I was thinking about this song the other day, and it struck me as really funny that Positive K was being such a Pepe Le Pew with this woman. "I got a man," she says. "What's your man gotta do with me?" Heh.

Can't embed, here it is, if you're interested: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQyDSL1rQVQ

So it's bliss you want, eh? It's that special happiness of heaven you're looking for? I've got your bliss right here: it's a story of a job well done, disaster averted, and the best beverage ever. The story involves a girl named Genny, that's "Jenny" but with a "G." You see, Genny was in a bad way. The bad guys were hounding her through the mansion she had only recently inherited — she didn't even know her way around the place yet — and she was hurt, badly. She had been stabbed in the chest, right next to the sternum, with the broken-off end of a plunger handle. She didn't know what organ it hit, but she could breathe, so she guessed it wasn't a lung. What she knew for sure was that it hurt, badly.

Genny was hiding in a closet in one of bedrooms, trembling with fear, trying to get a dial tone on an ancient rotary-dial phone. Nothing. She gave up and hugged the phone to her as if that might revive it; she was blinded by burning tears; she fought back her crying, blubbering like a toddler was the last thing she needed right now. What should she do? What should she do?! She was trapped! It got worse.

Someone tried the handle on the bedroom door. She had locked it, and from the elevated mumbling from the hall, she knew that had only heightened the alarm of the people out there. There was a lull in the mumbling outside the door, then Genny heard the door crash open as men ran into the room shouting. She heard as the bed was up-ended, as the washroom door was kicked open, and as the footsteps gathered around the closet door. It sounded like there were three of them.

She tried to remember what her older brother had taught her about fist fighting and nothing much was coming to mind; what did come to mind seemed silly. At least she didn't need to see to use it, because she was still blind from her tears. She forced herself to stand, quietly as she could, and gather some antique clothes in her hands. From outside the closet she heard a man count "1...2...3...GO!" The door was yanked open, Genny's blindness was absolute in the three bright lights shining on her; Genny threw the clothes at two of the lights and rushed the third. She tucked her chin into her chest, leaned forward, and wildly pumped her fists in alternating upper-cuts in front of her.

Genny felt one fist connect with something kind of soft, the next blow hit nothing but air, the one after that hit something hard, really hard. She could feel the crunch of shattering bone; whatever she hit gave way, and next she heard gurgling moans from the floor.

There was all sorts of shouting around her: "Get her!" "He’s down!" "Shoot your crossbow!" "Outta the way!" One of them was a woman. Still pumping her fists, she charged the nearest voice. Again she felt her fist connect, this time lower, in the chest or the gut, and again she felt something crack under her blow. The man pitched forward against her, pushing her back a couple steps, while she kept punching at him. She heard a sharp snap and felt the tip of a crossbow bolt come through the man's chest and poke her shoulder. The man against her jerked stiff, and the woman screamed "Barry, no! Oh God, Barry! No!"

Genny let the man fall to the side, and for the third time, blindly rushed one of her attackers. The woman only took one punch to knock down.

Genny tried to get her wits, tried to clear her eyes, and tried to fight back a cough. She failed on all three: she convulsed coughing — she felt like she was coughing up a lung, literally — and the searing pain around the wooden spike in her chest made her knees buckle. She couldn't stop coughing. Part of her knew she was bringing the others closer to her with her commotion, but she couldn't stop. Suddenly it felt like a fist-sized zit right next to her breast was being popped by a sadistic dermatologist. And the pain almost entirely disappeared. She looked down and saw the offending shiv on the floor. She closed her eyes to thank her fortune, but heard a child's voice from down the hall. It was that wicked little mealy-mouthed brat they brought to help kill her, and that savage, rabid dog they all treated like a person.

Genny held her breath, hoping the brat hadn't heard the fight. Then the woman she had knocked cold started to snore. Genny panicked; she took up the broken plunger handle and jammed it into the woman's throat. That only made it worse; she was gargling her own blood as she died. It was drown out by the savage barking of the mastiff in the hall. Genny had seen the dog, it was covered with scars; she would have bet it was the only dog to fight its way free from Michael Vic's compound.

