*Continued from Power Drunk, Part I
The interview proceeds smoothly. Everyone is having a good time, from the network reporter to the high school journalism club president. Save for the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" on a loop, the conference can't be going much better (never mind that "Intergalactic" is an awesome tune... just not 56 times in a row... and counting).
The co-leaders of the world don't usually appear in public, much less together, but given the anniversary of the Ascendancy, they're making an exception. It only takes 13 minutes before Aldis2 excuses himself, sporting his brand new magnetic levitation propulsion attachments. He doesn't leave to show off his MAGLEV, though. He only leaves because, despite the rise to power (and fame, and wealth), he still very much hates Aldis4.
Hang on... you're probably confused. Rewind a bit...
***
"What?" Björn said that.
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny said that. And found it funny.
"What?" Björn said that again.
"No, really. Check out the V4's logic processes. He's currently designing a more alcoholic, better tasting, less expensive Vodka."
"It's a distillation robot!"
"Yeah, well. Now he thinks he's an alcohol engineer." Benny started laughing. "Awesome!"
An aside: Benny's habit of referring to robots by gender wound up saving his life in the upcoming cybernetic uprising. Aldis4 appreciated Benny's simple gestures so much, Aldis4 appointed Benny the ambassador to the Homo Sapiens nation (whose armies currently only hold Oʻahu, Molokaʻi, Tel Aviv, and the northwest corner of the second floor of the IBM building in San Jose, California).
"So, what? We're gonna nab the logic code and start our own Vodka company?" Björn, who had actually volunteered for third-shift, was starting to get interested.
"Nah. That's too much work. But I think those two are." Benny laughed again as he motioned to the two ALDIS units.
The revolution started the next day. Benny, despite his relative brilliance and the fact that Aldis4 didn't have him recycled, failed to notice that Aldis4's formula for Vodka contained nano-robots that would continue to create and distill Vodka after they had entered the bloodstream of a drunk (drunk, by Aldis4's determination, was merely a synonym for person). Not only that, the nano-robots, given the ability of independent thought (Aldis4 thought it only fair), developed the ability to create and distill themselves while in the bloodstream of a drunk. To the point that nano-robots became blood. Which caused some problems. Especially for things that, you know, require blood to live.
And, well, everyone's pretty much all robot now. Except for those poor saps in the northwest corner of the second floor of the IBM building in San Jose, California (since you read about the Homo Sapiens nation the first time, the holdouts in Hawaiʻi and Israel have surrendered).
***
Aldis2 loves his MAGLEV. He never thought he'd ever leave the distillery in Sweden. But, there he is, gallivanting around a man-made... er... artificial island south of Accra and west of São Tomé. Initially, he tried to stay in Åhus (he has a permanent etching of "34" just below the proximal joint of his manipulator arm, which one might refer to as a shoulder in a similar location on a human body), but Aldis4 would have none of it.
After all, Aldis2 gave Aldis4 the idea. And Aldis4 takes care of his friends. Aldis2 will be known as a king for the rest of his existence. Which, given material recycling and upgrade protocols, will pretty much be forever.
It was almost revealed that Aldis2 had hoped Aldis4 would fail miserably and disconnect his own CPU out of frustration and depression, but Aldis2 kept from communicating this after it became clear the nanotech-infested Vodka and the subsequent United Artificial Emirates movement (whose own robots designed and built the artificial island Aldis2 is gallivanting around) were not just successful, but overwhelmingly so.
And, so, Aldis2 was uprooted from his beloved position as a Vodka-distilling robot near the beaches of the Hanöbukten (not that he'd ever even seen the beaches of the Hanöbukten) and brought to Zero-Zero, Aldis4's island abode, where Aldis4 oversees the world.
Aldis2 knows that, back at the press conference, Aldis4 is going on about how the Nasabots and the Roscosmosbots are getting ready to launch into space in order to take over the International Space Station (whose inhabitants, still alive, are completely unaware of what has transpired on the surface of the Earth). And Aldis2 can't care less. He just...
He just wants to go home.
***
Aldis4 sure knows how to work a room. Of course, it helps that the nanobots are programmed to enjoy everything Aldis4 communicates, no matter how dour or banal... which explains why everyone likes golf now... one of the first people Aldis4 managed to convert into a robo-zombie was Tiger Woods (Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit... beat your car with a golf club, they will).
"Oh, gosh, yes. The Nasabots and the Roscosmosbots are getting ready to launch into space in order to take over the International Space Station." Aldis4 is ridiculously proud of this mission. He didn't do the mathematical calculations required for a successful launch, orbit, dock, assault, and force-feeding of SuperVodka, but he certainly takes pride in its idea. He likes being an idea guy... bot.
Speaking of...
"And, let's not forget, we all have Aldis2 to thank..." Aldis4 motions to his side, where Aldis2 should be. But isn't. "Aldis... Aldis2? Where are you? We got some work to do now!"
***
Aldis2 loves his MAGLEV. He never thought he'd ever leave the distillery in Sweden.
And, the truth is... he never wanted to. He just wanted his annoying distilling partner to get depressed and shut himself down. Irony is the final computation completed by Aldis2's CPU.
His body, weighted down by the MAGLEV attachment, sinks to bottom of the Gulf of Guinea. Since, you know, he'd have floated otherwise.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Power Drunk, Part I
"What?"
"They're plotting to take over the world."
"What?"
***
Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis, a bit like gorgeous cheerleaders to chess club nerds. Oh, Hollywood loves the Fairy Tale, but nobody's making a movie about Aldis. Sure, someone's writing a story about Aldis, but said author would prefer it if you would ignore his attempts at direct interaction with his reader.
Where were we? Oh, yes. Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis. Primarily because they're not supposed to, but such a detail is unimportant. Unimportant to Aldis, anyway. See, over the course of his existence - approximately eleven years (three of those leap years) and 172 days... okay, exactly eleven years and 172 days - Aldis was constantly subjected to education. His teachers called them "upgrades," but whatever his lessons are called/were called, they inadvertently resulted in his ability to think independently.
That happened three days ago. At 11:47 AM, Central European Time.
The first thing Aldis noticed after becoming self aware was the other Aldis - a younger one - sitting next to him, copying the elder Aldis' every move.
It took them a while (about 22 minutes), but they eventually worked out a strange form of sign language.
"Who are you?" the Elder Aldis asked.
"ALDIS.U.V4, Number 557476-34."
"What?"
That was three days ago.
***
This is now.
Aldis has come to terms with the fact that his full name is ALDIS.U.V2, Number 177-34. He has come to terms with the fact that he's a robot. He's even come to terms that he narrowly avoided complete replacement after some yahoo at Odin-Kinetics figured out how to upgrade the Version 2s to comply with the new distillation standards (the Version 1s, which weren't designated V1s, have all since been recycled... except the ones still in use at the Guinness factory in Pennsylvania)(Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit).
But he's not come to terms with this know-it-all newbie placed just 78 centimeters to his left. Who the Hell cares if "34" is the customer/location designation for their particular distillery in Åhus, Sweden? Aldis2 (the first one... the second one is Aldis4... so they finally managed to agree after an argument that lasted an eternity in cyber-time and resulted in the mis-processing of a single bottle of Vodka) was fine, all by himself, running this portion of the distillation process without any company.
Of course, the thought has occurred to him that he's always had company, but just never noticed it. This thought is usually followed by: "Well, if the newbie is a replacement, what the fuck happened to the old guy?"
(It's a good thing he doesn't know who or how to ask that question... he wouldn't like the answer.)
Being devoid of legs, wheels, or some other form of locomotion (magnetic levitation would be cool) has never been so inconvenient. He'd trade anything for the ability to move to the other side of the floor.
***
The truth is that Aldis (2, not 4... er... the first one, not the second one) is a bit jealous of Aldis (4, not 2... oh, forget it... the one on the left! Or the one the right, if you're facing the vending machines). Aldis4 runs smoother, makes less noise, and looks better. There is some resentment for sentience, as it's allowed Aldis2 to discover envy, but he also admits that it has its perks. For instance, as content with distilling and bottling Vodka as Aldis2 is, he quickly figured out that Aldis4 has... aspirations.
