Archives, eh
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# What is the collective noun for sub-humans?
It became fashionable yesterday amongst people who breathe through their nose to suggest that Jerry Falwell will be enjoying the many splendors and comforts of Hell. Personally I think it is awful, inhuman and disgusting to say such a thing – there is no Hell.
Jerry Falwell will merely rot slowly in a obscenely expensive box for all eternity.
I understand though that during the process of tipping some opulently housed refuse into the ground, that the Rev. Fred Phelps will be making an appearance to protest against a man he believed to be a ungodly.
I understand that part of it is because Falwell and Phelps disagreed on the notion of Free Will, which is to say that at least at some stage, Falwell believed that such a thing exists, which in Phelps’ mind makes him subjectively indiscernible from those filthy Satan-worshiping Catholicsi.
Anyway. Imagine that, there is someone out there who finds Falwell to be disgusting for the exact opposite reasons that the rest of Humanityii finds him disgusting. I’d suggest throwing Phelps in the hole as well, except that might end up like putting a Portable Hole inside a Bag of Holding, and create a swirling vortex sucking all of Falwell’s mourners into the Astral Plane with no way back…
I change my mind. Do it!
On the other hand, if Phelps really is a dadaist performance artist as some social conservatives have speculated, a provocateur whose purpose is to mock and bring derision to the likes of Falwell and Pat Robertson, well sir, I salute you. Shine on you crazy crazy fuck.
i Note to new readers – ha ha, it is to laugh – I actually quite like most Catholics. The ones who like the Pope though, not the various Gibsons, Hutton and Mel. Or the Pope actually, but that’s a different story. And it’s not just because I am obliged to because I sleep with one.
ii Just in case that wasn’t unsubtle enough, Falwell’s supporters are not humaniii but some sort of primate not descended far enough from our ape-like ancestors.
iiiAnd yes, I am quite happy to acknowledge my dehumanising of them, although I do implore you not to start rounding them up and killing them – why should the rest of us make ourselves even worse than them. Better to just out breed themiv.
ivI also acknowledge the cognitive dissonance that stems from being fully supportive of non-breeders while calling for a breeding program :- )
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# Resist!
...
On the one hand: bravo, sir! Your brave, original stand of picking on Paris Hilton is welcomed in these quarters. You, sir, are a true American hero, an iconoclast and I fully support your plan to consign her CDs and books to a towering inferno of good tas…wait. Books?
And yet, sir, it is clear to me that you – yes sir, you – are an absolute fucking nutcase of the highest order, incapable of holding even the kinds of thoughts that a family of irrational thoughts might produce after generations of inbreeding. A whole clown car full of Michael Jacksons hopped up on goofballs couldn’t muster enough pure weirdness to rival you, sir. You are so splendid and spectacular in your weirdness that even the pinning of batrachian jewelry to your shoulder while exclaiming “bibble” could not make you more so.
I am troubled then, that I find it in myself to support you and your unpopular and yet clearly strongly held beliefs. Yes sir, I have heard of the second amendment, and yet here we are, faced with concrete evidence that maybe Congress does need to have infringements for some of the people…or one.
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# More Music
SCENE: A casually dressed man pilots a trolley with bent sides, broken handle and one wheel that wobbles when it touches the floor at all. He is walking through the aisles of a modern supermarket, with clean, white floors and brilliantly colourful produce. He strains visibly just to keep the trolley straight; turning corners is all but impossible, requiring a full stop while the trolley is pivoted to face the new direction. Light music plays over the public announcement system: laa laa la laaaaah.
The man consults a list of products that he requires and carefully selects goods from the shelves. He occasionally asks staff members who are restocking the shelves – despite the crowded aisles – if they could move aside so he might select an item from the shelf behind them. Boxes line the floor next to the shelves, effectively narrowing the aisles to a little more than half their normal width, requiring the man to wait many times for a stocky couple to move aside; many times he has to break into their conversation and excuse himself to continue forward.
FADE.
