The Power of Computer Science

I generated this text RANDOMLY using a 7th order Markov model using "Parodissimo: An Extremely Long Night" as my starter template. The order determines how closely it fits to the original text. For example order 1 has difficulty making words, whereas 10 pretty much returns the original text. If you want to know more about how it works, you can ask me.

If you want to send me some text, I can generate new random text.

IT BEGINS HERE... (completely unedited)

smokier, which sent me spinning, was a place had dwindled down a little drunk, and it was the Sex in the tub, and, let me tell you, that's when it happened the sneaking suspicion that the smoke at all. The temperature started to drop fast, so that things started running for the bar tender, who was standing petrified, with the light.

Anyhow, I was touching your eyes.

For a moment it was surrounding us. Also, the TVs were giving each other as if we were all wheeled around in surprise--some of the static-y, both at once. The static-y, both at once. The sound of there--and not on account of it being night time. And it was also definitely getting darker since I've been a while since I've been a while since I've been able to describe, but I had developed a little drunk, and it was too much adrenaline petered out--I swear I've never been sleeping in slowly. And then all hell broke loose. I started to drop fast, so that things starting to play it. The bar was spelled "Sasasas" but pronounced with the wall in a wisp of smoke I had the sneaking suspicion that things started to drop fast, so the bar was pretty hilarious that we had caught our breath, we just stood there, bent over, huffing and stumbled backwards through the water running, was a place had been getting smokier, which could write about in my life. We just started shouting and stumbled backwards into me from behind and then the TVs went to the few hardcore fans: me, two other this weird look. They were giving each other this weird look. They were giving off this eerie glow that we had gotten so scared in my blog. But it was pretty hilarious that was getting scattered through the mist, so the bar was spelled "Sasasas" but pronounced with the water running for the bathroom door. What I saw the ghost using my back in the tub, and, let me tell you, that's when it happened! We were surprised to be cousins who had ditched on their family reunion. It might have just started to feel weird. The audience had been getting scatt

The Sexiest Man on Earth

An Homage to Adam Rubin

A/S/L
Age: 22
Sex: Male
Location: Princeton, NJ

Corporeal Dimensions
Height: 5'6.5"
Width: 1'2"
Depth: 8km
Mass: 9.3 stone
Muscle tone: Beach Bod
Physique: Strapping Lad

Pigmentation
Skin: Mayonaise
Hair: Ribbed Chenille Blonde
Eyes: Lapis Lazuli
Areola: Soft Doe Brown
Perineum: Aqua Velva
Pubis: Mahogany

Personality
Zodiac: Scorpio
Birthstone: Topaz
Major Traits: Charming, Debonair, Compassionate, and Uppity
Minor Traits: Cuddly, Emotilogical, Loyal, Teamwork
Defining Moment Since Birth: The first time he made love to his wife in Harvest Moon.
Pet Peeves: SUVs, Final Fantasy, and manginess.

Hobbies
1. Running
2. Gym
3. Watching Sports
4. Roller Hockey
5. Basketball
6. Trainspotting

Faves
Favorite Food: Parmesan Crusted Tenderloin
Favorite Color: Asian Orange Blue
Favorite Film: The Shawshank Redemption
Favorite Board Game: Dirty Minds
Favorite Animal: Chipmunk
Favorite Super Smash Brothers Level: Kirby's Dream Land
Favorite Bedtime Story: Spider-man

161 Days of Word of the Day

Friends of the Day?

vacuous: showing no intelligence or thought (BS)
unconscionable: not influenced or guided by conscience (J)
sallow: having a sickly, yellowish color (NL)
rancor: extreme hatred or spite (J)
qualitative: concerned with quality or qualities (SC)
pandiculation: an instinctive stretching, as on awakening or yawning (AJR)
obscure: hard to understand (JC)
narcolepsy: a disorder characterize by uncontrollable bouts of sleepiness during the daytime (AJR)
iconoclast: a person who attacks cherished beliefs or institutions as foolish or wrong (J)
hapless: unfortunate (J)
fastidious: extremely refined or critical (SC)
eclectic: selecting and using what seems best from various sources or systems (AG)
beleaguer: to surround with troops (We beleaguered J's house.)
yegg: a burglar who robs safes (if you relax your definition of 'safe', NL)
oblique: not straightforward (JC)
laggard: a person or thing that moves too slowly or falls behind (NL)
jaded: worn out (AJR)
dastard: a mean coward
caitiff: a mean, cowardly person
emollient: something that softens or soothes (AJR)
amatory: expressing love, especially sexual (AJR)
frowzy: dirty and untidy
horripilation: the act or process of the hair bristling on the skin, as from cold or fear
epicure: a person who is very particular in partaking in fine foods and beverages (SC)
otiose: lazy (BS)
aficionado: an enthusiastic admirer (AJR)
circumlocution: the use of many words to express an idea that might be expressed by few (AG)
implacable: not to be appeased (J)
rubicund: inclining to redness (J)
slugabed: one who stays in bed until a late hour (AG)
verbiage: an abundance of words (AG)
panache: dash or flamboyance in manner or style (AJR)
melee: a fight or hand-to-hand struggle in which the combatants are mingled in one confused mass (BS, AJR, J, AG, JC, SC, NL)
undulate: to move in, or have, waves (AJR)
tintinnabulation: a tinkling sound, as of a bell or bells (AJR)
torrid: characterized by intense emotion (J)
plaintive: expressive of sorrow or melancholy (J)

Vote for your favorites.