Genny looked around and saw a cocked crossbow on the floor. She scooped it up and ran to the hall and pointed it at the wicked child. She loosed the arrow, and he collapsed with a thick wooden bolt through his head.

Then she looked at the dog.

She had never seen anything like it: the dog was nonplussed with rage! A hint in Genny's memory tickled her mind. She charged forward, then dove at the dog with her fist flying straight at the beast's muzzle. The cur made to bite her, but she quickened her fist at the last moment and jammed it into its mouth. Grabbing its collar with her other hand, she shoved her fist deeper and deeper into the monster's throat. Soon the dog stopped making noise: she was choking it! Then she remembered: an adventurer in Africa who killed a big cat the very same way. She twisted until the dog's claws weren't slashing her flesh, and then held on, her muscles screaming in pain. It took an eternity. The dog finally dead, she looked at the boy. She vomited: he was wearing a necklace made of her family's teeth!

Only one killer was left, the worst of them by far. She had to finish this to survive, but she would finish it for her family. She stalked down the main stair to the entrance hall. No sign of the assassin. Good. Genny could only think of one weapon she could use, especially after dropping the crossbow in the hall when she puked. Crap! No time! She ran down a hall, through a ball room, hurtled love seats in a parlor, and found herself in a kitchen. She hunted for a knife, a big one, and she found it: a foot-long chef's knife. And he found her. She felt the vice of his grip on her shoulder and a sharp, biting blade against her neck. She turned slowly to look into his wicked eyes. His expression was pure hate, he was shaking with rage.

"What's your trick?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "I put that stake through your heart myself."

"You attacked me with a plunger handle," Genny whispered, "not a stake."

"I...what?"

Before she could think things through, Genny stabbed this van Helsing monster through the mouth with her giant knife. The blade cut into his spine, and he collapsed like a rag doll.

"I did it," Genny whispered to herself. "I’m alive."

She looked down into the monster van Helsing’s still-living eyes, and pushed her canine fangs out of their hiding place. "Yesh," she said, "you nearly shlayed all of ush! And what evilsh did we vishit on you, Helshing?"

Genny leaned down to the man's neck and felt for his pulse with her tongue. When she found it, she buried her fangs into his neck, through his skin and into his artery. She sucked out the blood like she was drinking a Shamrock Shake. She was alive, but she was so tired, she was so thirsty, and she had been so terrified! All that terror...gone. She sucked that hot, coppery fluid into her mouth, letting it spill down her face, and swallowed deep the gorgeous, thirst-killing life; her eyes rolling back into her head as her body fell limp; she lay on the floor, suckling the man's neck like a mother's teat. Eternity before her for play, and her most dangerous enemy pouring his life down her gullet...that was heaven. Genny took a deep breath and shuddered, then relaxed into a state of pure Vampiric bliss.

Yay. Tomorrow I'll be getting back the Internets, a series of tubes, at home tomorrow. And cable television, too. Cartoon network ho!

From here:
http://flickr.com/photos/32912172@N00/2853365609/in/pool-833331@N24
http://flickr.com/photos/_s_t_e_p_h_e_r_/2892227203/
http://flickr.com/photos/igeldard/2854215826/in/pool-833331@N24

First it's those Di$ney bastards with their lemming hoax, the bastards. But that's okay to be a myth, if true it'd be too gruesome. But just now I learn that Jamie Uys is a lying bastard in his "documentary" Animals are Beautiful People. One scene shows a bunch of animals eating from marula trees and getting DRUNK off their asses. I mean, 'faced!

I remember sitting in the living room, the whole family gathered around the tube, watching this movie, and marveling and laughing uproariously at that segment. We all *loved* it! It was another hoax, most likely playing on a myth and then creating the "drunken" animals with editing.

What a douche!

Why would someone friggin' lie like that, for no good reason? Too bad he died in '96, I'd like to punch him upside the head.

