Tech Day,
where potential students and parents will be coming to see the campus.
Residential Life will be giving tours of the common areas of your residence hall
throughout the morning starting at 10:15am and ending in the early afternoon.
We just wanted you to know so you won't be caught off guard when large groups of
strangers are wandering around your hall. :)

If you have any questions please don't hesitate to contact Residential Life.
Thank you,
Sara

What is with the "potential students and parents"? Is Sarah recruiting pregnant mothers to help her raise an army of indoctrinated minions? While I can only guess at the sinester mega-plot which motivates Sarah's message, for now I shall continue to play her game:

My reply:

So, I gather either
(1) You are very discerning concerning my lack of social aptitude and have therefore decided to act to intervene in the anticipated anxiety attack.
(2) You are giving me a covert instruction to repel the scurvy invaders.
(3) You are giving me a covert instruction to prepare an enticing example of life at Tech for the incoming potentials, such as flying down the stairs in a shopping cart in a ninja costume. (While on fire.)
(4) You are politely informing me that I should plan to be absolutely anywhere else than Tech come 1015 Monday morning and are perhaps willing to make this worth my while. (Breakfast? Access codes to EMRTC storage facility?)
(5) You wish to surreptitiously ascertain whether I am still alive after refusing to yield to your threats to turn off the air conditioning.

Regardless, I am hurt that you would refer to my area of residence as "common." No, my dorm does not have the sort of fancy things that you are probably accustomed to as a "Residential Life Coordinator", like crystal chandaliers and swimming pools full of jello, but it does have a poster with kitten on it, and dangit, that kitten is pretty cute.

From Alice, Alien Advocate:

Just an FYI, DO NOT have your thermostat below 68 degrees. This will freeze and damage the compressor. We have received numerous work orders for a/c not working and facilities personnel have found the thermostats too low and in some cases the compressor ruined. We have had two so far that will have to be replaced. If this continues residents will be charged for the replacement of damaged compressors. Keep your thermostat between 68 and 70 degrees. Thank you.

My reply:

Sure I will. I'll bet that's the temperature of your alien homeworld, isn't it? You figured you'd come to earth, snatch a few bodies, takeover the planet, and that would be that. But oh no! Your delicate extraterrestrial physiology can't handle earth's wildly variant temperature ranges... especially any temperatures below 68 degrees.

So you figured you'd use our own climate control facilities against us, and luxuriate in temperatures comparable to your homeworld. That's probably why you set up big CO2 manufactury stations--secretly terraforming our planet to conform to your insidious alien predilections.

But as it turns out, our climate control facilities can be used against you also.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Good luck taking over the planet, Alice. You'll need it.

I'm not motivated enough to recount all the prankage that has occured over the course of my hiatus, but I would be remiss not to mention that which has attained media attention.

Here are pictures of the extrication process.

Fear and quiver mortals, let loose the clarion call of calamity, I have returned from exile!

Sadly, all my photoshop parodies etc. are now lost. So are comments, locally hosted files, and recent posts.
They could plausibly be recovered if I ever get another server, but for the nonce my alotted budget is whatever can be found, mooched off of, purloined, usurped, or won at karaoke contests.

Oh, and of course, now I have no web traffic.

P.S. I believe unicode has decided to eat anything with umloats, accents, or differently oriented tick marks, so that's why most linguistic dabblings are now hieroglyphic transliterations of their former selves.

You might think your boss is out to get you. You might think your mom is doing every little thing she can to make your life difficult. You might even see a black SUV and nervously go back the way you came.

But at least you do not have seventy people trying to covertly murder you.

The game is called streetwars. Participants are given an envelope with the name, residence, and photograph of their target. If they succeed in eliminating their target (with a squirt gun) then they inherent their target's envelope.

At this point, at least 1/20 of the persons who go to my college are competing in the game. I should also mention that, unlike the official game, ours does not have a time limit, so the game could feasibly last all semester, or even longer. That is a long time to be sitting with you back to the wall, turning corners and openings doors with a sense of dread and a trigger at the ready, or, conversely, to be spending your nights waiting outside someone's apartment for a chance to snipe them.

