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 While talking to my associates over tacos, I accidentally mixed my metaphors[1] and declared “I feel as unwanted as a Black Step Child”. While funny, the hostile glares it garnered from our fellow dinners suggested it may have been a tad inappropriate. The next day at work, while reading this article, about a 7′3 sex offender, I commented “wow, I bet that guy could molest 3 kids at once”. I was not endorsing the morality of his vile deed, I was merely marvelling over the efficiency with which he could execute them[2]. My boss suggested this was less than appropriate workplace commentary.

  In both cases my intentions were pure, but my judgement was flawed. If only there had been some means of weighing the potential negative impact of a given statement; some standards to measure against. Then I thought “hey… I have supercomputer capable of ranking subjective things in a absolute manner[3], why don’t I lay it down for my childrens”.

 So here ya go: The Beats Entropy: Inappropriate Comment scale.

 Keep in mind these statements are not intentionally malicious, rather they are progressively ill considered.     

  —————————————————————–

 0: “I would enjoy a delicious piece of toast”

 1: “I used to pet my cat until she rang like a telephone”

 2: “I keep wearing holes in all my pants pockets”

 3: ” You smell just like my ex girlfriend”

 4: “I feel like dirty ol’ Christopher Robin when I wear rubber boots”

 5: “Do you think it’s harder to pick cotton or Rice?”

  6: “”When life gives you lemons… cut yourself a little.”

 7: “I’m just saying, given the constant temptation, Donnie Osmond is a better man than I.”

 8: “that baby has huge hands, I bet they’re as strong as a small boys.”

 9: ‘If you turned those swings sideways your kids would get a lot more fresh air.”

 10: “For a women of your accomplishment looking haggard is a badge of honor”

 11: “I’ve licked sexier things off my beard.”

 12: “There is a lot more afterbirth than I thought. Have you been eating cranberries or something?”

 13: “I’m not saying slavery was right…but a savvy businessman uses the resources at hand.”

 14: ” Amber is my least favourite kind of alert”

 15: “Egg salad sandwiches remind me of my gynaecologist”

 16: “I’m not saying you have wide hips…It’s just that my hands are small enough there would be no tearing”

 17: “if your tits were a little bouncier you’d look just like my mother”

 18: “”Little boy or not, you’re only a hero if you survive the cancer!”

 19: “This U.S. economy has been hit harder than a World Trade center sidewalk”

 20: “Mmmmmm…Mmmmm, delicious: if this sandwich were a woman I’d drag it behind a dumpster and rape it.”

 *****************

[1] Redheaded stepchild and Black sheep of the family.

 [2] The choices, not the children. As I understand it they all survived.

[3] The Aribitron 3500

A friend and fellow geek passed this along to me and I had to share it with the rest of you, it begins a bit slow, but rest assured it is well worth the watch.

What follows is a brilliant short, dramatizing the adventures of small group playing Dungeons and Dragons, reunited after some time…

I would like to dedicate this mildly offensive, crass, and particularly base video post to the memory of George Carlin - who fucking rocked.

 Not before the eyes of an unknowable god; we have an understanding.  Rather, Ottawa Hydro shut off my electricity. There were vauge claims made towards unpaid bills, hurtful words were exchanged, night descended. The nonpayment was the result of my limited conception of time, and lacking a key to my mailbox, as opposed to some financial insolvency.

  My usual reminder to pay the bill comes in form of red pamphlet, hammered into my door with a railroad spike, to the effect of: “Pay yo’ bill cracka…we will cut you”. I then pay my bill. On this particular occasion they cut straight to the end game and stoneaged me without warning…a direct violation of our unspoken covenant. In protest I ate cereal, alone, in the dark…then lay down on what I hope was my bed.

  Initially I was set on defiance. Man lived without power for thousands of years, I could brave it the two weeks I had left before the move. Then I saw my grossly obese cat, sweat sheathed and ungainly, pedaling the tiny bicycle she had hooked up to her heart and lung machine. I relented and paid my bill. This proved insufficient.

 It turns out mere monetary compensation wasn’t enough…I needed to be humbled before the punitive might of hydro. Not only did I need to pay my bill, plus a reconnection fee, plus a 200$ unreliable jackass surtax…I also needed to wait in my apartment until a technician came, my bank receipt in my hand like a paupers writ.