The following should either ease your worry, heighten it, or not. It is, of course, the Hidden Brain Damage Scale. I'm worried that I should be worried: walls impede my progress. Good luck with your own assessment of brain factory in Dixie on the beaver teeth, Senator.

Hiya, if you're not familiar with Jeremy Paxman, you probably should be, because he's one of my heroes. A recently acquired hero. He's known for being a television interviewer/journalist with some balls, to put it bluntly. This six minute video called Best of Paxman pretty well sums up why I think he's great.

I want to show you a clip from Newsnight where Paxman talks to a Stuckist (the school of art where the only art is figurative, and generally painting, I guess) and a conceptual artist (whatever the hell that is). Before I do, let me say that I'm not posting this as a statement regarding what art is or is not, with perhaps the exception that art also implies skill or mastery, which I think is what's behind the line that cracks me up. It's at about 3:17 into the video below:



Paxman actually looks at the paintings, and says "frankly [the paintings] strike me as taking the pi...taking the mickey." Ha! He looks at that guys art and says he's taking the piss, right there on national television! That's hilarious!

Well, thanks for reading.

^_^

Peter Q. Pendleschnott, like many, had apathy. Peter also owned a dictionary, a very good dictionary, so he knew that "In lazy Apathy let Stoic's boast Their virtue fix'd," or as stated one-hundred and fifteen years later, "Apathy was considered by the Stoics as the highest condition of Humanity." So maybe, Peter mused, he wasn't like many after all: they had "apathy"; he had apathy. One thing he didn't have was patience for fools. Tolerance, yes, but not patience. In particular, he didn't have patience for the over-the-hill hippie haranguing this group of teens on their duty to vote in an election that could only result in an outcome to which they would be entirely indifferent.

"This is an election!" the old hippie preached to the kids, "And it is always important to vote, to be part of the democratic process!"

"Abstention," Peter replied, "is a perfectly legitimate political statement in the democratic process."

"Abstent—" a girl in the third row began to say, before being cut off by the hippie.

"If you don't vote, you can't complain, right?" he screeched. There were nods of approval by a few faux preppies.

"Abstention," Peter said, making eye contact with the girl, then with the class, "is not voting on a question. If, for example, the we were voting on Coke or Pepsi, I might abstain, because they're both equally good choices to me. Or—"

"And they're both bad for you," interrupted the hippie, "you shouldn't drink them."

"This isn't health class," Peter pointed out. "Now—"

"This is current events, and what they drink is a current event."

"We're discussing voting," Peter said, "let's stick to the topic."

"Let's," the teacher interjected.

"If you don't vote, you can complain. You can complain because the candidated misrepresented what they would do, or they made a decision on something you could have never anticipated, or any of a hundred possible reasons. But if now, seeing no discernable difference between the candidates...if now, before you vote, you see no difference, then it's perfectly legitimate for you to not vote. If after the vote, the winner does something wrong, you're free to complain, and legitimately so, and—"

"No," the hippie said, "that's just wrong!"

"—and if you do feel there's a real difference between the candidates," Peter continued, "then you should vote."

"But, what if," the girl in the third row began before pausing briefly to straighten her thoughts.

"You should always vote!" the hippie cried. "You should be part of the process! That's democracy!"

"What's it called when you interrupt a question?" Peter said, glaring at the hippie. To the girl, "go ahead."

"What if there's, like, a difference? But it won't make a difference? Like, um, this election?"

"Yeah," said a boy in the fourth row, "what's the stupid student president got to do with anything? Pick the date of a school dance? How's that affect me?"

"That's what I'm talking about," said another boy in the fourth row. "No matter who wins, they're just going to do some stupid theme for a dance, anyway. And if they promise something cool, they'll just change it to what the Principal wants, anyway."

"No! No! No!" the hippie cried. "No! Voting is how democracies make decisions, and you need to be part of the decision-making process!"

"So we get to vote on the theme of the school dance?" a boy said to general giggles, and an approving snerk from the teacher.