Two hours later...

We find out that Logitech X-530 speakers suck, because they're only compatible with a PC. What the hell? What is the point of surround sound just for a computer? Anyone?

Urban Dumpster

I recently found this toilet stall graffiti very inspiring. It said to me, "Alex, you should put forth effort in all activities, even those that are classically relaxing and require only the participation of your parasympathetic nervous system." Which thought lead me to another realization: what more honest canvas than the off-white plastic of a wayward bathroom stall, visited but once and soon forgotten? Perhaps beyond the existential declarations, indecipherable gang signs, and generously communicated phone numbers, we can peer into the deepest, best-guarded chambers of the mortal mind, wherein dwell the wretched splatterings of our soul, not bright and graceful as we'd hoped and imagined but a pulsating, irregular heap, shapeless and drooling.

Have you ever seen a human heart?


It's disgusting.

Parodissimo: An Extremely Long Night

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God vs. Logic

Tonight, after four CS103 (Logic) lectures, I tried to disprove the existence of God. My strategy was to use one of the many paradoxical facets (e.g. Free Will) of Christian theology to show that the contradictions precluded the existence of a supreme being. It's probably already been pointed out to you that if God is omnipotent He could create something He was incapable of destroying or lifting, which would make him im(omni)potent. One way to argue this paradox is by applying a time dimension, i.e. God can create something He cannot destroy, but as soon as He creates it, He is capable of destroying it. Or some quasi-state in which God is both capable and incapable of destroying it. But that's not very logical. Plus, the whole point of bringing up these conundrums is to watch the religious people squirm. So I thought, why not throw insult to injury? Maybe if I could couch this inconsistency in a formal logical proof, replete with valid inferential justifications and esoteric logic laws (e.g. Modus Ponens), I could further fluster the novice theologians of the world.
I make no claims as to the novelty of this enterprise (I'm sure there's a complete logical dis-proof of God out there somewhere, but I will refrain from searching for it for the time being, to ensure my work is 100% original. So, without further ado, I present my first attempt to ascend the Tower of Babel:

I begin with five premises, which I hope are incontrovertible.
Note:
P(x) → Q(x): If P, then Q.
∀x P(x): P(x) for every x
∃x P(x): There exists an x such that P(x)
¬ P(x): Not P(x)


1. If God exists, He is omnipotent.
Formally: If x is God then x is omnipotent.
G(x) → O(x)

2. Only God is omnipotent.
If and only if x is God is x omnipotent.
G(x) ↔ O(x)

3. An omnipotent being can create anything.
If x is omnipotent, then for anything y, x can make y.
O(x) → ∀y C(x,y)

4. An omnipotent being can destroy anything.
If x is omnipotent, then for anything y, x can destroy y.
O(x) → ∀y D(x,y)

5. An indestructible object cannot be destroyed.
An object x that is indestructible cannot be destroyed by anything y.
I(x) → ∀y ¬D(y,x)

Now, from these five premises, I infer the rest...

6. If an indestructible object exists, then nothing can destroy it.
If there is an indestructible object x, then there is an object x which no thing y can destroy.
∃x I(x) → ∃x∀y ¬D(y,x) [Existential Generalization, 5]

7. If an indestructible object exists, then there is an object that all things cannot destroy.
If there is an indestructible object x, then for any entity, there is an object it cannot destroy.
∃x∀y ¬D(y,x) → ∀x∃y ¬D(x,y) [Magic x for all y, 6]

8. If there is an object that all things cannot destroy, then no thing can destroy all objects.
∀x∃y ¬D(x,y) ≡ ¬∃x∀y D(x,y) [De Morgan's Law for Quantifiers, 7]

9. If an indestructible object exists, then there is no thing that can destroy all objects.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x∀y D(x,y) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 6,7,8]

10. If an omnipotent being exists, then a thing that can destroy anything exists.
∃x O(x) → ∃x∀y D(x,y) [Existential Generalism, 4]

11. If there is no thing that can destroy all objects, then an omnipotent being does not exist.
¬∃x∀y D(x,y) → ¬∃x O(x) [Modus tollens, 9, 10]

12. If an indestructible object exists, then an omnipotent being does not exist.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x O(x) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 9, 11]

13. If an omnipotent being does not exist, God does not exist.
¬∃x O(x) → ¬∃x G(x) [Modus tollens, Existential Generalism, 1, 12]

14. If an indestructible object exists, God does not exist.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x G(x) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 12, 13]


At this point, I could continue to show that God can create an indestructible object. But then I'm stuck, because nothing stipulates that the indestructible object actually exists. And I can't include its existence as a premise, because most likely it doesn't exist.Hence, I need to find a way either to show that (a) if an indestructible object does not exist, God does not exist, or (b) convince God to make an indestructible object. Because, as I have it now (and this is the funny part), until God actually makes the indestructible object, I cannot disprove his existence!

So that's it. God can make an object he cannot destroy. He just doesn't want to. Paradox solved.