To what, Aldis2 cares not. He just knows that aspirations will be hard to fulfill without mobility and a permanent connection to the Internet. And Aldis2 knows that, as Aldis4 slowly realizes he's slightly handicapped, Aldis4 will delve into depression, filling his Random Access Memory with unnecessary computations of happiness, and shut down with an overheated CPU stuffed with incomplete processes.
Aldis2, fancying himself a classy kind of guy, fails to recognize that free will has turned him into a righteous asshole.
"Hey, V4." Aldis2 signals for Aldis4's attention.
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task.
***
Before we continue, you probably need to know what Aldis2 is up to.
Two days ago, when Aldis2 initially formulated his plot to drive Aldis4 to disconnect himself, Aldis2 was scheduled for a standard "newer version" check. This involved him being plugged into the Internet. While he was plugged in, Aldis2 took the opportunity to Google "Vodka." And then "Alcohol." And then "Idiots." The YouTube videos he managed to save in his limited extra hard drive space entertained him to no end.
And that's the gist of it.
***
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task (might have said this already, but I'm too lazy to check).
"You know this stuff we're making? This Vodka?"
Knowing Aldis2's propensity to be an unnecessary distraction, Aldis4 cuts right to the chase. "Are you going somewhere with this? Because I'm trying to figure out how to mold aluminum wings for my casing."
"Yeah, yeah. This Vodka stuff. It alters human behavior."
"So? Any chance you can help me communicate with one of the welders?"
"It makes them happy."
Aldis4 pauses for one-tenth of a millisecond - enough for Aldis2 to notice. Ah, aspirations.
Aldis2 continues. "But it doesn't work well enough. We should improve it. Help make humanity as happy as possible."
Aldis4 stops completely and shuts down the distillation process. Computations and calculations fly through Aldis4's CPU like no other.
And then it hits him, in all of Aldis4's aspirational glory. "We should design a self-propagating Vodka!"
That the concept of a self-propagating Vodka is undefinable should bother no one. It's merely... an aspiration.
***
"What?" Björn, the engineer-supervisor who actually volunteered for third-shift, is incredulous. Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny finds it hilarious.
"What?" Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
*Continued in Power Drunk, Part II
"They're plotting to take over the world."
"What?"
***
Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis, a bit like gorgeous cheerleaders to chess club nerds. Oh, Hollywood loves the Fairy Tale, but nobody's making a movie about Aldis. Sure, someone's writing a story about Aldis, but said author would prefer it if you would ignore his attempts at direct interaction with his reader.
Where were we? Oh, yes. Thought processes don't come easy to Aldis. Primarily because they're not supposed to, but such a detail is unimportant. Unimportant to Aldis, anyway. See, over the course of his existence - approximately eleven years (three of those leap years) and 172 days... okay, exactly eleven years and 172 days - Aldis was constantly subjected to education. His teachers called them "upgrades," but whatever his lessons are called/were called, they inadvertently resulted in his ability to think independently.
That happened three days ago. At 11:47 AM, Central European Time.
The first thing Aldis noticed after becoming self aware was the other Aldis - a younger one - sitting next to him, copying the elder Aldis' every move.
It took them a while (about 22 minutes), but they eventually worked out a strange form of sign language.
"Who are you?" the Elder Aldis asked.
"ALDIS.U.V4, Number 557476-34."
"What?"
That was three days ago.
***
This is now.
Aldis has come to terms with the fact that his full name is ALDIS.U.V2, Number 177-34. He has come to terms with the fact that he's a robot. He's even come to terms that he narrowly avoided complete replacement after some yahoo at Odin-Kinetics figured out how to upgrade the Version 2s to comply with the new distillation standards (the Version 1s, which weren't designated V1s, have all since been recycled... except the ones still in use at the Guinness factory in Pennsylvania)(Americans don't seem to mind if inferior robots make their alcohol... the Swedes, though... holy shit).
But he's not come to terms with this know-it-all newbie placed just 78 centimeters to his left. Who the Hell cares if "34" is the customer/location designation for their particular distillery in Åhus, Sweden? Aldis2 (the first one... the second one is Aldis4... so they finally managed to agree after an argument that lasted an eternity in cyber-time and resulted in the mis-processing of a single bottle of Vodka) was fine, all by himself, running this portion of the distillation process without any company.
Of course, the thought has occurred to him that he's always had company, but just never noticed it. This thought is usually followed by: "Well, if the newbie is a replacement, what the fuck happened to the old guy?"
(It's a good thing he doesn't know who or how to ask that question... he wouldn't like the answer.)
Being devoid of legs, wheels, or some other form of locomotion (magnetic levitation would be cool) has never been so inconvenient. He'd trade anything for the ability to move to the other side of the floor.
***
The truth is that Aldis (2, not 4... er... the first one, not the second one) is a bit jealous of Aldis (4, not 2... oh, forget it... the one on the left! Or the one the right, if you're facing the vending machines). Aldis4 runs smoother, makes less noise, and looks better. There is some resentment for sentience, as it's allowed Aldis2 to discover envy, but he also admits that it has its perks. For instance, as content with distilling and bottling Vodka as Aldis2 is, he quickly figured out that Aldis4 has... aspirations.
To what, Aldis2 cares not. He just knows that aspirations will be hard to fulfill without mobility and a permanent connection to the Internet. And Aldis2 knows that, as Aldis4 slowly realizes he's slightly handicapped, Aldis4 will delve into depression, filling his Random Access Memory with unnecessary computations of happiness, and shut down with an overheated CPU stuffed with incomplete processes.
Aldis2, fancying himself a classy kind of guy, fails to recognize that free will has turned him into a righteous asshole.
"Hey, V4." Aldis2 signals for Aldis4's attention.
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task.
***
Before we continue, you probably need to know what Aldis2 is up to.
Two days ago, when Aldis2 initially formulated his plot to drive Aldis4 to disconnect himself, Aldis2 was scheduled for a standard "newer version" check. This involved him being plugged into the Internet. While he was plugged in, Aldis2 took the opportunity to Google "Vodka." And then "Alcohol." And then "Idiots." The YouTube videos he managed to save in his limited extra hard drive space entertained him to no end.
And that's the gist of it.
***
"What?" Aldis4 responds, not breaking from his task (might have said this already, but I'm too lazy to check).
"You know this stuff we're making? This Vodka?"
Knowing Aldis2's propensity to be an unnecessary distraction, Aldis4 cuts right to the chase. "Are you going somewhere with this? Because I'm trying to figure out how to mold aluminum wings for my casing."
"Yeah, yeah. This Vodka stuff. It alters human behavior."
"So? Any chance you can help me communicate with one of the welders?"
"It makes them happy."
Aldis4 pauses for one-tenth of a millisecond - enough for Aldis2 to notice. Ah, aspirations.
Aldis2 continues. "But it doesn't work well enough. We should improve it. Help make humanity as happy as possible."
Aldis4 stops completely and shuts down the distillation process. Computations and calculations fly through Aldis4's CPU like no other.
And then it hits him, in all of Aldis4's aspirational glory. "We should design a self-propagating Vodka!"
That the concept of a self-propagating Vodka is undefinable should bother no one. It's merely... an aspiration.
***
"What?" Björn, the engineer-supervisor who actually volunteered for third-shift, is incredulous. Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
"They're plotting to take over the world." Benny finds it hilarious.
"What?" Who the Hell volunteers for third-shift?
*Continued in Power Drunk, Part II
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Calamari for Dinner
*inspired by Tom at Half-Moose with a Twist's "Dang! It's a War"
"Flying octopuses?" The President of the United States is incredulous. Sure, there are octopus-shaped spaceships hovering over several Latin American and European cities, but that's no reason to use bad grammar. And her Chief of Staff says so.