"Right," the girl in the third row said, "just like what Mr. Pindulnutz—"

"Pendleschnott."

"—Pendleschnott said."

"And what if they vote for the winning candidate," Peter said, "and the new Class President chooses those Bratz dolls as the dance theme?" He paused to let the uproar of disgust to settle, then continued, "what if they choose that, can people who voted for them complain?"

"Of course," the hippie said, "they voted!"

"Even if I just flipped a coin to choose?" the first boy in the fourth row said.

"Why would you just flip a coin?!"

"Because the candidates are the same, you st—"

"OKAY!!" the teacher interjected, getting up from her chair. "We're about out of time, what's say we put this to a vote?"

---

A few minutes remained after the vote, and after the hippie stormed out, grumbling something about "selfish, apathetic, 'eye-brats'." (They had to explain to Peter that the hippie meant "ibrats," as in "iPods." Man, was he getting old.) The girl in the third row asked "so, why are you here, Mr. Pendleschnott, if you're so apathetic?"

"Apathy doesn't mean not caring," Peter said. "Apathy means freedom from passion. It allows you to think for yourself with your actual mind, rather than just doing what your emotions tell you to do."

"Really?"

"Yep, really. Though you have to admit that a Bratz-themed dance would PWN!" He was chased out of the room by a barrage of crumpled papers and pencils, which was fair. But by hitting him in the back of the head with a textbook it seemed the teacher was going just a little too far.

MEMORANDUM

EXECUTIVE OFFICES OFDEATH, ANGEL OF
1525 HARTFORD COURT
DETROIT, MICHIGAN 48884-2256

January 1, 2013

RE: B'ak'tun cycle, world apocalypse/transformation, et al.

To Whom It May Concern:

By the time you read this, I will be dead.

I kid! I kid! No, I am Death, but I am not dead, as such. Many of you will be, but not for the reasons you have anticipated. The next big wave of deaths will arise 'round May of this year, when President Palin makes good on her and soon-to-be-deceased President McCain's goal of starting World War Three over a breakaway Georgian province. Don't look so surprised, you knew it was coming.

As the Angel of Death, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not insist, in the strongest possible terms, that you prepare for the event and say your goodbyes. But do not fret too much, it is going to be a heck of a show. The war won't go nuclear until 'round July, and in a about an hour's time, nearly a billion of you will die. Conventional warfare will take a good number of people, and as usual, disease and starvation will be the real killer. Expect the war to be over by August 2014, leaving a good three-billion of you still alive, and Australia as the new Place To Be.

It is important that you understand the reason for the upcoming catastrophe: it is not due to Mayan calendar myths, spiritual what'sits, or technological fabulousiticies; there is no Age of Aquarius on the horizon; it will be a strictly prosaic affair brought about buy ideologically motivated politicians who, frankly, aren't very bright. This matters because I do not wish for any of you to experience any undue afterlife hassles because of deep-seated beliefs resonating into the other realm. The Agency does its best to keep things in order, and it's a darn impressive bit of bureaucracy, and efficient too; however, this upcoming event is going to be an organizational nightmare.

In order to keep things running as smoothly as possible, please consider the following guidelines in preparation for the year and a half to come. First, bear in mind the good things about your friends and families when you say goodbye; rather than be sad for losing them, be glad for having had them. Second, do not entertain thoughts about possible heavens or hells or whatever you may prefer to imagine; instead, take a healthy wait-and-see attitude, strongly infused with savoir-vivre and aplomb. Third, and without giving away too many hints, feel free to say "see you later" rather than "goodbye." Like physical luggage when you travel, only take the essential psychic baggage as carry-on.

While not comprehensive, these measures will help ensure that your afterlife experience unfolds with maximum efficiency and minimum inconvenience. I'll be looking forward to reaping you.

Warm regards,

Death

Oh, man! These are too cool for school! Over at the blog penciltalk, there's a post about cigarette pencils & match erasers. I hope they don't get pissed if I hotlink an image...



Don'tcha just want 'em?! Mee tooo!