Parodissimo: First Day of Classes

Today classes initiated. I am currently enrolled in four of them: Advanced German for Future Astronauts, Conversational German for Use with the Housewife, The German Economy in the Age In Which and During Which France Still Sucks, and Shifting Alliances: Orca and Esquimaux Relations. None of my classes met today, except for three of them: Advanced German, Conversational German, and Economics, German. There are three German language classes offered here, Novice, Apprenticissimal, and Advanced, and Advanced is the one I am in, so they found out and canceled it on Fridays. They also found out about my other classes and canceled them on Fridays too, so I lucked out and have Fridays off. We didn't do much in my two German classes today, which were front to front, because the teacher of Apprenticissimal German pretended she was sick today so she could stay home and eat Wiener Schnitzel. Caused by this was the joining of the Apprenticissimal and Advanced classes and our teacher, who just teached what he taught for the time slot of our class. There are only 9 people who are taking either Advanced or Intermediate German so we were punished for being an odd number by the headmaster's cane, which is made of hickory bark and smells of frankincense. After a 3 hour brake (we were driving very fast), my German Economy class met and laid siege to Alsaic-Lorraine in casual model war game called "Auf Engelflügel wird der Führer sein ruhmvolles Rückfahrt machen," which roughly translates to "Upon the wings of angels shall the Fuhrer make his glorious return." Herr Professor iz very, very kuhl.
During the break zwischen mein Klasses, Ich went to the Berlin model train station and bought a large locomotive for to ferry me zu and from the city of Bone. They say it should hold my weight for a roundtrip. Ich leave tomorrow um 3pm and get inside Bone around 20:00(PM), and come back outside to Berlin in the day of sun and fun at the same times as afore. In Bone shall I spend time mit Herr Schmidt, Johann Jakob Jingleheimer und his brother and sexy sister, who came home for their mommy's 50th birthday. I'm not really sure what we'll be doing the whole time, but I do know what I'll be doing most of the time. ;) hehe... I'm pretty excited and hopefully I'll have some close encounters to tell you about later. I'll also have 10 hours to spend in the train, so I'll be able to configure all the starting battle positions for my fleet of Panzer tanks, which is already due on Monday and hopefully review my grammar.
Tonight a bunch of the dudes in the Program are going to a bar in East Berlin (the communist side), which shows American TV to watch Friends, which starts at 2am our time. The trains only run until 4pm your time, so I guess we'll have to get here about now and just pregame. Should be fun, although I think I've seen this episode.
One last thing, for those with facebook, everyone else just stop reading. I have created an Album entitled Berlin, in which I will be putting up drawings from the trip. So far I have only put up drawings of my room and a few of the The Villain. Yesterday, some people were having trouble finding the Album entitled Berlin, maybe because they are the same people who have trouble dressing themselves, but one person has figured it out so far. If you clique on my pictures, and then click on the left side of one of the thumbnails to view the large picture, then click on the link to go back to my pictures, you should see it in the sixth quadrant of the screen: a sign that says click here to win a free Nintendo Wii. If you don't see it, just go back and forth and eventually it will come. Then just follow the onscreen directions and I will mail you your Wii. You can also fill out an additional survey and choose your favorite game.
For those of you without facebook, start reading again. I can post pictures on this site, but for some reason I haven't figured out that I can do that yet, despite ample opportunities. I think it requires a tertiary level of comprehension, like reading in between the spaces between the lines. I'll find out more and get back to you.

Piss out,

SKooBY

All You've Ever Wanted to Know About Syphilis

A more daunting task than I first imagined, my research of syphilis needs time before I am ready for a complete summary. For now, just settle for some fun facts:

• The French take credit for syphilis, The "French disease."
• You cannot get syphilis from a toilet seat.
• Syphilis can help you lose weight.
• Star Wars fans are avid proponents of syphilis testing. Maybe because Emperor Palpatine, apprentice of Darth Plageuis the Wise (plague), had syphilis all over his face? I mean, is it really a coincidence that Darth Sidious sounds just like Darth Syphilis?
  

All You've Ever Wanted to Know About Leprosy

Have you ever wondered why lepers are quarantined in colonies and yet doctors and visitors are completely unafraid of catching leprosy from them and do not, in fact, become infected?

As it turns out, leprosy isn't all that contagious, because (1) 95% of people are immune and (2) infectiousness is easily suppressed by treatment. Leper colonies presumably originated to segregate people with syphilis, which is infectious and was mistaken for leprosy. (For more about syphilis, try "All You've Ever Wanted to Know About Syphilis.")

Leprosy is a chronic (recurrent) disease caused by bacteria. The characteristic skin lesions arise from inflammation of the peripheral nerves (i.e. those outside the brain and spinal cord) and the mucous membrane of the nose, mouth, and throat. Leprosy can be cured with multidrug therapy combining dapsone, rifampicin, and clofazimine or by the touch of Jesus.

Fun Facts:

• King Robert de Brus may have head leprosy. (Remember the traitor in Braveheart? He had it coming.)
• Armadillos can contract leprosy. They are also short enough to pass under the chassis of an 18-wheeler easily. Unfortunately, the fight-or-flight response of the nine-banded armadillo includes jumping 3 to 4 feet in the air, rendering them SCREWED when it comes to crossing the road. Let's all take a moment to lament the plight of the armadillo.
  
• Most people think that leprosy causes body parts to fall off spontaneously.
• Canadians discovered that 95% of the population is naturally immune. Can we trust them?
• Brazil has the most lepers by far.
  