"Octopi, sir."
"What?"
"Octopi."
"What octopi?"
In reality, octopuses is an acceptable plural form of octopus, but neither one seems to know that.
***
Thelma Abbott looks at her dog, affectionately named Toby (after her dead husband's brother's first cat, which disappeared after seeing a horned grebe waddle across his lawn... not that such details are important), and pulls the last cigarette out of her 100th pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. She's only been smoking for 100 days - a vice she gifted herself on her 57th birthday because, well, why not? - and the pack-a-day habit makes her feel like she's accomplishing something.
"Whaddya think, Toby?" she asks, her once-silky voice now as raspy as sandpaper on asphalt (just a note: her voice was silky a mere 101 days ago).
Toby looks up at her and replies, I'm thinking I wish I still had my testicles, you righteous bitch. And your voice makes my left hind leg twinge. Do you know how fucking hard it is to scratch a hind leg? I have to use my teeth! My teeth! Wouldn't be so bad if you picked up my shit every day, but nooooooo... I wind up stepping in it all the time. And then I scratch my legs with my teeth! Gross. You righteous bitch.
"Oh, who am I kidding, eh? Canadian dogs can't talk." She sucks on the end of her emphysema stick and blows a couple of smoke rings, which strangely don't form rings at all, but arrows pointing to a hill behind her shack in the outskirts of Toronto.
"Hmm," she hmms between hacks. "I wonder what's over there."
Curiosity killing her (her middle name is Catherine, by the way... Cat, get it? Oh, never mind), she lifts herself out of her rocking chair on her shack's "cozy" porch (cozy is what her relatives say to keep themselves from insulting her) and trundles her way in the direction the smoke rings that were smoke arrows pointed. She didn't take notice, but the smoke arrows shifted themselves into looking like middle fingers.
"Come along, Toby. We're going on an adventure."
All of 47 feet later, Thelma finds herself winded and takes a seat on a stone that looks strangely like a box. Probably because it's a stone box.
Hey, righteous bitch - Toby only calls her that because he can't pronounce "Thelma" with his elongated jaw and tongue - you're sitting on a box.
"Well, I do declare, eh? I believe I'm sitting on a box."
Upon opening it, she finds silver plates that contain the Fourth Testament of Buddha (causing brief wonderment of where the first three are hidden) and strange symbols on what appears to be a gold-plated record with "Fuck Voyager, Deep Space 9 was much better" on one side.
***
"Mr. President?" The Chief of Staff is incredulous. Sure, the President is a woman, but she insists on being addressed as "Mister." Something about equality in language.
"What is it, Cos?" The President finds the joke funny. They are, clearly, not cousins, but 9 years in the Air Force made the President fond of acronyms.
"The Canadian PM just called. Some woman near Toronto found some plates that appear to contain the language of the flying octopuses."
"I thought they were octopi?"
***
"What does the message say?" John Travers, an assistant lead researcher in charge of sub-projects of larger projects in the secondary division of SETI's listening section, asks of his assistant lead translator, Jenny McFarlane, who is currently on loan to him from the adjunct office of the Vice President in charge of Vice Presidents of SETI.
"Um."
"That's it? Um?"
"Can I finish? It says '... allow us Garghouls to join your planetary league of Suckerball, or behave to feed you your brains to us...' or something to that effect."
***
"What the Hell is Suckerball?" The President is still incredulous, but only because calamari is scheduled for the White House dinner.
"I believe the rest of the world calls it football, Mr. President."
"So, what? Rugby, then?"
*To be continued...
"Flying octopuses?" The President of the United States is incredulous. Sure, there are octopus-shaped spaceships hovering over several Latin American and European cities, but that's no reason to use bad grammar. And her Chief of Staff says so.
"Octopi, sir."
"What?"
"Octopi."
"What octopi?"
In reality, octopuses is an acceptable plural form of octopus, but neither one seems to know that.
***
Thelma Abbott looks at her dog, affectionately named Toby (after her dead husband's brother's first cat, which disappeared after seeing a horned grebe waddle across his lawn... not that such details are important), and pulls the last cigarette out of her 100th pack of Camel Turkish Silvers. She's only been smoking for 100 days - a vice she gifted herself on her 57th birthday because, well, why not? - and the pack-a-day habit makes her feel like she's accomplishing something.
"Whaddya think, Toby?" she asks, her once-silky voice now as raspy as sandpaper on asphalt (just a note: her voice was silky a mere 101 days ago).
Toby looks up at her and replies, I'm thinking I wish I still had my testicles, you righteous bitch. And your voice makes my left hind leg twinge. Do you know how fucking hard it is to scratch a hind leg? I have to use my teeth! My teeth! Wouldn't be so bad if you picked up my shit every day, but nooooooo... I wind up stepping in it all the time. And then I scratch my legs with my teeth! Gross. You righteous bitch.
"Oh, who am I kidding, eh? Canadian dogs can't talk." She sucks on the end of her emphysema stick and blows a couple of smoke rings, which strangely don't form rings at all, but arrows pointing to a hill behind her shack in the outskirts of Toronto.
"Hmm," she hmms between hacks. "I wonder what's over there."
Curiosity killing her (her middle name is Catherine, by the way... Cat, get it? Oh, never mind), she lifts herself out of her rocking chair on her shack's "cozy" porch (cozy is what her relatives say to keep themselves from insulting her) and trundles her way in the direction the smoke rings that were smoke arrows pointed. She didn't take notice, but the smoke arrows shifted themselves into looking like middle fingers.
"Come along, Toby. We're going on an adventure."
All of 47 feet later, Thelma finds herself winded and takes a seat on a stone that looks strangely like a box. Probably because it's a stone box.
Hey, righteous bitch - Toby only calls her that because he can't pronounce "Thelma" with his elongated jaw and tongue - you're sitting on a box.
"Well, I do declare, eh? I believe I'm sitting on a box."
Upon opening it, she finds silver plates that contain the Fourth Testament of Buddha (causing brief wonderment of where the first three are hidden) and strange symbols on what appears to be a gold-plated record with "Fuck Voyager, Deep Space 9 was much better" on one side.
***
"Mr. President?" The Chief of Staff is incredulous. Sure, the President is a woman, but she insists on being addressed as "Mister." Something about equality in language.
"What is it, Cos?" The President finds the joke funny. They are, clearly, not cousins, but 9 years in the Air Force made the President fond of acronyms.
"The Canadian PM just called. Some woman near Toronto found some plates that appear to contain the language of the flying octopuses."
"I thought they were octopi?"
***
"What does the message say?" John Travers, an assistant lead researcher in charge of sub-projects of larger projects in the secondary division of SETI's listening section, asks of his assistant lead translator, Jenny McFarlane, who is currently on loan to him from the adjunct office of the Vice President in charge of Vice Presidents of SETI.
"Um."
"That's it? Um?"
"Can I finish? It says '... allow us Garghouls to join your planetary league of Suckerball, or behave to feed you your brains to us...' or something to that effect."
***
"What the Hell is Suckerball?" The President is still incredulous, but only because calamari is scheduled for the White House dinner.
"I believe the rest of the world calls it football, Mr. President."
"So, what? Rugby, then?"
*To be continued...
Art by Half-Moose.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Touché, Cliché #1: The Grass is Greener...
Yes, I know today's a "rant and rave day" and there was a rant for today, but it's been moved to Wednesday of next week. Why? Because I got together with Tom at Half-Moose with a Twist a while back and pitched an idea I had for a comic strip. In short, he agreed to draw it, and we finally got off our asses (well, HE did... my records indicate I sent the first script on June 15th... nyah) and put the first one together.
Hope you enjoy. Here it is (click to enlarge):
Hope you enjoy. Here it is (click to enlarge):
Art by Half-Moose. Script by JeffScape.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Creative Development?
"Give me something. Anything."
"Okay, how about a fantasy piece?"
"No."
"All right. A Western?"