^_^

Hi! I'm js_africanus. I am not Elmer J. Fudd. I am not a millionaire. I own neither a mansion nor a yacht.

I am not famous, pretending to be anonymous, nor am I anonymous, pretending to be famous. I'm just a guy on the Internets, a series of tubes.

As far as I know, there is no mathematical theorem, lemma, or conjecture named after me, nor any sort of paradox.

Though it amuses me that a culture may have an alleged writing system, it doesn't make me laugh out loud.

I've never played Patolli. In fact, I've only heard of it about two minutes ago.

Like Buddha, there are some games I will not play. Unlike Buddha, hitting a short stick with a long stick tops my list, with the exception of Gulli-danda, which I haven't played, but might be willing to try.

I've never ordered Starbuck's most complicated drink, and I doubt I ever will. Nor have I ever used a Soviet colored pencil, and I doubt I ever will.

I do sometimes wonder what is the world's greatest pencil, so if you know, feel free to tell me.

For those of us who think the germ theory of disease is an important milestone in human history, and even those who do not, you may enjoy perusing the Germ Theory of Disease Calendar. It starts at year -50 and goes up through 1900.

Enjoy!

Last night I dreamt I went to a movie by myself. I didn't pick the movie, but just asked for a ticket. When I went in, the theater was empty. The movie started with the title sequence, and the flick was called "Land of Blood," or something like that. I sighed in annoyance.

The movie opened on an empty landscape of generally flat, but uneven and undulating terrain, occasionally rocky and frequently peppered with gravestones and small ruins. It was as though a succession of cultures had settled, built, and collapsed in the area, leaving behind an unrealistic quantity of ruins of various character and size. Apart from the stones, natural and put there by human hands, the landscape was generally green, though it had the sort of colors you'd expect to see in an old biblical epic.

And of course, I was now part of the story and no longer just watching.

There was no north, south, east, or west that I knew of. To my right, at the bottom of a gently descending slope, was a long line of huge pine trees, the sort you'd see in a CCC forest planting from the Great Depression. As I faced left, the ground both rose and fell at the same time, depending on when I was looking, though it did slope left to right consistently. In the middle distance, in the direction I was originally facing, was a peasant woman of no particular character with some children. Their clothing was mostly rags and cloth hobbled together to form garments, fitting no particular period I could identify.

To my original left, opposite the line of trees, came a few figures here and there, running in our direction. As they came closer, I could see that they weren't really people, but more half-man, half-wolf, half-goblin. Some were lightly armored, most had weapons like swords, spears, and clubs. Some fell on the woman and her children, killing them not like werewolves, but with the weapons, leaving the bodies to continue their charge forward.

As I looked around I saw other people, now aware of the threat, take off running away, with varying degrees of success. The flow of attackers gradually thickened, and I decided that standing around wasn't going to solve any problems, so I made it for the big line of pine trees. I don't know how far I got, but it didn't matter because I joined up with a quickly organizing force fighting in defense.

As the fight continued, the attackers eventually thickened into a full-blown invading army, and the defenders had somehow grown into an organized, disciplined defending army. And I was in charge of the defense.

So there I was, running around, barking out orders, checking the disposition of my forces, and reading some guy the riot act because he couldn't command indirect cannon fire. I finally found someone who could do spherical geometry. I left her to do her job and ran to the front line, which was set along a rise coming up from a river below, elevated maybe thirty- to fifty feet. I was satisfied to see the first volley of cannon fire add to the power of my musketeers holding the line.

That was the beginning of the end. When the enemy broke, I had to dole out some quick, draconian punishment to keep the soldiers on task, lest they get caught by a surprise attack mid-celebration, something that has been the death of many otherwise victorious armies throughout history.

The dream was pretty much over after that, and I woke a bit nonplussed at the depth and extent of texture and realism in the dream.

Winning Ways for Your Mathematical Plays comes in four volumes, and I really want all of them. It's about using math to play ostensibly simple games. For example, it explains the math behind the hare & hounds game, and informs the reader how to apply a winning strategy. (Think you're so clever? Try trapping the hare with the game set to expert.) But they're so darn expensive. Bummer.