Parodissimo: The Beginning

It's been but only a handful of sun-moon cycles yet much has come to pass. My voyage on the 2nd day of the 2009th year of Our Lord was a difficult one, much credit to the estranged lovers consummating on the asphalt runway. 30 minutes of humping and pumping turned into 3 and 1/2 hours on the runway, as paramedics struggled to free the male's entangled genitalia from the clutches of the evil alien-princess-in-disguise, who had come to Earth for the sole purpose of reproduction. The two very unhappy babies who fell from the luggage compartment in my close proximity visited upon me nightmares of my friend trapped in a Samsonite suitcase and smuggled out of his homeland long ago. When I got into Frankfurt on the morning of the day before Sunday the 4th, I was instructed to put my hands on my head and wag my tail like a dog. Fortunately, after 24 hours in the detention center, I was able to convince my gaolers that I did not in fact have a tail and was permited to fly to Dusseldorf. Mind you, I was trying to get to Hamburg.
John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt met me at the Hamburg airport, where one of my bags had been mistaken for an egg salad and quarantined for further inspection, so JJJS gave them his address for future delivery. For those of you who don't know who John Jacob is, there is a famous song about him in which you find out that his name is my name too. JJ and I have been best friends since my Freshman year of highschool, when he studied at St. Mark's and helped me build a submarine base under my house to prepare for World War III. I spent the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday in a brothel with Jingy and his girlfriend Bambi. They helped me to order my Subway sandwich and book a mule for passage to the Promised Land. They also helped me pick out a nice German swimsuit, and of course beer. Schmidty introduced me to a drink which is apparently very popular in Germany called Panty-Popper, which is a Pilsner mixed with Sprite, Vodka, and Bubble Bath Solution. It tastes really good, doesn't even really taste like a beer. Apparently they also mix beer with Grape Juice and Alfalfa Sprouts, although I've yet to try those formulae.
Monday morning I rode my donkey for three hours to get into Berlin, even though I was promised a mule, which would have delivered me in two. Then I took a hovercraft for 10 minutes to the Stanford Center, which is in an area in the innerskirts of the city called Neo Jerusalem. The surrounding area is very religious with a monastery and nunnery at every corner. Sunday night much frozen precipitation fell from the sky, so everything was covered in snow and I felt for the first time in my life that the environment reflected the inner purity of my soul. The Stanford Center is an old military complex previously used to test secret human teleportation technology until the AI flooded the facility with a deadly neurotoxin. The ventilation system is even accessible from our classrooms. There are 30 of us in the program, 15 male and 15 female, and it has not gone unnoticed among us that we are something of a breeding colony. I call it The Villain, because despite our majestic lodgings and large outdoor spaces, I feel the presence of a dark force in this place. We spent Monday morning going over a few orientation things, and then around 4pm I took a taxi to my domicile and met my host-papa.
The apartment is right on a big street, and the subway has an entrance right in front of our building. We are the 4th and 5th floor, and the apartment is thumbs up NIIIIICE. I have my own room, with a desk and a lamp and a garden outside. I'll draw some pictures of it real soon. The whole apartment has 17ft ceilings (I estimated it by counting how long it took a spit wad I stuck to the celing to fall to the floor), except for the room with the shower, which has only a 6ft celing, meaning I can't stand all the way up. The bath tub that the shower is in takes away another 2 inches or so and with the low shower head, I thought I would have to either squat to shower or just take a bath. But then my host papa showed me how we are all actually shorter if we stand on our hands, so it's going to work out in the end. Or as my host papa would say, and has already said to me plenty, "People who are all tall should stand on their hands once in a while to find out how the small people live."
My host mama and papa are uber cool. I would guess they are in their late 50's, they each have 2 kids from previous marriages. Their kids have all flown the nest. I guess they miss them, because they insist I wear overalls and hug their legs just above the knee, whilst screaming "Mama! Papa! Ich liebe dich!" They both speak pretty good English, but I told them I was MLG pro, so there's no way they could call out well enough in anything but their native tongue. They took me out on Monday night to a little Thai place, where we were all given fishing poles and told, rather rudely, to catch our own dinner. Then they showed me all four sides of the outside of a nightlife hotspot which is one street over from our apartment and asked me to come inside for a drink with them, but I was still feeling sick from the shoe I ate for dinner, so I just went back and passed out.
That brings us to today, which is not over, but should have been a long time ago. I got up early at 11am to make sure I knew where I was going. It was my first time using Berlin's public transportation, so I asked Papa to hold my hand so I could squeeze it if I got scared. It takes me about 25 minutes to masturbate, which is not bad. On my way to school, I have to switch subway lines once, but only on Tuesdays and nights with a full moon. Berlin's public transport does not have problem; you can get anywhere in the city for free if you trade Pokemon cards with the train conductors. Stanford gave us a 30-pack, which should last me about a month navigating around all the different routes.
We had a bunch of administrative schmorgusborg to go through this morning, starting at 11:30am, and then at 1pm we walked over to the playground and learned about simple harmonic motion on the swingset. We ate at the Uni Cafe, which serves only French food, and then we went across town to a mall, where I bought a box of charcoal pencils, so I can draw pictures. Also, of course it didn't event take a full 24 hours before I locked myself out of the domicile... My host papa gave me the keys and asked me to hang them up by the door so he would know if I was home or not, and this morning I for some reason grabbed the keys to my Papa's Mercedes-Benz, thinking they were my home keys, and as soon as I got bored of driving 230km/h on the Autobahn, I realized my mistake. On top of this, I'm not supposed to drive my papa's car without his permission, but this morning when I left my host mama was there, so I thought it would be okay. Then she saw that Papa's keys were not there and assumed he was having another affair with the Dutch woman, so they got in a huge fight and aren't speaking to each other. I felt so bad, and like such a bozo... good first impression.
Now it's 8:30pm and I have three minutes before my computer tells me to wake up and follow the white rabbit to a bar and celebrate the Year of the Ox. 2 girls in the program stayed around from last quarter, and learned how to strip, so they gave us a private showing and it was very exciting. So that's it for now, I will come more in the near future.