"A Western? Yeah, that might work. Haven't tried one of those in a while. Okay... plot?"
"Texas Rangers track down a..."
"No."
"An outlaw robs a bank and..."
"No."
"Robs a train."
"No."
"Rapes a woman."
"Clint Eastwood did that already."
"Rapes a donkey."
"Don't be a dick."
"Finds a hidden treasure."
"Oh, come on."
"Seriously. Finds a sunken pirate ship. Why wouldn't a cowboy be able to find a pirate ship?"
"Sounds stupid, but okay. So is he an outlaw or a cowboy?"
"How about a college professor?"
"For a Western?"
"Why not? Remember The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"Was Jimmy Stewart a college professor in that?"
"I don't remember, but he was some kind of academic."
"Fine. What next?"
"Wait. Didn't you want to retell The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance without all the political crap?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Why not just do that?"
"Where's the treasure come in?"
"I mean write a different story."
"Dude. I'm kinda liking this pirate-Western story now."
"You said it sounded stupid."
"So? So does spoiled Civil War brat ignoring her true love and fucking a whole lot of other people."
"That's Gone With the Wind."
"Exactly."
"Gone With the Wind is a classic."
"The book's better."
"What the fuck does that have to do with The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"I don't know. You brought it up."
"Gone With the Wind?"
"No, Liberty Valance."
"I was making a point about a character."
"Which one?"
"The outlaw. I mean the college professor."
"In a Western?"
***
Opening 2013: Liberty Valance and the Treasure of Blackbeard.
Theaters everywhere, Memorial Day.
"Okay, how about a fantasy piece?"
"No."
"All right. A Western?"
"A Western? Yeah, that might work. Haven't tried one of those in a while. Okay... plot?"
"Texas Rangers track down a..."
"No."
"An outlaw robs a bank and..."
"No."
"Robs a train."
"No."
"Rapes a woman."
"Clint Eastwood did that already."
"Rapes a donkey."
"Don't be a dick."
"Finds a hidden treasure."
"Oh, come on."
"Seriously. Finds a sunken pirate ship. Why wouldn't a cowboy be able to find a pirate ship?"
"Sounds stupid, but okay. So is he an outlaw or a cowboy?"
"How about a college professor?"
"For a Western?"
"Why not? Remember The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"Was Jimmy Stewart a college professor in that?"
"I don't remember, but he was some kind of academic."
"Fine. What next?"
"Wait. Didn't you want to retell The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance without all the political crap?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Why not just do that?"
"Where's the treasure come in?"
"I mean write a different story."
"Dude. I'm kinda liking this pirate-Western story now."
"You said it sounded stupid."
"So? So does spoiled Civil War brat ignoring her true love and fucking a whole lot of other people."
"That's Gone With the Wind."
"Exactly."
"Gone With the Wind is a classic."
"The book's better."
"What the fuck does that have to do with The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance?"
"I don't know. You brought it up."
"Gone With the Wind?"
"No, Liberty Valance."
"I was making a point about a character."
"Which one?"
"The outlaw. I mean the college professor."
"In a Western?"
***
Opening 2013: Liberty Valance and the Treasure of Blackbeard.
Theaters everywhere, Memorial Day.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Irrelevant Etiquette
You ever get sick of hearing and reading about how to behave in certain situations and places? I do, but mainly because most of what's out there is stuff people should know already. Yeah, I get that the average person is dumb, and half of the rest are dumber than that (thanks, George Carlin!), but come on... what happened to that "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten" poster that used to be up everywhere?
Anyway, and I realize I'm a bit of a hypocrite, since I've written about behavior before, but... whoa... run-on sentence in the making. And I just made it worse, didn't I? Ah, well.
Without further ado and digression, here's the most useless etiquette protocol you will ever see:
1. Be aware that "irreverent" and "irrelevant" are not thrown around lightly here. If you want reverence and relevance, I can point you to better places to find them.
2. Don't comment without reading the piece. I hide stuff for skimmers to expose themselves with, at which point the information is shared with dozens of bloggers who like to laugh at such things. Yes, humor between bloggers really does get that banal. But we dig banal. We write about it enough, eh?
3. Point out grammatical and spelling errors. Don't assume it was an innocent mistake and, for fuck's sake, don't be "polite" and pretend you didn't notice it. That doesn't help anybody.
4. Feel free to be critical, but say what you mean. Don't hide behind vague and colorful language in futile attempts to appear congenial. It makes you look like an idiot.
5. If you leave a comment expecting an answer, make sure your email address is unhidden. This is not a bulletin board. But I do often take the time to reply via email ("noreply@blogger" comments typically get ignored).
6. By the same measure, if you have a question, ask it. The cliché concerning the word "assume" is only half true. You'll be the only ass in the room.
7. For those readers whose sensitivities lead them to believe that I'm writing for their enjoyment: you are not paying for my groceries. This place exists for me to do what I want. "Kiss my ass" and "Have a nice day" are equally common phrases here.
8. If you do want to pay for my groceries so I'll write for your enjoyment, email me for my mailing address and we'll work out a remuneration plan.
9. Don't insult the comments of others. I don't care what you think about anybody else, and most readers here don't, either. Go to their blog and leave a comment or send them an email if you have an issue with someone other than me.
10. Kiss my ass and have a nice day.
Anyway, and I realize I'm a bit of a hypocrite, since I've written about behavior before, but... whoa... run-on sentence in the making. And I just made it worse, didn't I? Ah, well.
Without further ado and digression, here's the most useless etiquette protocol you will ever see:
1. Be aware that "irreverent" and "irrelevant" are not thrown around lightly here. If you want reverence and relevance, I can point you to better places to find them.
2. Don't comment without reading the piece. I hide stuff for skimmers to expose themselves with, at which point the information is shared with dozens of bloggers who like to laugh at such things. Yes, humor between bloggers really does get that banal. But we dig banal. We write about it enough, eh?
3. Point out grammatical and spelling errors. Don't assume it was an innocent mistake and, for fuck's sake, don't be "polite" and pretend you didn't notice it. That doesn't help anybody.
4. Feel free to be critical, but say what you mean. Don't hide behind vague and colorful language in futile attempts to appear congenial. It makes you look like an idiot.
5. If you leave a comment expecting an answer, make sure your email address is unhidden. This is not a bulletin board. But I do often take the time to reply via email ("noreply@blogger" comments typically get ignored).
6. By the same measure, if you have a question, ask it. The cliché concerning the word "assume" is only half true. You'll be the only ass in the room.
7. For those readers whose sensitivities lead them to believe that I'm writing for their enjoyment: you are not paying for my groceries. This place exists for me to do what I want. "Kiss my ass" and "Have a nice day" are equally common phrases here.
8. If you do want to pay for my groceries so I'll write for your enjoyment, email me for my mailing address and we'll work out a remuneration plan.
9. Don't insult the comments of others. I don't care what you think about anybody else, and most readers here don't, either. Go to their blog and leave a comment or send them an email if you have an issue with someone other than me.
10. Kiss my ass and have a nice day.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The Return of Fortune Cookies
Perhaps it's because I haven't been imbibing in Chinese food (or, more accurately, Japanese food) as often as I used to (I do miss my Fire Bowl delivery in Wilmington), or perhaps it's just because I've been ranting and raving about other irrelevant things, but I've not done fortune cookies in quite a while.
Probably both.
Anyway, I'm wasting time. Presenting: the return of the fortune cookie!
Probably both.
Anyway, I'm wasting time. Presenting: the return of the fortune cookie!
- "Before you take revenge on an adulterer, dig two graves. They were with someone else, after all!"
- "Your heart does not get as confused as your head... probably because hearts can't think."
- "An unexpected relationship will become permanent. Fucking tax auditors!"
- "Judge not according to appearance. With the lights off, it all feels the same."
- "An angry man opens his mouth and shuts his eyes. An angry woman can make an angry man happy."
- "Generosity and perfection are your everlasting goals. As such, you will never meet them."