  Their technicians, it was explained to me, are a nomadic lot than can’t possibly estimate when they might be in my part of town. I was given (without exaggeration) a four day window of time that I was to remain in my apartment… bereft of unspoiled food, power, and the basic decency accorded timely bill payers. Eventually a friendly, if recently incarcerated, gentleman arrived. Lacking the necessary keys he jimmed his way into my apartment power room with a butter knife, pulled a switch, and laughed about how our shoddy wiring ensured a fire any day now.

  I can’t help but feel partly responsible for how things went down.    

I know been gone baby, but I’ve been in your hearts (and in some cases homes) all the while. I Ain’t got time for excuses, and I’m running low on ink, so let’s get down to business.

************ 

  Where the hell have you been? What are you doing? Why haven’t you posted? Do you not feel some responsibility to your readers?

 About a half dozen people

The Internets

 In Order: Round about’s, not a whole lot, creative back pressure, a little.

 ***********

 I am an aspiring writer. How do you keep your edge?

Justin Martin

 You break off little pieces down the line until the sides are almost touching.

 *********

Are you a fun drunk?

SAS

Ottawa, Ontario

Matter of perspective, I suppose. I’m certainly an animated one. If you can catch me in that sweet spot, where I’m mostly coherent and largely uninhibited, it can be a bit of a trip. There is a rhetorical sociopathy that kicks in after eights gins; this erosion of courtesy that broadcasts some of the baser commentary my manners usually filter out. Picture a wry, prickish, jackass with a knack for effective phrasing. Also: I climb things and tend to remove my clothing. Good times all around.

  ********

You must be pretty hyped now that Hillary is out of the race for president.

 Doug Gottlieb,

Winston, SC

 You know, I really thought I would be, but it hasn’t played out that way. Partly it’s due to Obama being too cagey to really grind the victory in. I would have given riches upon riches to hear him deliver a petty, spiteful, oratorical beatdown after the fact.

  Something along the lines of :

  ” I ‘d like to thank my esteemed opponent for being such a shrieking, unlikeable, womb withered harpy, that her closest  supporters turned on her like she was loose change at a bus stop. Were she a man I’d slap the sharpei smugness from her grinning, dead eyed, face. I hope all the illiterate crackers, and embittered housewives, that voted for her rot a little inside each day for the next eight years of my presidency.”

  Then he’d throw down the mic and walk off the stage to raucous applause. Had that occurred I would be much more satisfied. Even then, though, it would still be somewhat of a stillwater triumph.

 It turns out I actually enjoy cheering against someone, far more than I enjoy cheering for someone. Hillary was a near ideal villain, and I had been teasing out the thrill of her eventually defeat for months. Now, after a brief spurting moment of triumph, I’m left without an adversary. I could just go back to hating cab drivers, but it lacks the necessary stakes to really rev my engine. Oh well, it was good run while it lasted.     

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CONTINUED FROM PART 1

There were three killers in my freshman class: two soldiers, and a hobbyist. The hobbyist hung himself in jail; the soldiers died in non consecutive incidents of friendly fire. I can’t help but think the hobbyist had the more successful life; if nothing else he had control and purpose. The soldiers just were until they weren’t. This makes me feel unpatriotic. As does my lack of patriotism. There should be a word for wanting to have pride in something: maybe wan…tide. Wantide: that works, like a tide too weak to reach the shore. I’ve been walking for hours, why can’t I find my house?

When you can’t feel your feet you have to listen for when to take the next step. I learned the proper slap…step…march through trial and error. Initially it was more of a crash…fuck…stand. But I adapted.

Four hundred steps, and fewer crashes, carried me forward. My knees were worn through. It occurred to me nothing was familiar. Had I belonged I would have been lost. As it stood, I was not where I wanted to be. A cab slowed to a stop beside me. I don’t think I hailed it; I was glad to get in. It made things seem real. He said “where to”: I handed him my wallet and asked he take me home. He seemed sad.

My bleeding knees were an embarrassment. The tan slacks now matched the burgundy pull over: I was unsettled by the salesgirls prescience. For all their callous disposal of my corpse, you had to respect their commitment to fashion. I pushed away that line of thought, I hadn’t the bearing for those airs. Small talk bubbled up, then fractured into a pounding, bus stop-guy, poetry. I pulled it back; filled the silence by humming along to news talk radio. There was a war on and it had a beat you could dance to.