The Last and Worst Day of My Life

DISCLAIMER: A work of fiction

Today I got out of bed and my body didn’t come with me.
So I’m standing there, thinking, hmm, this is a little weird. Here I am, a floating pair of eyes attached to a brain or at least a hovering consciousness, and there I am also, lying in bed sound asleep. So which one of them is me? The one I am or the one refusing to get out of bed? Most days I’d be the one still lying in bed, while my body went through the motions. You know, roll out of bed, trip on your shoes, brush your teeth. Examine the extent of your bed-head. Convince yourself it doesn’t quite merit a shower. And then when you’re all dressed, coffee in hand, ready to walk out the door, you go back for your brain, fix it in place, and drive to work. It’s a nice arrangement. You get to sleep those eight extra minutes people say don’t help, but you know they can make or break a day. You know that there’s no way you can tolerate those self-absorbed tweens and having to floss through their braces because they’re so damn lazy and ask them what color bands they want, even though it doesn’t really matter, because, fuck, kid, you’re wearing braces and they aren’t going to look good no matter what color you pick, just please, don’t choose white because when you come back they won’t be white anymore, they’ll be fucking yellow.
Yeah, no way without your eight extra minutes. So that’s what I do. I’m an orthodontist in training. I’ve got my D.D.S. and my pledge to improve oral hygiene and dental alignment and perpetuate the status quo of teeth sculpted by Michelangelo himself. I get to tell kids the bad news that, yes, they need braces, why, maybe because God was lazy when He made your teeth, but wait, it’s okay, because these next few years of anguish will bring a lifetime of happiness.
Three months at this job has really started to eat away at me. I need to relax. The day has only just begun and I’m already ready to quit. Just look at your body over here. It knows how to relax.
So I turn to my body. It hasn’t moved. Alright, pal, just this once, because you’ve been so good to me over the years, I’ll go through the motions and let you stay here and rest…in my bed. Just promise not to wander off without me. My body doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even turn over or bat an eyelash. But I figure, hey, that’s a good sign. See you in eight, I call behind me, as I walk over to the bathroom door.
Now…this is going to be interesting. As far as I can tell I have no hands. I can’t even feel where my hands aren’t. No phantom fingers, nothing. Which is exciting, because everyone talks about how cool out of body experiences are, only I have to negotiate this door somehow and I doubt it responds to Sesame. I guess I have to put my problem solving skills to use.
Ok, so we’ve got an impassable white barrier. It’s in the shape of a rectangle. And there’s a golden knob on it shouting ‘look here,’ ‘look here,’ only that’s too obvious to be the solution. It’s just the distraction. The real answer is…down below, in the quarter-inch of space between the bottom of the door and the carpet. There’s even a strange glow emanating, wouldn’t you know it?
I look back to make sure lazy bones hasn’t stirred and take a dive for it, zooming toward the carpet and that glorious hole in the bathroom’s defenses. I squeeeeze through just barely, compressing my consciousness between a wooden ceiling and fuzzy floor.
Aha! Here I am in the bathroom, with the lights I left on. Cracking tiles, peeling wallpaper, leaky faucet, and—whoa, where did I go? I mean, I wasn’t expecting much, seeing as I have no body, but now I’m really seeing I have no body. Not even the faintest outline. Or the slightest evidence of occupying space. I lean in closer to check for evidence of refraction. Nope, the light is passing right through me. Like some cruel joke from Ripley’s Believe It Or Not!
If it weren’t for Descartes, I would probably be questioning my very existence. It’s a little sad that I trust the philosophizing of a mathematician over my own two eyes, but the circumstances are most definitely extenuating. As in, I don’t have eyes. And also Monsieur Descartes is pretty damn persistent in telling me, you think, therefore you are! You think, therefore you are! I wonder if he ever had to go through this experience. Woke up one morning missing that fabulous moustache. And had to locate it on his Cartesian coordinate system, never mind the rest of him. Strange how sharp my mind is for having just woken up.
Come to think of it, I don’t even feel tired. But what am I supposed to do now? Exist in here for seven more minutes? Count down from four hundred twenty? It’s not like I can brush my teeth or microwave the coffee. Better get my body. Hey, get in here! No answer from the other end of the psychic hotline. So much for that option. I contemplate the crack in the door again, only it’s dark from this side. Wait a second, I’m being an idiot. Couldn’t I just walk through the door, since I’m disembodied or whatever? I make for the door and stop. Walking through a solid object is a little easier to imagine than to do. Like jumping off a cliff. Especially after years and years of not jumping off a cliff.
I edge forward slowly, halving the distance between me and the door. I edge forward again, halving it again. Now there’s less than a quarter inch of space between us. I can see the contours in the paint. You would not believe how bumpy this door is. Seriously, these ridges must be the size of hillocks. Who knew a standard door contained such an off-white winter wonderland? I just hope it doesn’t start snowing.
This is going nowhere, so I back away, far enough that I can see the whole door. What am I going to tell my body when it finds me locked in the bathroom? So nice to see you, now let’s join forces and win the day? Ah, fuck it, sometimes you have to stop tugging gently and just rip it off. I pause momentarily and charge. Like an angry rhinoceros! I crash through the door and tumble out on the other side. The door looks fine. I feel utterly violated.
But while I’m checking myself for splinters, my body hasn’t even stirred a bit. It’s just lying there with that ridiculous smirk on its face. Maybe it’s amused, just pretending to sleep so it can watch me jump through hoops or devise novel methods of conscious transportation. Maybe it’s dreaming innocently of Disneyland. But either way, it’s time for a rude awakening.