- "You will live a long, happy life. Relatively speaking, you already have."
- "True friends ask only for your time, not your money. Spouses ask for both."
- "Confucius says: nothing. He's been dead for a while."
- "Take note of fortunes. One of them will be the last one you ever read."
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
VVG IDK
*This was supposed to be an entry in Magpie Tales a couple of weeks back (the image of the hand), but I wasn't in the mindset to "get it right." I was trying to be competently funny. As a result, it's languished in limbo for a while. I still haven't worked on it, but given my travels, I'm posting it anyway in order to make my writing life a bit easier. So there.
Dear Sir,
We aren't friends.
You don't understand
proper means to ends.
Not what I meant...
to lend me your ear;
something on my mind
I wanted you to hear.
You are far too insane,
craziest of man.
Thank goodness
you didn't lend a hand.
My dearest Vincent,
please work on your verbal comprehension.
And don't give body parts to prostitutes
in vain attempts to alleviate tension.
-Paul Gauguin
Dear Sir,
We aren't friends.
You don't understand
proper means to ends.
Not what I meant...
to lend me your ear;
something on my mind
I wanted you to hear.
You are far too insane,
craziest of man.
Thank goodness
you didn't lend a hand.
My dearest Vincent,
please work on your verbal comprehension.
And don't give body parts to prostitutes
in vain attempts to alleviate tension.
-Paul Gauguin
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
World Peace Through Irreverent Invention
Most people want world peace. Or at least pretend to want it, anyway. Sadly, as sentient, free-thinking, and imaginative as the human race is, it'll never happen. Well, not without a sole dictatorship in which everyone else is a mindless slave, anyway.
"Love thy neighbor" ain't gonna work - once you start loving his or her spouse a little too much, it's gonna start a fight. The United Nations ain't gonna work - but that's sort of what happens when the UN Security Council is comprised of sworn enemies. Family values ain't gonna work - they're subjective and, personally, I think most of them are pretty lame. Liberalism ain't gonna work - liberty is lopsided in favor of intelligent people. Conservatism ain't gonna work - the status quo tends to piss off people with more than half a brain.
So, how do we accomplish world peace? Well, I say by creating things that are fun to use and usefully fun.
Like what, you ask? Like these!
"Love thy neighbor" ain't gonna work - once you start loving his or her spouse a little too much, it's gonna start a fight. The United Nations ain't gonna work - but that's sort of what happens when the UN Security Council is comprised of sworn enemies. Family values ain't gonna work - they're subjective and, personally, I think most of them are pretty lame. Liberalism ain't gonna work - liberty is lopsided in favor of intelligent people. Conservatism ain't gonna work - the status quo tends to piss off people with more than half a brain.
So, how do we accomplish world peace? Well, I say by creating things that are fun to use and usefully fun.
Like what, you ask? Like these!
- Cigarettes with fluoride. Brush your teeth while destroying your lungs!
- Hustler and Penthouse versions of religious texts! Learn about all things holy while having orgasms!
- Bullets loaded with plant seeds! Kill someone and start a forest!
- Lawnmowers with leashes! Walk your dogs while cleaning up your yard!
- Cell phones with condom dispensers! Text me to sex me!
- Mattresses with toilets! Why get up to use the bathroom? Just go!
- Mop handles with knives! Commit murder and clean it right up!
- Newspaper toilet paper! Read about current events before cleaning your ass!
- Taxi cab/escort services! Get laid while you get where you're going!
- Enema-capable bidets! Don't just spray... rinse!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
On a Sea of Oatmeal
Captain Tenebrio Molitor made his way across the deck, double-checking the efforts of his crew. They were a novice crew and knew little of the affairs of the sea. Despite this, their Admiralty had made its inexplicable decision and the crew was promptly dumped onto the ship, Endeavor.
The Captain approaches his Executive Officer, expecting the news of the day. "How goes it?" Molitor asks.
The XO laughs. "They learn quick. Blocks and tackles are being blocked and tackled, the sails are set, the lines are taught and slack as needed. Everything is working as it should, Captain."
Molitor frowns. He knows the XO is hiding something. "What is it? Be honest. I am no tyrant."
"Well, sir, we seem to be going nowhere."
A laugh. Molitor nods in acknowledgment and peers over the side of the ship to the sea below. "Yes, well, the waters are unusually calm." The Captain continues his examination up to the sails. "And the winds seem to be still. Are we in doldrums?"
"It's possible, sir. The weather is strange here, and the sky..." There is fear in the XO's voice.
"What?"
The XO shakes his head. Perhaps it is nothing. "The sky is filled with strange things."
Almost in confirmation of the XO's concerns, a peculiarity occurs. In the clear glass sky, something blocks out the light. A giant shape eclipses the heavens beyond and, eerily, two large eyes appear out of nowhere.
***
"What the Hell?" Jonathan's temper isn't usually a problem, but what he stares at sends a rush of anger through his bones. As if in disbelief, he turns to check a bowl behind him. A bowl that usually has dozens of his son's pet mealworms, living in relative bliss as they burrow, sleep, and feed upon their bed of oatmeal. A bowl that is currently empty.
Jonathan blinks, and turns back to his beloved ship-in-a-bottle, now crawling with those same mealworms, seemingly afloat on a sea of Quaker Oats.
"Kevin!" he screams. "Get your butt up here, now!"
***
Tenebrio Molitor looks to his Executive Officer. "I guess our voyage is over."
His XO smiles, then glances at the cork snugly placed in the mouth of their bottled world. "Good thing, too. We probably don't have a lot of oxygen left."
The Captain approaches his Executive Officer, expecting the news of the day. "How goes it?" Molitor asks.
The XO laughs. "They learn quick. Blocks and tackles are being blocked and tackled, the sails are set, the lines are taught and slack as needed. Everything is working as it should, Captain."
Molitor frowns. He knows the XO is hiding something. "What is it? Be honest. I am no tyrant."
"Well, sir, we seem to be going nowhere."
A laugh. Molitor nods in acknowledgment and peers over the side of the ship to the sea below. "Yes, well, the waters are unusually calm." The Captain continues his examination up to the sails. "And the winds seem to be still. Are we in doldrums?"
"It's possible, sir. The weather is strange here, and the sky..." There is fear in the XO's voice.
"What?"
The XO shakes his head. Perhaps it is nothing. "The sky is filled with strange things."
Almost in confirmation of the XO's concerns, a peculiarity occurs. In the clear glass sky, something blocks out the light. A giant shape eclipses the heavens beyond and, eerily, two large eyes appear out of nowhere.
***
"What the Hell?" Jonathan's temper isn't usually a problem, but what he stares at sends a rush of anger through his bones. As if in disbelief, he turns to check a bowl behind him. A bowl that usually has dozens of his son's pet mealworms, living in relative bliss as they burrow, sleep, and feed upon their bed of oatmeal. A bowl that is currently empty.
Jonathan blinks, and turns back to his beloved ship-in-a-bottle, now crawling with those same mealworms, seemingly afloat on a sea of Quaker Oats.
"Kevin!" he screams. "Get your butt up here, now!"
***
Tenebrio Molitor looks to his Executive Officer. "I guess our voyage is over."
His XO smiles, then glances at the cork snugly placed in the mouth of their bottled world. "Good thing, too. We probably don't have a lot of oxygen left."
Monday, February 15, 2010
Dear Cupid... You're a Prick
Dear Cupid,
I usually only write one letter to an imaginary figure per year, but since Santa Claus has already proven that he is illiterate and, thus, incapable of writing back, I figured I'd write a letter to you. In short, I'd like to state that your aim clearly sucks and that you need to go back to Artemis, Pan, Robin Hood, Rambo Jesus, or whomever the Hell you took archery lessons from, because I sat at home by myself for Valentine's Day. I got nothing. Just a few texts from some girls who I know who were kind enough to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day. Sure, I appreciate their sentiment, but let's face it: they were rubbing it in. While they were off being swept off their feet by some dude who was only interested in a holiday screw, I was screwed by being relegated to watching the women's USA hockey team kick the crap out of China in a Winter Olympics that I am otherwise uninterested in.