It's not hard to adapt, given that everyone at this school is already quite paranoid and anti-social, but it is marginally inconvenient to think that five percent of everyone I meet is looking to kill me at the first opportunity.

However, I thought the rest of you might sleep more soundly if you knew that America's next generation of engineers and scientists will be rather disproportionately well-versed in the art of tracking down and killing strangers.

This 's bein' a quaint and curious day fer teh life o' me!

I war makin' me way to der cafeteria as usual, an' as usual I be sayin' to der servin' wench, "ARRR!!! GET ME MY RUM YE SCURVY WENCH!" only, she be sayin', "What in the world are you getting on about, Ryan?"

I's not be knowin' about dis "Ryan" character, on account o' my bein' Iron Sam Read, an' I have t' say 'er speech struck me as mighty strange, what wit' not e'en an apostrophe to show fer it. So I figures she must be daft and give 'er me meal card, not complainin's 'bout der abhorrent lack of rum.

Me scurvy food was not der best, but that bein' teh life o' teh pirate.

When me friends arriv'd fer breakfast we's be makin' much noise of teh pirattical sort, and not mindin' any looks from landlubbers, scant few o' them thar though were.

I be emailin' me professor afterwart to be askin' abouts teh homework, though he not be understandin' me fer some reason.

Goin' to class thar be many o' me buccaneers. I's feelin' exception'ly eloquent so I's raise me hand often to be sayin' wot der answer is--only, all me professers didn't call on me save but once each. :(

Laters 's time to eat ag'n. Me mates an' I's decided to rig 'erselves a pirate ship. We be findin' a shoppin' cart fer teh purpose an' fit it wit' a plank an' jolly roger.

Then we's be takin' it fer a spin through teh cafeteria, shoutin' catchy pirate catch phrases an' makin' people walk teh plank til we's bein' kicked out.

'S a day in the life of a pirate.

In a world abundant with information, it is only natural for people to apply certain sieves in order to sort out what information is important. For example, some people don't think it's important unless someone calls them about it. Even then, if it were really important, whoever called would have left a message. And maybe they did leave a message, but if it were an actual emergency, they would surely have left at least six or seven (increasingly incoherent) messages.
Wizard Hue, though not acquainted with the concept of the telephone, took this one step further. He applied the philosophy of, "if it was important, they certainly wouldn't have bothered mentioning it to me." And for the most part, this was true.
Wizard Hue was not, technically speaking, a wizard, although he was very well salaried for it. In fact, the Hall of Wizardry paid him an extremely comfortable 15,000 gold pieces per annum in exchange for his not practicing any magic at all. This sat very well with Wizard Hue, who had a deep inner-loathing for all things magic.
He had never wanted to be a wizard. Wizardry didn't sit right with the natural order of things. Hue had wanted to be a magician, an illusionist, a conjurer of cheap tricks available for birthdays and parties at a fairly unreasonable price.
This would all have been very well if not for the fact that he was a naturally powerful sorcerer. Powerful enough, as it happened, that it was not possible for him to perform any fake magic at all. Mutter a few ridiculous phrases just for the show if it and "*Poof!*" suddenly demons are pouring through a portal to the lower-regions wondering who their new dark master is. (It was actually fairly easy to get them to go back through the portal once they learned that it was Hue.)
When it became hopelessly apparent that he had no chance as a magician and would never again be invited to anyone's birthday, Hue reluctantly enlisted for real magical training at the Hall of Wizardry. Alas, something about his special brand of magic did not mesh well with that of other wizards. In less severe instances, instructors found themselves writing parents to inform them that their child had been mortally dismembered after summoning a very distempered butterfly.
Wizard Hue thus very naturally assumed that the magical parcel addressed to him emblazened with "EMERGENCY!!!" in very obnoxious lettering was intended for one of the actual wizards, and forwarded it on to the Hall of Wizardry, which, coincidentally, was precisely where he was heading, to pick up his annual pay.
If he had read the note addressed to him, however, he would never have set out, because that was exactly where the note wanted him to go.