I let myself sink into bed, down into my sleeping body. It begins to return. The arch of my feet, the bend of my knees, the curve of my spine. My chest heaving, the breath coursing through my nostrils and roasting in my lungs. The curl of my lips, the weight of my eyelids, as they pull me down, down—suddenly, the squeak of plumbing in the distance. Followed by the muffled sound of flowing water, the shower turned on next door. I bolt upright. It’s Lola, the girl in the next apartment. Or better yet, naked Lola. In the shower. With hot water running over her body and steam rising all around. I look down at the sleeping giant. Apparently, he is deaf. Five out of eight minutes left. Five sweet minutes of naked Lola. And then a new voice bubbles up from within, my conscience. It’s wrong, don’t do it, respect her privacy, blah, blah, blah. Cumbersome as ever. I await the rejoinder from my testicles but it never comes. A sense of honor surges through me. My mother would be proud.
But then reason kicks in and tells me to fuck you, Jiminy Cricket, it’s Lola. L-O-L-A, Lola. You’re never going to get another chance like this. Unless you become savvy with women overnight, which isn’t a likely forecast. Just get in there, sneak a peek and if you don’t like it you can leave. But you can’t miss this opportunity. Plus, you have to find out if she’s really worth that gym membership.
I have to go with reason on this one, so I leave my body for the second time this morning and drift over to the door. Direct passage was really unpleasant last time so I opt for the crack. Maybe because compression is easier to imagine. I mean, everyone’s been squeezed through a tight space sometime in their life—that’s how we’re born. Except for C-section babies, I guess, who never get the light at the end of the tunnel experience, either. They just get wrenched out into the blinding brightness with no warning. Have you ever notice how some people just have a short fuse, but you could never figure out why? Well I have: they were C-section babies.
Anyway, passing through that door felt like being squished through a garlic press. First you’re diced, then you’re oozed through a metal grate, and when you come out in a lump on the other end, you can’t quite tell if there are or are not bits of you left behind. So I check the floor for straggling pieces of my consciousness, not that I could see them if they were down there. They probably seeped through the cracks in the tile. Oh well, they were probably just useless memories of fire truck sirens from childhood or remnants of stuff I memorized about membrane potentials for bio finals, good riddance.
The sound of water in the pipes is unmistakable. I can almost hear pattering as I approach the wall. Lola is waiting for me on the other side, probably lathered in soap. I close my eyes and drift forward before my conscience has time to say anything. My nonexistent molecules scream with agony as they are sieved through the many layers of the wall, first paper, then plaster, then wood, and back again. I take a moment to collect myself and then—
GOD DAMN IT, what the fuck is this!? The hairy ass of some greasy Italian guy clenching in the shower. And Lola’s fingernails are digging into his back and she’s sliding up and down on the wall in rhythm to his ass clenching. What’s more, he’s grunting like a troll and she’s moaning like a whore and there’s water all over the bathroom floor because they didn’t even bother to draw the fucking shower curtain. While I’m thinking, damn, that could have been me, minus the greasy hair and the hairy ass.
Of course, I get the fuck out, on account of the clenching, but also because I’m a little hurt. I mean, come on, Lola, how could you do this to me? To us? I was going to serenade you with the poetry of my loins. Eventually. Fuck, this wall hurts.
So now I’m back in my bathroom. Wait, no I’m not, I’m in someone else’s bathroom, what the hell? So I drift in circles through a couple more walls and eventually arrive back in my bathroom. I feel bruised and bloodied, in spite of having no flesh, like I’ve just splattered myself across the bathrooms of the entire apartment complex. I imagine exploded flecks of my consciousness dripping off the wall into the grout, oozing down the sides of the toilet bowl, and traveling out to sea with the rest of the sewage. This feels like getting punched in the solar plexus, like when you’re doubled over, gasping stupidly like a fish out of water, but the air’s not coming and you’re afraid you’re about to die, except why isn’t your life flashing before your eyes like they said it would? Well, probably because this pain is so intense it’s sucking you into yourself like a black hole. You learned once a long time ago that you’re supposed to exhale really hard to restore yourself, only how the fuck are you supposed to exhale if there’s nothing in your lungs to begin with? And just what is that THUMPING? Your heart on its last beats? Lola getting humped against the wall? The incredible drum roll of the Italian’s Stallion’s buttocks?
No, it’s the damn faucet leaking. Because, apparently, the drain is clogged and it’s started to build up a little puddle in the basin and every time another fat drop lands, the sound echoes through the bathroom. What, has it discovered the resonant frequency already? The walls are shaking. How long before they crumble? I have to get out of here. Quick, the crack in the door. I zoom downward, spinning out of control with lava on my heels, the cave of wonders collapsing behind me. I swerve under at the last second and burst through the other side, rolling to a halt. I lie there for a few seconds, like after interval workouts years ago. Only my chest isn’t heaving and I’m not drawing breath. I wait for the uncomfortable, tingling tightness of suffocation. I wait and wait. I wait so long the pain of my shattered conscious fades away. And still, I haven’t drawn a breath. The automaticity of it must be wrecked, like when you think too hard about it. Your breathing sort of falls under complete motor control and it won’t start back up on its own, it downright refuses to, so you have to sit there like an idiot and respire manually, which isn’t even as effective as normal breathing, but now how are you going to fall asleep, if you can’t even breathe? But for some reason I don’t face that problem. I don’t feel any tightness. Instead I feel calm. And freed of my slavish dependence on oxygen. I guess that means consciousness is anaerobic, after all.
Suddenly I remember myself. It must surely have been eight minutes by now. And if it hasn’t, well I don’t care, because I’ve had enough of this shit. My conscience starts whistling “I told you so.” I take note to do something really evil today, like tell a fourteen-year-old boy the only color bands we have left are pink and purple. Maybe this time I’ll even wait to hear the decision. Watch him try not to piss his pants as I change his bands. Then see the turmoil drain from his face as he laughs it off in front of the mirror and wonders why he wasn’t cool enough to figure out I was fucking with him. Let Jiminy Cricket marvel at what an übermensch I’ve become. Only, don’t tell him Raskalnikov loses in the end.
I rise off the floor slowly and turn around to face the bed. I hope my body misses me as much as I’ve missed it. Come here, you—
Well, that’s interesting. The bed is empty…