The cabbie stopped the car and tossed me my wallet. I fumbled my way to the ground, crawling. Wheel flung rocks sprayed my cheek: mean pitted little things, that had clearly yearned to take flight. This must have been my house; the numbers swam, but the door looked familiar. I sat on the porch and waited. For something.

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I don’t know if it was the smoking, or the nagging, that finally killed me. I’d like to think it was the smoking: there had been a slow burn suicide pact between us, and it’d be nice to have held up my end of the bargain. Either way my body quit, ran down like a rotted clock in the rain, leaving me little in the way of prospects.

  The first difficulty, in situations such as mine, is what to do with the body. A corpse, unlike a person, always belongs to someone; it cannot be ignored. Discovery alone suffices investment, and creates a negative ownership pressure that must be addressed. With this in mind I awaited some resolution.  

 I should mention I died at the mall. I was hoping to buy shoes. I don’t know that this is a specifically shameful admission, but it’s an underwhelming one. I’d always hoped for a more spectacular demise: cut down by a hail of gunfire, blood and curses spewing from defiant lips, my body borne to the ground by acres of hot lead. Instead I passed on a bench across from an Orange Julius stand, internally debating whether paying for a juice with a 20$ was worth the extra change it would incur. From a physical standpoint it was painless.

 The better part of my view was a The Gap. Three full windows of immaculately dressed ivory figures faced me. There was a smugness to their implausibly slim hips and vacant eyes, an assurance that allowed them to be exploitive despite their display: like a grad student stripping her way through a sociology degree. They were intolerable. I became acutely aware of the hole in my shoe, and how that might reflect upon me. Had I told anyone, specifically, that I was going to buy shoes…would they come to my defence? Fucking mannequins.

   Eventually the manger found me. He was so alike the mannequins, in dress and manner, he seemed some flush and ambulatory evolutionary offshoot, hidden in the world of men. I was having trouble making sense of things.  

 The manager took my pulse, blanched, then returned to the store to consult with his sales team. Their voice were muted, like bees in a bathtub, but I could tell they’d reached a consensus.

 Rough hands overtook me. A young women wept and dressed me in tan slacks and a burgundy pull over. I can only assume she was in shock. They ditched my body in a Sears dumpster, taking special care to remove the magnetic tags from my garments. I was grateful I wouldn’t go to my grave a thief. 

  I spent a night in the cardboard leavings of a dying commercial enterprise. I wondered at the quality of corpses in a Walmart dumpster: were they larger and better arranged? Or recycled into greeter positions? Either way I feared I would suffer by comparison. Spurred by the creeping banality of my plight I spilled out the side of the dumpster, and moved towards my home. A curious omission pulled backwards at my thoughts.

CONTINUED IN PART 2

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BLIND PARENTS DEMAND BLIND CHILDREN

Note the Video above. A congenitally deaf couple has decided that they want to produce a child through invitrofertilization. They are planning on sorting through all of the potential embryos, and selecting the one which will be guaranteed to produce a deaf person…like them, and their other daughter. Allow me to restate that for clarity: they are using genetic screening to insure a pre crippled child that properly matches their special little family.

They, of course, bristle at the notion that deafness is detrimental in anyway, and see a law being passed to prevent deliberate selection of defective embryos, as discrimination against the deaf. They assert that, were they to not choose a little deaf baby, it would be tantamount to admitting they are handicapped in someway…as opposed to belonging to the exclusive, and oh so trendy, deaf subculture.

I will go a long way to prove a point…and I can respect trying to make the best of a rough deal…but eventually you move past a maintaining a brave front, and into delusional bravado. I’m going to make a controversial statement here: given the choice, it is better to not be Deaf or Blind, than it is being deaf or blind. The Garfield’s would disagree with me on that…but the Garfield’s, are fucking retarded. Perhaps[1] not retarded in the classic developmental sense, but possessing a lack of perspective so glaring it vastly overshadows their auditory deficiencies.