* * *

For those of you who don't know, I live in the middle of arid wasteland called "New Mexico," a place which is inhabited primarily by immigrants and people not skilled enough at map reading to navigate our confused road system and escape.

We also have called dibs on 49th place on any national statistics rankings. That's our spot, and nobody else better think about taking it. Especially Missouri. (to whom we owe our eternal gratitude for being marginally less worthy)

There are a few redeeming highlights, of course. We have good salsa. And casinos. And rocks which, if you squint at and tilt your head, have a plausible resemblance to famous celebrities who've had a bad run in with a mis-calibrated teleporter. These are usually designated with official looking signs, and, occasionally, a commemorative shop.

Unfortunately, our arid wasteland has lately been under assault. It is, in fact, dangerously close to becoming a boggy wasteland. You see, we've had a bit of a perpetual monsoon since July. Where I am right now, it's rained just about every day.

While I love rain, mysterious and infrequent as it's formerly been, I do not love some of the other things that love rain, such as mosquitos the size of.. the size of... well, let's just say if you squint and tilt your head they have a plausible resemblance to certain famous celebrities.

So why did the weather decide to have a go at us all at once? Did it just forget up till now? Did it take a wrong turn on the way to Seattle? Did it sneak in from Mexico? Did it make the mistake of trying to use our roads and streetsigns to navigate?

I have an elegant theory I've come up with, which I like to call, "Karen." Karen is my friend on the east coast who, last year, was responsible for a certain flurry of devastating hurricanes. Basically, she is a meteorlogical superhero who has gone bad, but not so bad that she doesn't appreciate a good joke (such as eradicating major port cities). I can only assume it is her eccentric sense of humor that has transformed my lovely desert home into a muddy bog.

Haha! Well, Karen, I regret to inform you that there are only six quarts of blood in the human body, and a near infinite number of giant mosquitos presently converging on my cardiovascular system. So, go ahead and laugh it up now, but if you should happen to find my grotesque mummified corpse inexplicably lounging somewhere, at least do something useful with it, like prop it up in your vegetable garden.

"What I don't understand," pondered Drissle, "Is why, after finding the secret of the universe, there would still be something else to do? I mean, what's bigger than that? A slightly more secret secret?"
Normally, Grimzore did not keep his company very well informed. It usually lead to trouble, and in general, the universe was not a big fan of having its major plot points spoiled early, but for the foreseeable future, Grimzore and the universe were not on good terms with each other.
"Reality is what's bigger. There is more than one universe, but there is only one reality, your basic 'what's what' of universes."
Drissle pondered for a bit. His inquisitiveness was not for lack of perception. Somehow, he had got the answer without having gotten to the bottom of the question.
"You mean... there is also a secret of reality?"
"Yes."
"How do we know it's in this universe and not somewhere else?"
Grimzore smiled. The monkey might be worth something yet.
"Universes are, methaphorically speaking, what reality wraps around itself to give it identity. Outfits, if you will. And it would seem from what I have learned from our universe, that truth--the veritable mother figure of reality--is always diligent enough to write the name inside the underwear."
"Wait a minute, we are looking for the universe's underpants to find. . . the true name of reality, so that you will have. . . ultimate power over everything?"
"Yes."
The wizard was quite pleased with himself. They had barely begun their adventure and he had already given away the ending. Doubtless, some of the elemental forces he was presently none-too-pleased-with were fuming at him.
"Huh."
Spud, who was being astoundingly quiet for a non-magical tater, ceased orbitting the other two adventurers and settled back to consider what had just been said. He began to quiver.

* * *

The elderly gentlemen now in possession of the Hall of Wizardry bumbled his way up a secluded hill, humming incoherently and occasionally flicking his fingers to snatch an insect which had been careless in its selection of flight path.
The forest took no notice of him. It was not wise to take notice of such persons if you could at all help it. They might, after all, take notice of you.
A ways up the sloping path and around a bend there was a small ramshackle house with no apparent purpose other than perhaps to keep the rain off and keep saftey inspectors on their toes. It had a fireplace and a table and and either no doors, or exactly one door, depending on how you looked at it. There was no bedding or any signs of habitation at all, other than that it was kept moderately clean.
In time, he made his way inside and heaved the purloined tote back atop the table. From the inner recesses of his robe he produced a small kindling kit and ambled over the fireplace where he crouched down and broke a wild grin.