Now you know what it is for which I am currently lusting. ^_^

This is my declaration of intent to participate in Season Five of LJ Idol.

I participated last year, but I don't feel like a veteran. What I do feel is obligated to take part, since last year I joined to test my theory that success was the product of the size of one's friend's list, or at least the vast, vast majority of success was due to that. With my tiny friend's list, I made it a lot farther than I would have ever imagined I could; i.e., I was totally wrong.

That said, I'm not going to be involved in any office-politics stuff that may come up — I doubt I'll even be aware of any hassle that may arise, frankly — and I won't be doing much green-room participation either, since I have enough information overload as it is. And since there's always those goofy-assed change-ups in the rules that I cannot even begin to fathom, you'll probably see at least a couple rants from me about that sort of thing.

FWIW, I am not planning on sinking my heart & soul into any sort of Keynesian beauty contest, and I tentatively plan to stick to entries that are surreal, off the wall, out of left field, and perhaps just plain strange. Not always, we'll see.

Anywho, there's my official declaration. Now to cross post it!

Honestly, there is no point in being alive if I cannot live in a place with a living room like this:



::cries::

If you haven't seen the webcomic Bunny, you probably should give it a whirl. It's a daily, one-panel strip that's generally and completely surreal. The one for Sept. 7th isn't the best of 'em, but I thought it was funny: Trust Us.

When I was a kid, my dad was going through an old box of stuff from his navy days and gave me a bayonet just like this one:


That little half-blade bit near the tip is something I've never been able to get sharp. Until last night. (By "sharp" I mean when you rest the blade edge against a fingernail and move it perpendicular to the edge, it bites a little bit. No shaving arm hair or anything crazy like that.) After working the edge with a knife sharpener, I honed it some more with a stone. Then I went to test the blade again, and I sneezed.

I guess.

I think I blocked some of it out, maybe, but whatever happened, I ended up being aware of a quick, unexpected motion and then the feel of the blade cutting into the fleshy part of my right palm near the base of my thumb. It hurt, yeah, but I didn't think it'd be that bad of a cut until I looked down and saw the blood pouring out of gash, pooling in my palm, and then dripping off onto the carpet.

The only times I've seen so much of my own blood are when I was giving blood and the time I smashed my forehead against a steel jungle gym during school recess.

I decided to apply pressure, and that didn't help much, it kept on bleeding. I was in a bathrobe, since I planned on going to bed right after, and taking another look at the cut and the bleeding, I decided to get dressed one handed and drive to the ER for a stitch or two. But after getting my clothes on and contemplating the medical bill that would result, I decided that I had been too impatient with the pressure application. So I doused my hand with hydrogen peroxide to clean the wound, folded up a clean paper towel, and pressed it against the cut by gripping the handle of the offending knife (since it fit's the hand well). Then I put in a Futurama DVD and listened to a few commentary tracks.

That seemed to mostly stop the bleeding, so I put on a bandage and went to bed. I can see that I bled, like, a drop or two into the bandage before the flow dried up. And man, it's sore. I am not looking forward to cleaning the cut and replacing the bandage, but I guess I have to sooner or later. Ugh.

Here are some names that I doubt I'll ever hear:

Frenckt Zwiebeck
Roopie McPurrhl
Frantzen D. Roggenshuntz
Kilper Q. Qualiheizer
Kimberchuts Hozenfutz
Ünnaboonboor J. Fennts
Senator Bobben Francen Puzzlegutz
Kathay K. Stemmentuck

and last but not least

Jept Crannenncup.

This makes me sad, because I feel the world would be a much richer place if only we could say things like "Honey, I'd like you to meet Kimberchuts Hozenfutz," or "Senator Bobben Francen Puzzelgutz, get the hell off my lawn!" or even "Yes, it's 'Crannenncup,' with four 'n's."

Thank you for reading.

...AND HE WAS ONLY THIS TALL!!!