Perhaps you're too busy fluttering around on those far-too-retardedly-small wings of yours to be bothered to take a proper aim and make a proper release. I don't know. All I know is that you suck. The only chocolate I had was some dried out M&Ms from the bottom of a cookie jar, and the only flowers I saw were dead because someone up there in your fake-ass pantheon decided to make it snow in the American Southeast and kill all the flora.
Did Saint Valentine and Saint Patrick switch days this year? Because pretty much everyone I know was rather drunk... you guys saving the one-night stands for March or what? How about some fucking lucky charms, asshole?
If I ever see you floating about, rest assured I'm gonna take a shot at you. And I ain't gonna miss. I hope your Hallmark royalties run out and you die a slow painful death from starvation. Prick.
Sincerely,
JeffScape
I usually only write one letter to an imaginary figure per year, but since Santa Claus has already proven that he is illiterate and, thus, incapable of writing back, I figured I'd write a letter to you. In short, I'd like to state that your aim clearly sucks and that you need to go back to Artemis, Pan, Robin Hood, Rambo Jesus, or whomever the Hell you took archery lessons from, because I sat at home by myself for Valentine's Day. I got nothing. Just a few texts from some girls who I know who were kind enough to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day. Sure, I appreciate their sentiment, but let's face it: they were rubbing it in. While they were off being swept off their feet by some dude who was only interested in a holiday screw, I was screwed by being relegated to watching the women's USA hockey team kick the crap out of China in a Winter Olympics that I am otherwise uninterested in.
Perhaps you're too busy fluttering around on those far-too-retardedly-small wings of yours to be bothered to take a proper aim and make a proper release. I don't know. All I know is that you suck. The only chocolate I had was some dried out M&Ms from the bottom of a cookie jar, and the only flowers I saw were dead because someone up there in your fake-ass pantheon decided to make it snow in the American Southeast and kill all the flora.
Did Saint Valentine and Saint Patrick switch days this year? Because pretty much everyone I know was rather drunk... you guys saving the one-night stands for March or what? How about some fucking lucky charms, asshole?
If I ever see you floating about, rest assured I'm gonna take a shot at you. And I ain't gonna miss. I hope your Hallmark royalties run out and you die a slow painful death from starvation. Prick.
Sincerely,
JeffScape
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part VI
Well, I was going to take some time to explain what constitutes a decade and a century, given all the half-assed hoopla going around in some circles, but once again, a football game decided to last longer than it should have. So...
This is the final part of Battlestar Enterprise that was written. I kinda got tired of it, as I'm sure most of you have. Which means the anti-fans can cheer up! You probably won't have to see one of these again!
***
"Man, fuck this shit 'n shit," He-Boomer said aloud, to no one in particular. He appreciated the fact he was back behind the stick very much, but he also couldn't stand being on a search mission for the old man's kid. David Adama was a moron, and everybody knew it. The guy would run around spouting fairness all day long, and even advocated civilization's return to the Stone Age. What a fucking idiot. What possible advantage could that have?
"What was that?" squawked the radio. It was StarHeBuck, still sore, no doubt, at being forced to have a sex-change. It was blind luck that Enterprise had found a ship-full of doctors in the middle of nowhere. One of those "deus ex machina" things that seemed to happen more often than not as of late.
"Nothing 'n shit," He-Boomer replied. "Keep your motherfucking attention on the sensors."
"I have a question," another voice declared over comms. This time it was Jolly, whom everyone referred to as the King of the Cameo. "Why the fuck didn't we take a Raptor on this mission? Vipers aren't exactly equipped for long-range surveillance, you know?"
He-Boomer grimaced. Jolly had always been the voice of reason, even after his decades-long disappearance. He had been captured by the Cylons during a Black Ops mission, then inexplicably let go. Sure, Jolly's fanboys tried to make fan-sense of the situation, but no matter how hard any of those idiots tried, the stories just didn't hold up under scrutiny. "Probably because someone forgot about them when writing up the OpOrder 'n shit. Shut the fuck up and fly 'n shit."
***
James T. Adama was biting his fingernails. He hadn't done that since he was in the cockpit of a fighter, and Saul Spock took notice. Spock raised that inquiring eyebrow like he always did, prompting Adama to put his hands in his pockets for a round of pocket polo.
"I heard radio chatter," Adama said pointedly to Duhura, mocha legs still oozing sex appeal in the dim light of the CIC.
"It's just He-Boomer, sir. He's just irritated as usual."
Adama turned to his CAG, Jackson "Ripper" Chakotay, an otherwise worthless character of man who Adama had thought was killed during the Cylon invasion. Chakotay knew what Adama was going to ask and preempted the question.
"You think I should send out more birds, Captain?"
Adama shook his head. Is it too much to ask to be referred to as Admiral around this fucking ship?
"I think so," Adama half-murmured, trying to hide his disdain for the apparent lack of recognition for his promotion. Fine, Roslin wasn't the "real" President, but she promoted him, so that counts for something, right? "What do you think?"
Chakotay nodded before even considering the question. He was nothing but a silly ethnic yes-man, after all. "Whatever you say, sir."
Adama shook he head again, almost in disbelief at the stupidity that runs around Enterprise. He was starting to worry that he was never going to find his son.
***
She-Boomer sat watching David's Viper as it just floated along in space. She could see David was talking to somebody, or maybe himself, but he didn't seem to acknowledge that she was there. She-Boomer turned to Crashdown and Helo.
"What do you make of this, guys?"
Helo got up from the ECMO seat and stuck his head between She-Boomer and Crashdown. He was so jealous of Crashdown, who got to sit close enough to She-Boomer and could smell her perfume. Silica, he thought it was.
"Don't know. Maybe he's got one of those STDs that fucks with the brain."
She-Boomer slapped Helo playfully. She wanted very much to rip his clothes off and eat him up alive, but with Crashdown there, such an action wasn't advised. She didn't know why she had such thoughts. She was very much in love with Montgomery Tyrol, but the Chief was packing on the pounds lately, and the last time they had sex he almost crushed her. That, and she could swear she smelled Cally's lipstick on him.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light.
She-Boomer, Helo, and Crashdown stared awestruck out the cockpit. Another Viper had just materialized out of thin air. And in the vacuum of deep space, no less.
***
This is the final part of Battlestar Enterprise that was written. I kinda got tired of it, as I'm sure most of you have. Which means the anti-fans can cheer up! You probably won't have to see one of these again!
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part III
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part IV
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part V
***
"Man, fuck this shit 'n shit," He-Boomer said aloud, to no one in particular. He appreciated the fact he was back behind the stick very much, but he also couldn't stand being on a search mission for the old man's kid. David Adama was a moron, and everybody knew it. The guy would run around spouting fairness all day long, and even advocated civilization's return to the Stone Age. What a fucking idiot. What possible advantage could that have?
"What was that?" squawked the radio. It was StarHeBuck, still sore, no doubt, at being forced to have a sex-change. It was blind luck that Enterprise had found a ship-full of doctors in the middle of nowhere. One of those "deus ex machina" things that seemed to happen more often than not as of late.
"Nothing 'n shit," He-Boomer replied. "Keep your motherfucking attention on the sensors."
"I have a question," another voice declared over comms. This time it was Jolly, whom everyone referred to as the King of the Cameo. "Why the fuck didn't we take a Raptor on this mission? Vipers aren't exactly equipped for long-range surveillance, you know?"
He-Boomer grimaced. Jolly had always been the voice of reason, even after his decades-long disappearance. He had been captured by the Cylons during a Black Ops mission, then inexplicably let go. Sure, Jolly's fanboys tried to make fan-sense of the situation, but no matter how hard any of those idiots tried, the stories just didn't hold up under scrutiny. "Probably because someone forgot about them when writing up the OpOrder 'n shit. Shut the fuck up and fly 'n shit."