Apparently, my school is going to have an anti-gravity club.

At first I thought this would be a political organization which would organize protest marches and write letters antagonizing gravity and its senseless deformation of spacetime. But actually it is about thwarting gravity as a physical force by buying powerful magnets and spinning them at high revolutions. (This kind of idea is what happens when internet access falls into the wrong hands.)

I guess pseudoscience is a lot like magic in that the effect is always contingent on finding something quaint but generally available and adding a ritual.
Magic: add newt eyes to cauldron, stir while chanting in a forgotten tongue.
Psuedoscience: add neodynium magnets to box, spin while eating pizza and talking about Star Trek.

I felt kind of sorry for the kid who was trying to sell this, because he chose to do so in my physics class. A general rule of thumb for anti-gravity devices, time portals, and perpetual motion machines is that you take a brief walk over to the humanities department before you do any marketing. You don't want to be talking to someone who knows tensor calculus when you start invoking silly neologisms like "time-matrix."

Personally, I have been working on my own miracle pseudoscience invention called the Reduced Mass Electrochemical Energy Transfer Catalyzation Transmogrifier. The precise details are of course highly technical, but the basic apparatus consists of an energy crystal, neodynium magnets, capacitors, resistors, pecans, and a small block of lead encased in a metal tin wrapped with copper wire. The energy for the device comes from kinematics: by jumping up and down and shaking the device, it can transform up to 17 grams of your subcutaneous body fat into harmless electromagnetic energy and for every 14 minutes of shaking.

I'm also working on a larger version which is unfortunately twice as heavy but is also twice as effective!

Ah, school. . . the gay giggle of girls as they go to class, the typity-type-type of Techies socializing with one another, and the gentle "*WHOOSH!* *THUD!* *GROAN!*" of freshmen dropping like flies as kickballs deform into pancakes against the side of their skulls.

Yes, dodgeball is as much a craze as ever. The last game I went to, every single person I ran into on the way to the gym was talking about it. The last hundred feet of my trek to the sacred grounds were serenated with a cacaphony of primal yells all around campus, a resounding bellow of "DOOOOODGEBALLLLLLL! "

I could feel the cry awaken ancient urges. Instincts which at one time had enabled my ancestors to survive much more ruthless games of "dodgerock," and thus earn the right to genetic continuance.

Fortunately, dodgeball is quite a bit more inviting than it was in ancient times, or even my freshmen year. It used to be that everyone was just out to murder you at the first available opportunity with a flurry of ballistically accelerated rubber doom. Now the players are a lot more friendly both to new comers and to each other. (I'm not saying they try not to hurt you, of course. I'm just saying that before they hurt you, they are quite friendly about it.)

Another fun game to play is dodge racquetball. The ingredients are as many guys as possible, one hard rubber projectile, bludgeoning implements, and an extremely confined space. And that's it; the rules can be whatever you collectively decide, but frankly speaking, they are not important. The reason they are not important is because no matter what the rules are, the goal of the game is always to hit the ball as hard as you can and hopefully be one of the bless?d few to escape injury.

I won't go into details about the variant which involves bottlerockets. Afterall, there may be females on the internet (or who at least claim to be female) and in general it's probably a good idea for me to only discredit my gender's capacity for sensibleness so much in a single post. It's really not our fault. We get hit in the head a lot.

The only thing worse than someone trying to kill you is someone trying to kill you incompetently.

When your dark nemesis sends his best swordsman to snatch your life away with his murderous double-edged steel, at least you can't help feeling honored. But when he sends his worst swordsman who is easily induced to commit suicide by a carefully strung bit of dental floss at the entryway, it just makes for a lot of embarrassment and awkward police reports.

I, for one, say that insult calls for insult.