They argue that their handicap is just a mild perceptual hurdle; something more akin to a language difference, than a congenital defect: when they are scrapping their kid’s big wheel off a bus grill, because the little tyke didn’t hear the horn blaring, they can comfort themselves with the semantic victory they’ve achieved. Hey, I don’t want to think of myself as a murderer…but that won’t bring all those drifters back to life; you are what you are, regardless of how that reality makes you feel.

I am sure there is some deaf, blind, insensate goon, hanging in a sack on his parents den wall, that would happily assert [2] there is nothing wrong with his lot in life…since he doesn’t know any better…as he lives in a sack on a wall, and lacks perspective.

Likewise: If you’ve been deaf since birth, you aren’t really qualified to judge the relative merits of the world o’ sound… so maybe ask a hearing friend if there are any hidden benefits: like Music, fire alarms, and talking in the dark, before you damn your children to eternal silence.

Just because you can’t hear, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen. [3]

But perhaps I’m being too autocratic in my judgements. Perhaps each of us is entitled to inflict whatever crippling infirmity we want on our unborn childen. For that that matter: Why stop at merely selecting a defective embryo? If, by chance, the Garfield’s child acquires the curse of hearing, they should be allowed to deafen it with hat pins and scarlet fever…maybe ugly[4] up it’s faces with bricks a little so it matches it’s jug eared C.H.U.D ugly parents. Additionally: the children of paraplegics should have their limbs bound until they are useless; the children of the blind lasered into darkness at first blink; and the (adopted) children of the French, chemically instilled with a deep, and shameful, cowardice.

After all, isn’t the mark of a truly devoted parent the desire for our children to suffer the same misery and disadvantage as the generation before… so as to keep them humble and bound to us?

********

I can’t help but picture the C.H.U.Dleys staring up at this big McDonalds style menu in the geneticist office.

Dr. Swank: What can I get for you sir?

Mr Chuddley (signing): We’d like to add another broodling to our happy family. Nothing fancy though.

Dr. Swank: Of course. The basic model comes with ten fingers, five senses, and a three year limited warrantee.

Mr Chuddley: Oooooooohhhh…five senses…seems a little flashy, don’t you think?

Dr. Swank: No, not really. To be honest that is the absolute bare minimum we can offer by law.

Mr Chuddley: Yeaaah….thing is, my wife and I are deaf, so it’s probably in the Childs best interest that it’s deaf as well…for symmetries sake.

Dr. Swank: Are you sure…we offer hearing at no extra cost…actually we’d have to charge extra to make sure the child is deaf.

Mr Chuddley: I don’t mind paying top dollar for quality.

Dr. Swank: That’s deplorable. Are there any other crippling physical deficiencies you’d like us add? Maybe have the hands fuses together in club like structures.

Mr Chuddley: Tempting…but again…symmetry.

Also: my wife and I are incredibly selfish and spiteful…Is there anyway that you can work that in there too?

Dr. Swank: I’m sure that will work its self out in the natural course of things.

***************

[1] Lets apply the exhaustive Three point Beats Entropy Retardation Matrix:

a- Dressing in matching jeans and black sweaters, when there is already a disturbingly strong brother/sister resemblance

b- Unable to identify a Starling by call alone

c- Sees no downside in child lacking a major sense

It’s not looking good for the Chuddleys.

[2] Were he able to communicate in any way.

[3] And this isn’t some covert pro-life agenda: If thought it would give me powers I’d spend my lunch hours snatching newborns from unwed mothers…that I might harvest their delicious stem cells.

[4] If fairness, their ugliness likely has more to do with them being British, than is does them being deaf, or bad parents.

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Caveats and disclaimers: As a gamer and geek, the following are not meant to unduly target or chastise the noble followers of this digital pastime; but rather present some important guidelines based on minimum standards of social viability and dignity.

8 - Celibacy. Video games should never come before sex. The only two exceptions to this rule are a) if you require more than twice the standard dose of any medication to function sexually, or b) if you have had sex more than four times in the last two hours - in which case your partner is just being greedy and should learn to share. (1)

7 - Food. While it is acceptable to consume a meal while playing video games, one should not compromise the taste, texture, or nutritional content of a meal so as to facilitate gaming. Therefore, occasionally choosing to eat pizza while gaming is ok; choosing not to heat it up even though you hate cold pizza so as to avoid mess, not so much. Similarly, blending your pot-roast, broccoli and potatoes into an easy to consume slushy is also across the line.