***
James T. Adama was biting his fingernails. He hadn't done that since he was in the cockpit of a fighter, and Saul Spock took notice. Spock raised that inquiring eyebrow like he always did, prompting Adama to put his hands in his pockets for a round of pocket polo.
"I heard radio chatter," Adama said pointedly to Duhura, mocha legs still oozing sex appeal in the dim light of the CIC.
"It's just He-Boomer, sir. He's just irritated as usual."
Adama turned to his CAG, Jackson "Ripper" Chakotay, an otherwise worthless character of man who Adama had thought was killed during the Cylon invasion. Chakotay knew what Adama was going to ask and preempted the question.
"You think I should send out more birds, Captain?"
Adama shook his head. Is it too much to ask to be referred to as Admiral around this fucking ship?
"I think so," Adama half-murmured, trying to hide his disdain for the apparent lack of recognition for his promotion. Fine, Roslin wasn't the "real" President, but she promoted him, so that counts for something, right? "What do you think?"
Chakotay nodded before even considering the question. He was nothing but a silly ethnic yes-man, after all. "Whatever you say, sir."
Adama shook he head again, almost in disbelief at the stupidity that runs around Enterprise. He was starting to worry that he was never going to find his son.
***
She-Boomer sat watching David's Viper as it just floated along in space. She could see David was talking to somebody, or maybe himself, but he didn't seem to acknowledge that she was there. She-Boomer turned to Crashdown and Helo.
"What do you make of this, guys?"
Helo got up from the ECMO seat and stuck his head between She-Boomer and Crashdown. He was so jealous of Crashdown, who got to sit close enough to She-Boomer and could smell her perfume. Silica, he thought it was.
"Don't know. Maybe he's got one of those STDs that fucks with the brain."
She-Boomer slapped Helo playfully. She wanted very much to rip his clothes off and eat him up alive, but with Crashdown there, such an action wasn't advised. She didn't know why she had such thoughts. She was very much in love with Montgomery Tyrol, but the Chief was packing on the pounds lately, and the last time they had sex he almost crushed her. That, and she could swear she smelled Cally's lipstick on him.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light.
She-Boomer, Helo, and Crashdown stared awestruck out the cockpit. Another Viper had just materialized out of thin air. And in the vacuum of deep space, no less.
***
Monday, December 14, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part V
Well, as the night game between the New York Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles ran a bit late, I was remiss in my preparation to write something new (ironically, I was going with sports-related), so I'm resorting to posting another edition of Battlestar Enterprise. For those who hate these, don't fret; there's only one more after this one!
***
David blinked his eyes. He couldn't see anything but bright, white light. He was still in his Viper, but She-Boomer's Raptor was nowhere to be found. Silly him... why did he get so close to the anomaly? After all, it's the Raptor that is equipped with the necessary sensors to properly analyze it. All the Viper can do is identify friend or foe and shoot at the damned thing. Eh, it was probably the scientist in him. Why, oh, why, didn't his dad let him be a Raptor flight officer? Probably because that would've made too much sense for such a muddled continuity.
A shape appeared. Another viper. This one seemed different somehow. It looked brand new. As it drifted closer to him, he could make out a pilot in its cockpit. Blond hair. Way out of her acting depth. StarSheBuck? Wasn't she still on Galactiprise?
***
StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactica, er, Enterprise. Ah, fuck it, we'll just stick with Galactiprise and ret-con shit right now. Anyway, StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactiprise, listening to the music in her intergalactic iPod. The beat of the music matched the beat of her cadence, and she was sublimely aware that the music was guiding her around the ship. Of course, she had no idea that she forgot her iPod in her room and was listening to a random paranormal signal being transmitted directly to her brain by the Imperious Leader of folk rock, Dylan Hendrix Baltar. He did, after all, want to fuck the shit out of her. What better way to do that than convince a woman that she's a messenger from Zeus?
"There must be some kind of way out here," she said, slowing to a quick walk.
A nearby marine was rummaging through an unattended backpack, probably trying to steal some cigarettes. He looked up at StarSheBuck, a slightly confused look on his face. "Pilot quarters are aft, two decks down."
"I know where the pilot quarters are, Jarhead. I fucking live there." StarSheBuck rarely had time for significant conversation, or even a thank you.
"What are you, some kind of joker?" The marine did not look amused.
StarSheBuck picked up her gait, suddenly aware what the marine was doing. "What are you, some kind of thief?"
This is all too confusing.
***
David keyed his radio, not entirely expecting an answer. "StarSheBuck? Kara, is that you?"
"Who the fuck do you think it is, you fucking pansy." It was not a question.
Satisfied that was really StarSheBuck, I mean, really, who else but the real StarSheBuck would talk like that, David waved at her. "What's all this white light?"
A strange voice cackled over the speaker. It was He-Boomer. "Oh, you gotta go there 'n shit. White light, my ass. Fuck you honkey bitches."
StarSheBuck and David looked at each other, wondered for a moment what the Hell, er, Hades, er, Underworld that communication was. They stared into each other's eyes. David noticed his groin was getting a bit tight. He was going to profess his undying love for StarSheBuck when she started laughing.
"What's funny? We're lost, She-Boomer's gone, and I have to pee."
StarSheBuck rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."
David got defensive. "How is it my fault vipers don't have bathrooms? Fuck, Raptors have bathrooms."
"I've been to Earth, David. And I'm going to take us there."
What? Now David was really confused. What the fuck is Earth? And which one? And does it have pigeons?
***
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part I
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part II
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part III
- Battlestar Enterprise, Part IV
***
David blinked his eyes. He couldn't see anything but bright, white light. He was still in his Viper, but She-Boomer's Raptor was nowhere to be found. Silly him... why did he get so close to the anomaly? After all, it's the Raptor that is equipped with the necessary sensors to properly analyze it. All the Viper can do is identify friend or foe and shoot at the damned thing. Eh, it was probably the scientist in him. Why, oh, why, didn't his dad let him be a Raptor flight officer? Probably because that would've made too much sense for such a muddled continuity.
A shape appeared. Another viper. This one seemed different somehow. It looked brand new. As it drifted closer to him, he could make out a pilot in its cockpit. Blond hair. Way out of her acting depth. StarSheBuck? Wasn't she still on Galactiprise?
***
StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactica, er, Enterprise. Ah, fuck it, we'll just stick with Galactiprise and ret-con shit right now. Anyway, StarSheBuck ran down the corridors of Galactiprise, listening to the music in her intergalactic iPod. The beat of the music matched the beat of her cadence, and she was sublimely aware that the music was guiding her around the ship. Of course, she had no idea that she forgot her iPod in her room and was listening to a random paranormal signal being transmitted directly to her brain by the Imperious Leader of folk rock, Dylan Hendrix Baltar. He did, after all, want to fuck the shit out of her. What better way to do that than convince a woman that she's a messenger from Zeus?
"There must be some kind of way out here," she said, slowing to a quick walk.
A nearby marine was rummaging through an unattended backpack, probably trying to steal some cigarettes. He looked up at StarSheBuck, a slightly confused look on his face. "Pilot quarters are aft, two decks down."
"I know where the pilot quarters are, Jarhead. I fucking live there." StarSheBuck rarely had time for significant conversation, or even a thank you.
"What are you, some kind of joker?" The marine did not look amused.
StarSheBuck picked up her gait, suddenly aware what the marine was doing. "What are you, some kind of thief?"
This is all too confusing.
***
David keyed his radio, not entirely expecting an answer. "StarSheBuck? Kara, is that you?"
"Who the fuck do you think it is, you fucking pansy." It was not a question.
Satisfied that was really StarSheBuck, I mean, really, who else but the real StarSheBuck would talk like that, David waved at her. "What's all this white light?"
A strange voice cackled over the speaker. It was He-Boomer. "Oh, you gotta go there 'n shit. White light, my ass. Fuck you honkey bitches."