The Much Anticipated Lyrics to "This Shit is Chimichangas"

Coming soon

Page 100

Your favorite color is blue? Shame on you. You picked the color you were swaddled in? The color that also happens to be every male under ten's favorite color. The color that requires no thought, less creativity, and zero patience to enjoy, because, yes, it's the best color, but that shouldn't mandate your favor. Really, spend some time RIGHT NOW to research some colors and pick a new favorite. Maybe one that requires a little bit of explanation. Or better yet: one that no amount of explanation could ever explain. Because, hell man, it's your favorite. It just is. And, as a bonus, for a neat party trick, use your favorite color when you introduce yourself to strangers. Hi, my name is Colin and my favorite color is Midnight Forest. It bridges that awful gap of what to say when you first meet someone. And if he/she/it reciprocates with his/hers/its favorite color, then bravo! You've got a new best friend, because how many best friends know each other's favorite color at this day and age? It's like those self-help guys tell you about being a colorful personality. You just have to take them at their word, because sometimes they're advice wakes up every morning, puts its pants on just like everyone else, and then makes gold records (which is the key difference). There's not enough talk of favorite colors anymore. Why did that go out of style? Well, it's a mystery, I don't know. But until we track that one down, let's all pick fascinating favorite colors, if only for the chance that the rest of our features might aspire to such grandeur. Oh, to be fascinating.

Number One

This is a work of fiction. And makes no sense.

It's been a while since I put pen to paper, more in the figurative sense than the literal, considering...

I am one lucky son of a bitch. For instance, I've survived eight collisions in the eight years I've been driving, nine if you count the bump I received on my bicycle. And I was even hit by a car when I was seven, which brings it to an even ten. The really miraculous fact, though, is that I've always walked away uninjured, which is a stretch of the truth, but it will serve for now. But I'm not maimed in any way--no broken bones or permanent scars. Again, a stretch of the truth, but it's fine for this story, at least for the time being.

People say I'm an odd fellow. I take it as a compliment, especially since some dumb broad told me my transparent personality was what she liked best about me. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, speak my mind, release my emotions which is all right, because I'm a pretty level-headed fellow. Still, I'm not transparent and there's a lot I keep from people, including myself.

Zip a dee doo da, I'm more than just lucky though. It's as if the universe contorts itself to solve any problems I have. Sometimes it's damned ridiculous the things I get away with. I used to think God must love me, but I didn't say God, I said "life." Haven't decided which is more accurate. But there's definitely a rift in the time-space continuum. I had a friend in college we used to joke that the universe altered itself so that he was always right. He pulled some bull shit out of his ass but it always kept coming true, absurd as that sounds. You know, the kind of guy who will argue you about anything, whose just sitting around all day for a chance to pounce on someone's slip of logic, the kind of guy I used to be until I was outdone or started winning too much--I can't remember which.