6 - Epilepsy. In the event that the excessive staring at fast moving, brightly flashing, images causes momentary or permanent seizures or other symptoms of epilepsy, it is essential that you lie and pretend you experienced similar symptoms in another context. Never, under any circumstances, admit that the 14 hours straight of Sonic the Hedgehog preceded your first epileptic episode.

5 - Epiphanies. It is, without exception, not ok to have a moment of enlightenment while gaming. To experience a moment of atma or the divine while solving jumping puzzles, killing ninjas, stealing cars, racing karts, shooting zombies (yes even when killing zombies), or questing to save any manor of ‘princess’ is absolutely unacceptable. In the event that this does occur, it likely signals not a moment of true light and wisdom, but instead a tiny glimpse of the anemic state of the rest of your existence, or alternatively that you work a high tech or cubicle job.

4 - Ending Contracts. Be it a social contract such as a relationship, common law status or marriage, or an economic contract such as employment; one should never let a contract be ended while gaming. This, however, must be distinguished against ending such a contract. Thus, it is not ok to have a significant other walk out on you while gaming, it is in contradistinction, perfectly legitimate to end a relationship while gaming – especially if the ending does not affect game performance and adds an element of petty satisfaction to the endeavor.

3 - Dying. It is never acceptable to die playing video games. Be it in a natural disaster or at the end of a 76 hour caffeine pill fueled escape from an otherwise meaningless life, no dignity can be maintained if one is snuffed out while gaming.(2)

2 - Crapping your pants. There are few things more humiliating than dying while playing video games, crapping your pants is however one of them. If given the choice being soiling yourself while playing a game or having your intestines explode and fill your insides with toxic organic waste – always choose the latter.

1 - Weeping. It is absolutely and without question not ok to weep or sob while enjoying digital entertainment. Barring tears of joy, which do not technically qualify under the term ‘weeping,’ there is only one exception to this rule: the consecutive breaching of more than three of the above mentioned rules. So, for example, while weeping would not be acceptable after being fired and having a mild epileptic seizure; sobbing would be appropriate if one’s significant other had just broken it off after one had refused to have sex prior to ‘beating the level’ only to have the liver and spinach shake come back like a colonospy gone awry.(3)

Footnotes

(1) This of course does not in any way relate to either copulating or masturbating while gaming, though proper etiquette does prohibit masturbation while conversing via a headset or online chat system.

(2) While not a full on exception, a death related to anything noted in footnote (1) does constitute a mitigating factor.

(3) In some exceptional circumstances fewer than three ‘rule breaches’ may combine to justify weeping – such as having a spouse or partner die moments after a great epiphany about spiritual wellbeing during a mutual 30 hour gaming binge, or loosing your job as a after accidentally letting slip the fact that you had a small seizure while doinking your boss’ Sims character.

“I fear for my moral well being. Could you please rate the fruits and vegetables in terms of their inherent decency

 Lucas Darden”

  You set difficult task, Lucas. I’m not really a proponent of objective morality to begin with, and my dietary choices offers limited opportunity for vegetable dalliance, but a question is a question….so I’ll give it a shot.

   (Ranked in descending order from Most to Least Decent. The Majority fruits and vegetables are fairly neutral, so I will  emphasis the less reliable of their ilk.)

Vegetables/Fruits/Tubers ranked in order of their moral forthrightness

********

Potato

1. I would rank toast here, but several exchanges with agriculture Canada made it clear that it is neither fruit, nor vegetable[1]. I must, therefore, surrender up Toast’s usual place of primacy to it’s starchy brethren: Potato.

  The dowdy, if loyal, housewife of the vegetable world, Potato’s are blameless in deed and thought[2]. Though we mash and French them into in myriad forms, there dignity is immutable.

Decency: 10    Licentiousness: 0

 ——————–

2.Raisins.

Ascetic grapes that have chosen to walk the purifying path of the sun; they surrender up their sinful juices that my oatmeal might be delicious, and righteous. Wizened and wise, their chewy husk a martyrs bounty, natures candy deserves our respect.