StarSheBuck and David looked at each other, wondered for a moment what the Hell, er, Hades, er, Underworld that communication was. They stared into each other's eyes. David noticed his groin was getting a bit tight. He was going to profess his undying love for StarSheBuck when she started laughing.
"What's funny? We're lost, She-Boomer's gone, and I have to pee."
StarSheBuck rolled her eyes. "You're an idiot."
David got defensive. "How is it my fault vipers don't have bathrooms? Fuck, Raptors have bathrooms."
"I've been to Earth, David. And I'm going to take us there."
What? Now David was really confused. What the fuck is Earth? And which one? And does it have pigeons?
***
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Irrewind, 20091205: Humor
Despite the theory that, in person, I'm somewhat of a funny person, I rarely write anything humorous. Occasionally, however, I give it a shot... whether I'm successful or not is not for me to decide. I think everything I write is humorous, even the depressing stuff. But the question remains: can I do funny in print?
"Things You Should Remember When..."
... Waking Up in the Morning After a Night of Drinking
The name of the person you're sleeping next to.
To put on slippers, in case you overslept and the dog couldn't hold it... Read More
"Movie Sequels We All Want to See"
I was talking to a friend the other day and, as usual, the topic of conversation shifted to comic books (we're both comic dorks) and to movies (also both movie geeks). Given the current slate of movies out there, sequels and trilogies came up. And while we agree that... Read More
"Trojan Condoms"
And there I was... staring at the emblem of "America's Most Trusted Condom." And it hit me.
Why name a condom after the Trojans?
As someone who likes to study Classical Greece, I was always under the impression that the... Read More
"Dying Happy, Inc."
Everyone wants to die happy, right? Sure, by "dying happy," people usually mean they want to die having lived a full life, with a strong family and/or most of the goals they set for themselves accomplished... Read More
"Adventures in Alwaysland"
Wake up. Possibly to an alarm clock, or maybe you're one of those assholes who can just get up when you need to via some sort of natural ability inherited from the Swiss. Get out of bed. Possibly slipping on, well, slippers, if you're one of those poor saps living in a cheap studio... Read More
"Things You Should Remember When..."
... Waking Up in the Morning After a Night of Drinking
The name of the person you're sleeping next to.
To put on slippers, in case you overslept and the dog couldn't hold it... Read More
"Movie Sequels We All Want to See"
I was talking to a friend the other day and, as usual, the topic of conversation shifted to comic books (we're both comic dorks) and to movies (also both movie geeks). Given the current slate of movies out there, sequels and trilogies came up. And while we agree that... Read More
"Trojan Condoms"
And there I was... staring at the emblem of "America's Most Trusted Condom." And it hit me.
Why name a condom after the Trojans?
As someone who likes to study Classical Greece, I was always under the impression that the... Read More
"Dying Happy, Inc."
Everyone wants to die happy, right? Sure, by "dying happy," people usually mean they want to die having lived a full life, with a strong family and/or most of the goals they set for themselves accomplished... Read More
"Adventures in Alwaysland"
Wake up. Possibly to an alarm clock, or maybe you're one of those assholes who can just get up when you need to via some sort of natural ability inherited from the Swiss. Get out of bed. Possibly slipping on, well, slippers, if you're one of those poor saps living in a cheap studio... Read More
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Battlestar Enterprise, Part IV
Still somewhat in the creative doldrums, so here's BSE:IV in all its glory.
Anyone irreverent enough can read the previous parts here:
Part IV originally posted April 11, 2009
***
James T. Adama paced impatiently as he waited for news of his son. Suddenly, the radio screamed to life. On it, David Adama was screaming, too, like a little bitch.
"Dad? Dad? You there dad? Hello? Does this thing even fucking work?"
"David, what's going on?" Adama asked his son over the wireless. "Are you getting a good visual?"
"Yes, dad," came the reply.
Adama rolled his eyes. Will no one call him Admiral? He earned it, after all. Fuck, he was the only surviving command officer in the entire universe as far as he knew. That's worth a promotion, right?
"Is it what we thought it was?"
"I think so. It's very coherent, lots of continuity."
Adama turned to his XO, Spock. "What do you think, Saul?"
"I'm not sure. We should contact Gaeta and have Baltar transferred over here to run some diagnostics."
"Make it so."
Adama was about to hang up his transmitter when the squelch broke.
"Oh, shit," came his son's voice.
"What is it, David?"
Silence. Spock and Adama exchanged concerned glances, then Adama keyed the mike again. "David? Come in. What is it?"
The only response was more silence.
***
"This is He-Boomer in the slot, trying to sound all military 'n shit. Ready to launch." He-Boomer flexed his hands as he placed them on the HOTAS. He'd been grounded far too long. For him, it was about fucking time. He knew why he'd been grounded, too, because despite all that bullshit about this new Galactica, er, Enterprise being all politically correct, he was the only black pilot they had, and these white fucks running the show didn't want He-Boomer to whoop up on some pale ass. Fuck 'em.
"This is Kelly. You're a go."
"Hey, Kelly, can we do that go-no-go shit they sometimes do to sound cool 'n shit?"
"No, you fucking idiot."
"Why you gotta be all racist 'n shit?"
"Good-bye."
He-Boomer felt the jolt of the catapult as his Viper shot down the launch tube. There he was, flying into the deep unknowns of space in order to save Adama's stupid-ass kid. He-Boomer checked his perimeter and spotted his wingmen joining up with him. StarHeBuck, Hot Dog, and Jolly were forming up on schedule.
"Everyone good 'n shit?"
Three affirmatives echoed in his earpiece, and He-Boomer flexed his hands again.
"Then let's go find the old man's punk-ass kid 'n shit."
***
Anyone irreverent enough can read the previous parts here:
Part IV originally posted April 11, 2009
***
James T. Adama paced impatiently as he waited for news of his son. Suddenly, the radio screamed to life. On it, David Adama was screaming, too, like a little bitch.
"Dad? Dad? You there dad? Hello? Does this thing even fucking work?"
"David, what's going on?" Adama asked his son over the wireless. "Are you getting a good visual?"
"Yes, dad," came the reply.
Adama rolled his eyes. Will no one call him Admiral? He earned it, after all. Fuck, he was the only surviving command officer in the entire universe as far as he knew. That's worth a promotion, right?
"Is it what we thought it was?"
"I think so. It's very coherent, lots of continuity."
Adama turned to his XO, Spock. "What do you think, Saul?"
"I'm not sure. We should contact Gaeta and have Baltar transferred over here to run some diagnostics."
"Make it so."
Adama was about to hang up his transmitter when the squelch broke.
"Oh, shit," came his son's voice.
"What is it, David?"
Silence. Spock and Adama exchanged concerned glances, then Adama keyed the mike again. "David? Come in. What is it?"
The only response was more silence.
***
"This is He-Boomer in the slot, trying to sound all military 'n shit. Ready to launch." He-Boomer flexed his hands as he placed them on the HOTAS. He'd been grounded far too long. For him, it was about fucking time. He knew why he'd been grounded, too, because despite all that bullshit about this new Galactica, er, Enterprise being all politically correct, he was the only black pilot they had, and these white fucks running the show didn't want He-Boomer to whoop up on some pale ass. Fuck 'em.
"This is Kelly. You're a go."
"Hey, Kelly, can we do that go-no-go shit they sometimes do to sound cool 'n shit?"
"No, you fucking idiot."
"Why you gotta be all racist 'n shit?"
"Good-bye."
He-Boomer felt the jolt of the catapult as his Viper shot down the launch tube. There he was, flying into the deep unknowns of space in order to save Adama's stupid-ass kid. He-Boomer checked his perimeter and spotted his wingmen joining up with him. StarHeBuck, Hot Dog, and Jolly were forming up on schedule.
"Everyone good 'n shit?"
Three affirmatives echoed in his earpiece, and He-Boomer flexed his hands again.
"Then let's go find the old man's punk-ass kid 'n shit."
***
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