So next time terrorists use un-tamped, medium-grade explosives with barely functional detonators against reinforced concrete tunnels, we should retaliate by sending an elite team of six-year olds armed with sticks to Syria to make acquaintance with resident kneecaps. And when Kim Jong Il hinges his nuclear blackmail on an impressive showing of his long-range missile's skinny dipping abilities, we should send Dan Quayle armed with nerve gas filled party balloons to assassinate him.

I'm not saying we can't saturation bomb them, too. A few massive ordinance drops do wonders for adjusting attitudes. I'm just suggesting that, inbetween crippling annihilations of our enemies' infrastructure, maybe we could try to humiliate them into being a bit more competent.

Did you know...
That Xenu is an evil alien warlord?
That he starred as an extra in the original "Freddy vs. Jason" flick?
That if Xenu were a kind of bicycle, he would be the kind that drops aliens in volcanos?
That "Xenu" means "bite the wax tadpole" in Chinese?
That Xenu's favorite color is the rich sanguine hue of the spilt blood of his enemies?
That he also took ballet in high school?
That his first job was as a fry cook at Tasty Burger?
That in a fight between Xenu and Aquaman, Xenu would command his followers to afflict Aquaman with their inadequate acting skills?
That Xenu???? is a copyrighted trademark of the Church of Scientology which cannot be used without their explicit permission?
That saying Xenu three times in front of a dark mirror will cause a squad of lawyers to appear?
That, according to Martha Stewart, Xenu's evil body thetans can be removed simply by rinsing with white wine followed by warm soapy water?
That on a tripple word score in Scrabble the word "Xenu" is worth 33 points?

There are a lot of disenchanted people out there clamoring for a change in the two party system. These include greens, libertarians, and even some people who don't claim to have been abducted by aliens and implanted with government microchips. People such as myself.

Modern politics is, unfortunately, very political. It's all about politicians politicking their policies, pundits pontificating punditry, partisans parroting the party perspective, polemics pretentiously prevaricating persuasive propositions of profoundly preposterous poppycock... My point, as it were, is that whenever you have that much 'p' in one place, it's about time for a flush.

So let's forget about trying to "fix" things. There is little to no hope of making the republicans completely conservative, the democrats completely liberal, or the greens completely potty trained. We need to scrap the parties and start over, creating a culturally rooted system of natural antagonism and balance that will not lend itself to euphemism and affectation.

In short: Ninjas vs. Pirates.

It's quite logical when you consider the two principal functions of government:
1. Kill people who need to be killed. (ninja skills)
2. Collect monies from the people. (piracy)

Obviously, some changes will have to be made. For example, it's a bit unfair to have a Talk Like A Pirate Day, yet not an Assassinate Like a Ninja Day. But the advantages are numerous. No more party platforms (except the kind you walk blindfolded with your hands tied), no more wondering which candidate is being dishonest (probably the pirate), and no more income tax (unless your company's payroll is shipped on the high seas).

I also think, in light of things, it might make sense to replace the Supreme Court with a table of knights, or, alternatively, a ham sandwich.

I wrote this earlier this week, and since I don't have anything else to post...

What then do you call your purpose, O fragile Man?
To possess a little, if you can?
Were your feeble bones born to break?
Do you sleep because you wake?

Sure, why ask, what one can know?
See it in the deeds you sow!
The meaning of your every breath,
Imbues your choices ere your death.

You build with sticks and then with stones,
Things that crumble like your bones.
You take, you steal, you earn, you horde,
Yet time rescinds your own reward!

That which does not soon decay,
Or by forceful means is got away,
Will be lost in final sleep.
Is there nothing you shall keep?

The husk of flesh bears within,
A light outshining even sin.
The image make of God himself,
A place to put immortal wealth.

But folly to such knowledge earn,
As would make one pleasures spurn,
And force upon, the narrow good,
Robbing life of livelihood.

To Heaven keep a shielded eye!
And think no further than you die,
Lest Perspective like a shameless thief,
Change gain for loss and wealth for grief.

Enjoy devils' gifts and devils' drink!
They share them gladly as they think,
Sub specie aeternitatis,
Creaturae omnes peritis.