 Decency: 9  Licentiousness: 3

 ————————————

3. Lemons

Harder to love than most, Lemons[3] are tasty on their own terms. Initially cultivated as punishment for unruly Roman slaves, lemons whispered secret words of justice and comfort…salving their wounds, and puckering their mouths. Eventually the Roman empire collapsed; Lemons persevered.

  Yes, Lemons are tad bitter and sour…but who the hell are you to judge? Have you lived their life? Did you and all you fine social graces stop by to bring me groceries when I broke my leg? No…cause Lemons did. That’s right, judge them now….you pimps….you whores!

Decency 9 Licentiousness 0 Bitterness 4

 ————————————————-

4. Celery

 A dietary non entity, celery is composed of: water, string, and a few splashes of chlorophyll. It aspires to nothing, and achieves it. It cannot be reviled, anymore than it can be trusted.

  I wrote a poem to better encapsulate my distrust of their vegapurgatory  :

Would you watch me die, Celery… unmoved by my passing.

Drinking up my blood, with your capillary action.  

Decency: 0   Licentiousness: 0

 —————————————-

5.Figs

 False Raisins made from shrunken flower plums, Figs are liars and defamers; their huge size necessary to hold the weight of their betrayal. Lacking in prunes somber dignity, Figs promise sweetness they cannot deliver, and provide comfort to terrorists’ worldwide. Were it not for there joyous Newton incarnation, they would much lower on this list.    

Decency: -3   Licentiousness: 5

  ————————————————

6.Kiwifruit

Moderately delicious, if loathsomely hairy, the Kiwifruit is undermined by it’s own low self esteem: any fruit that feels the need to have “fruit” as part of it’s name…to remove any doubt to it’s  fruitness, is either a) trying way too hard, or, b) has something to hide. If my parents named me AJclearlyahumanboy you would almost have to assume I was a robot, or time traveling alien bent on subversion of the human race. Wouldn’t you? Fruit of character stands on it’s own merits, without the need for redundant nomenclature.

Also: they look a little too much like the Eye of Sauron when cut open. Makes you wonder.

 Compare and Contrast

  Decency: -5   Licentiousness 3  

 —————————————————-

 7.Apples.

Wholesome. Dentally efficacious…and by many accounts: in league with the Devil. Sorry apples…we don’t truck with Satanist around here.

Decency: 8   Licentiousness: 5  Consorting with  primeval Chthonic forces: 9  

 ———————————————- 

8.Parsnips

 In olden days Parsnips cavorted in the near ground with their Carrot brethren, brighter hued…but dark of spirit. Eventually Parsnips wicked perversion ignited a war between them, and the more noble root vegetables, forcing them deep into the Kobold caves. Deprived of the near sun, Parsnips were bleached by darkness and bitter woe, until they took on the awful pallid hue they posses to this day.

  Bloodless as an old mans caress, Parsnips are the reaching pedophile of the plant kingdom. Avoid them at all costs.

  Decency: -10   Licentiousness 7

 ——————————————– 

9. Bananas

Oh dear, sweet, dirty bananas. As delicious as you are licentious. Nutrifying as you are scandalizing. Undermining the self esteem of many a man, with your yellow phallic majesty.

  When I was eight my grandmother sat and watched me eat a bushel, her unblinking eyes fixed upon me. A decade later I still couldn’t meet her gaze…the unspoken shame lingering…lingering between us. She’s dead now…though I do not blame Bananas for it, I wonder if the extra potassium was really worth those long years of uneasy silence.

 Decency: 3   Licentiousness 10  Capacity to produce hilarious accidents and childhood  trauma: 7      

 *****

 Obviously many are left out…but I can’t live Lucas’s whole life for him. Man up, Luke….grab something ripe, and take a bite…hell be dammed.

 ******

[1] It also made clear a wide spread, thinly veiled, hostility woven into Agriculture Canada’s customer service policy.

 [2] Only the Russian found a way to corrupt their nature…but commies ruin everything. Potatoes are no more to blame for Vodka, than they are the deaths of a half million gypsies crushed beneath Stalin’s bootheel. If you must blame a third party, blame Frances over punitive war reparations for empowering the Russians…not innocent potatoes.   

 [3] Limes are lemons flashy cousin that hangs with fast crowd, but never quite fits in. Flavouring Gin and taquitos…all the while trying to forget its caustic Citrus roots. Pick a side Lime… we know who you really are.

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