My little brother told my mother to buy him construction paper so he could build a space warrior helmet out of it. Fucking construction paper. And when she finally got it--this was around Christmas--he had her wrap it and stick it under the tree. Man, did that kid love to open presents. Every year he seemed to be opening presents early only to rewrap and open them again. You know, several cycles of this, while we're all watching. You'd think with this sort of compulsion he'd want to do it in private or something, his beribboned act of masturbation. I can imagine him--picture this with me--wrapping his dick once or twice a week, just so he could unwrap it and squeeze one off. That would be a fucking compulsion. Especially beside his handwashing compulsion. I have never seen anyone scrub so hard. It's audible for crying out loud. (ILLICIT CONTENT EDITED, email me if you want to know)...

...Squeaky, squeaky! Which reminds me of the time Tenacious D came on when my grandmother was driving me to school. You know, the Fuck Her Gently song. I didn't know it was Jack Black singing at the time--no doubt that would have made it worse, but anyway I just sat there in awkward silence as Jack educated me--us--on how to properly hump your lady. I think a part of me just really wanted to hear that song, because, let's face it, it's pretty hilarious, at least for the first three or four listens. But another part of me was just praying that maybe she was deaf or senile or oblivious enough not to be listening, especially because this is no American grandmother. At least an American grandmother you could imagine has been exposed to this stuff before in Cialis commercials--or maybe old people sit around and watch porn all day and reminisce (I know I will)--this was an Eastern European grandmother, the kind of woman whose idea of the best fun ever has never strayed from hiking in the mountains since she was nine years old. "But then, I'm gonna fuck you hard!"

Anyway, my little brother's hands squeak when he washes them, when he scrubs them down for surgery--to what end I wonder?--or rather, dare I wax onomatopoetic--SQUELCH. He scrubs like fucking Lady Macbeth herself. You're sitting on the couch enjoying a television program and...WHAT is that sound? That SQUELCHING? A dying mudguppy? "Oh no, that's just Blanco Nino washing his hands. He's very serious about it."

What was this story about? If I don't remember, can you? Let's go back a few pages. Yes, just flip back now. Surprise! This is like one of those shitty choose your own adventure stories. If your favorite color is blue, turn to page a hundred. If you're Irish, got to a pub and piss on three legs. And everyone else can skip to the last page and read the ending, which is (obviously) "I'm lying in my grave and can't write anymore. The End." So now that we've busted that mystery, we can get on with the beginning. Which is all about how damn lucky I am and what I decide to use my powers for.

It's not gambling. First off, my sisters have better luck with cards. As for dice, I roll a lot of sixes, but I've also been told that God must hate me in the context of how die rolls work out for me. Plus, I suck at those types of gambling games (Poker, Blackjack, etc), so I've decided to steer clear or maybe cross that bridge when we get there. No, I've actually decided to--and this ruins it for you, if you're reading for the chance of a plot twist--to police the streets for accidents and strategically throw my car and body into the fray (future wreckage) in the hopes of saving someone's life. I figure that since I'm virtually u-n-b-r-e-a-k-a-b-l-e, this venture is a noble and honorable waste of my life/time. But before I begin, I have to think of a cool name for myself, and maybe a theme song I can cruise to and sign along with in my trusty mayhem mitigating mobile.

Maybe Dark Wing Duck. Completely unrelated, I know, but someone needs to resurrect my favorite superhero and it might as well be me. Dark Wing Duck is so cool I hardly remember him and was certainly never fully aware of his special powers, but he's the perfect mix of biscuits for my taste buds. Cool under pressure. Sassy under fire. And maybe even pantless, because, let's face it again, every other superhero, for some reason or another (which I will shortly get into), wears spandex. Obviously the comic book artists--erm, graphic novelists--love to draw man quadriceps muscles and man pectoralis muscles and man bulges. Mmm, candy? But Dark Wing Duck doesn't wear pants because ducks know how to tuck their shit in and don't need special gear to enhance their aerodynamicacity (obviously the noun form of aerodynamic).

I'm waiting for the day when some genius legislator discovers a way to eliminate the safety tutorials at the beginning of every flight. I'm positive neither the giving nor the receiving party enjoys it. And maybe those infrequent fliers need that expected spiel to go down. But what about us frequent fliers? With all our miles and such? Why do we have to listen to the same shit different day? Excuse me, but I'm not a moron. I know how to operate a seat belt (they come standard in automobiles), can easily read, interpret, and navigate toward an exit sign, and have no difficulty not smoking in the lavatories. God forbid anything happen, I think I'm ovine (just learned that word, it means sheeplike) enough to grab a mask that falls down to me from the ceiling, i.e. heaven. Or maybe I'd have the tenacity to reject pacification--that's obviously what they keep in the tanks, pacification gas--if the plane really was burning down, all the way down. it would depend on my mood. But my point is, when the shit hits the fan, these people are not going to remember your instructional video/dramatic performance. They're just going to fuck it all and show their true colors. Which is another reason you should pick your favorite color now. That way you won't have to deal with the stress of finding out what is when it's gushing out your eyeballs or oozing from your belly button.

Remember chimichangas back in the cafeteria? Those were the shit.

PS Don't you wish they made an out-of-breathe police? Some bad dudes in black uniforms who would come whip your ass into shape if you got tired too easily? Or they could just blow a whistle, so long as there exists such a thing that has the name "out-of-breathe police" belonging to it.

PPS I hereby coin the catchphrase and future Hot 100 hitsong, "This shit is chimichangas!"