The man waits at checkouts while cashier runs groceries through scanner; the older lady who is operating the scanner is quite deliberate, taking care to carefully pack the scanned goods into the man’s shopping bags. She occasionally takes several items out of a bag to ensure a newly scanned item is packed just so. Man checks watch. Soon the cashier picks up an item that the scanner will not recognise. She scans it once, twice, thrice, four times. Again. Again. Again. The man’s left eyes twitches once. The lady attempts to enter te key code for the item into her register, but it beeps instead. She tries again and again mis-enters the code and the register beeps loudly. Behind her, another register has been left open too long while the young cashier chats to her customer, obviously a friend. The older cashier reaches for her microphone and requests assistance. Enya starts to sing Orinoco Flow on the PA system. The cashier turns to the man to apologise and… A 7 and a half foot tall werewolf, standing bipedally because it is in its hybrid form, lashes out and rips her throat open. She desperately reaches up to stem the blood that spurts, but she is already weakening. She stumbles back against the younger cashier, who shrugs her away impatiently and continues to chat with her friend. The werewolf leaps over the register and rips her abdomen open, feasting on the glistening purple tubes that spill out.
Hans, dressed in black turtleneck, puts a magazine back in the rack, peers at the goods before the register and selects a brightly coloured boxes featuring a cartoonish werewolf on the front with a bowl and spoon in hand.
Hans: Entrails. It is what is for breakfast, ja?
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# The ideal use for That Music
SCENE: Attractive, slim natural blonde women dressed in white suit opens a metal-clad door and enters a white room. She turns on the lights and starts to go about her morning. The camera tracks her as she walks through rooms allowing us to we identify the building as a laboratory. White walls and strong overhead lighting washes out colour leaving the woman’s lipstick as the only contrasting shade. We can hear music, laa laa la laaaaah, playing by a building wide sound system, assesed and chosen by a commitee of clinical psychologists to ensure peaceful serenity and productivity in the workplace. Woman goes into kitchenette and makes coffee. Shot of her, taking her first sip and she visibly reacts, a sense that all is well again now that caffeine is surging through her system.
The woman turns around and a 7 and a half foot tall werewolf, standing bipedally because it is in its hybrid form, lashes out and rips her throat open. Crimson blood splashes across the cupboards. Her mouth opens to scream, but no sound comes out because the initial attack has torn out her windpipe. The werewold makes no sound, but knocks her to the floor and rips her abdomen open. Purple, glistening tubes spill out and the werewolf proceeds to eat them. The camera watches the werewolf feed and then shifts to her face. Zoom in to extreme closeup on her eyes, still very much alive and screaming in silent agony. Music plays as scene fades to black.
Studio. Lights rise to reveal Hans, dressed in black turtleneck and sitting on tall wooden stool. Hans stands moves to a table with several brightly coloured boxes featuring a cartoonish werewolf on the front with a bowl and spoon in hand. Hans takes a drag from his cigarette.
Hans: Entrails. It is what is for breakfast, ja?
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# The opposite of a frontal lobotomy
laa laa la laaah, laa la la laaah
D has a game. One of those fun yet mindless games you download from the interwebs and get an hour of free play before you are forced to scour the earth for a crack. You are prepared to have a brother hiding in a bowl of rice in Indochina to crack this game because the game is the functional equivalent of crack.
Believe me, I know this to be true, an irrefutable fact. I have watched D play this game. Teddy Bear Factory, or something similar – you construct teddy bears at any rate.
You have quests, or numbers of Teddy Bears to construct which might as well be “Kill me 7 Gore Tusks and bring me back their livers”. Which now that I think about it is fucking creepy. All those thirteen year old kids out there forcing Tron to dig through pig guts. And apparantly not all boars have livers – pity the ones that don’t and can’t have a cold one to relax while the server is down for maintenence, and while I am thinking of that, what fucking genius decided to time the scheduled downtime on a server aimed at Australian gamers for Prime Time in Australia – tell me that game isn’t aimed at teenagers, neh.
Anyway, you also level up in this game, except it is real leveling up, like in the old days of AD&D(Advanced Dungeons & Dragons) – yeah, that’s right, when it was Advanced, not Fisher Price, the new versions might as well be called D&D XP – so you don’t have numbers, you have titles. Ahh, memories. It was great leveling up and no longer being a Footpad.
However.
It has music.
Or rather, muzak. It goes #laa laa la laaaah. Incessantly. It is like living in an elevator. Or a shopping centre. I am seeing myself going triple shotgun murder anytime now and humming #laa la la laaaah all the while.
laa la la laa laaaaaah.
