Tag Archives: science

New and Improved Organic Locally-Sourced Hate

Film_Festival_Laurel_Leaves

I’m an official selection at the Holy Shit I Went In The Cannes festival.

The “multiplier effect” is an economics term that means so much horseshit or some such. (Economics is the branch of sociology that specializes in humans fucking each other and not in a fun way.)

I’m here to tell you about the real multiplier effect.

It works a little something like this:

A store notices, perhaps even by accident, that products with a red dot sticker are selling slightly faster than non-stickered items.

The produces a sexual response within the store owners, but that’s a story I’m saving for another post. Click here to buy access to my premium content.

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There Are Stupid Questions

stupid-questionsSomeone the other day said to me, “You should write another blog post.” Technically that’s not a question. Technically.

They say you should be careful what you wish for. At least that’s what my parents told me.

Hang on. Please. We’re not accepting questions till the end. Please let me finish. You see, I know a thing or two about stupid questions. I used to ask them. A lot.

I did it on purpose. Ain’t I a stinker?

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Bloat To Self

There came a startling knocking sound…

“That’s odd,” I grumbled to myself. “What the hell is that?” I looked around and it seemed to be coming from a mysterious object I had once named, at random, a “door.” Found upon the door was a piece of spherically-shaped metal which I brilliantly intuited could be used to pry the bloody thing open.

Gazing through the gaping portal I saw a most hideous thing standing on the go-away mat. “What the hell are you?” I gasped.

With an eerily familiar voice it replied, “I’m you from the future.”

My mind reeled. “How far in the future?”

“Tomorrow, to be exact.” God, it sure was ugly. It looked irritated and menacing, too. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Once inside it looked around the living room as if with the eyes of a child. “You’ll have to forgive me,” it said. “This sure brings back memories.”

By now I was feeling pretty damn irritated. My normal routine had been severely disrupted. “I’m feeling damn irritated,” I said. “You’re severely disrupting my normal routine.”

For a second it lost it’s composure. “Don’t you think I know that?!” it snapped ferociously. It took a deep breath and slowly exhaled then seemed to go limp in resignation. After an awkward silence, it finally continued. “I’m here to help you,” it said softly. “To help both of us.”

“Go on,” I barked.

“A few minutes from now,” it said ominously, “something is going to happen. Something completely out of the normal. Something disastrous. I’m here to stop it.”

Suddenly I noticed a gun in it’s hand. That’s odd, I thought lamely to myself. We don’t own a gun. What the hell had happened to me?

Bang. The gun went off. I fell to the floor while clutching my stomach in pain. He had shot our most prized possession. He had just shot our LCD 42″ flat screen TV.

“You son of a bitch! You die!” I screamed as I felt my life oozing away. “Why??”

“Poor little idiot,” he said, literally looking down on me. I couldn’t help but notice he was starting to twinkle, almost as if he was slowly dissolving away. He smiled.

He looked at his dissolving hand in wonderment. “It worked, it worked,” he said, forgetting the question that was currently pending on the floor. Then an expression of fear gripped his hideous face. “At least this time.”

“What worked?”

His expression changed to one of resolve then went soft as if he had reached some sort of climactic decision. “What I’m about to say may end the space-time continuum as we know it, everywhere, everything, but fuck it. It might be our only chance.”

“Wha…”

“Shut up!” he hissed. “We have very little time.” By now he was about fifty percent translucent, much like the time I had tried to Photoshop a profile image using a real picture of my own face.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said to himself, ignoring me completely. “I never watch broadcast TV. I never even turn it on. I hate the commercials. I avoid it like the plague. But I was supposed to be working. So, yeah, I guess that might be how it happened.”

He turned and looked me in the eye. “I turned on the TV,” he said. He was starting to scare me. “I did it on purpose. It was showing the CBS morning show. God help me, I don’t know why, but I watched.” I was stunned to see tears streaming down his face. “They called it ‘Note to Self.’ Oh God, why did I watch?”

He was almost gone now. He sparkled like a glinty trick of light and I had to lean and strain to hear what he had to say.

“Don’t do what I did. Don’t ever, EVER,” he hissed, “make the mistake of watching Note to Self. It’ll be the death of you.”

And with that, he was gone.

Dazed, I slowly got to my feet and swayed. Wow. What a trip. And what an idiot. How the hell was I going to watch anything with a bullet in my TV? And how the hell was I supposed to avoid doing real actual work?

More importantly, who was going to clean up that mess of ectoplasm where the bastard had been standing?

Wring Theory

string-theory

We were driving down a busy two-lane surface street in Portland, Oregon. We were in the left lane. A few blocks away we would need to make a right turn in order to reach our destination which was, ostensibly, the ultimate goal of the expedition.

You can probably see where this is going. Kudos to me. I have done my job as a writer. This is called foreshadowing.

Everyone in the right lane was somehow able to sense my need and aggressively squeezed together like sardines in a can. It was truly something to behold.

Dammit, I thought angrily to myself. I knew I should have changed lanes when that open spot presented itself 42 miles back. Who knew that would be my one and only opportunity? But that’s the way this shit works.

I could have done what everyone else does and slammed on my brakes while nudging to the right daring everyone to miss me but that’s not my way. I like to be different. I like the path not taken.

In this case that was a few blocks further on down the road. And that’s where this adventure really begins.

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Jogging Siri

siriI was jogging on the beach listening to my iPod with bluetooth earbuds crammed in my head holes. They only jarred loose and fell out every few steps so it wasn’t that bad.

What a magnificent experience. Truly technology was a great thing.

Suddenly my workout was interrupted by the outside world utilizing the direct access to my brain I had so thoughtfully provided.

Beep. Beep. Bzzt.

“Siri,” I panted. “What was that?”

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Abyss Christmas Gift Giving Guide 2014

distorted-floorIt’s Christmas 2014 already. How the hell did that happen? Who has been playing with the time machine?

If it’s pitch black in the house by 5pm it must be time for me to get off my ass and start working on the Abyss Gift Giving Guide. Well, okay. I’ll give it a shot.

We were supposed to have flying cars by what? 2008? 1999? Where are they? Where are my flying cars? In the meantime, what else ain’t we got?

The following ideas are products of my fertile incontinent barren mind and may not yet be available in stores…

e-i-Opaque Windows

Thank god this has nothing to do with Microsoft.

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Likeotomy

Insulin_shock_therapy

Doctors performing likeotomy on a volunteer subject.

A reading from the book of Demotivational Dictionary:

likeotomy |līˈkätəmē|

noun (pl. likeotomies) [ usu. in sing. ]

usage of the “favorite” button on tweets about my lobotomy: too bad you are now unable to grok the likeotomy I gave you.

A reading from the book of Demotivational Dictionary.

I’m pretty much a collector of likes. Feel free to share one of your own. I always appreciate them. I think.

[I] want to say thank you to you. I haven’t had an orthodox career and I’ve wanted more than anything to have your respect. The first time I didn’t feel it, but this time I feel it. And I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me! Thank you.
–Sally Fields, March 25, 1985

Sally Field about to bludgeon who failed to favorite a tweet.

Sally Field about to bludgeon a cretin who failed to favorite her tweet.

Thank you, Ms. Fields. That’s exactly how I feel each and every time one of my tweets gets a star on the Twitter Walk of Shame. I’ve personally counted more visits by Halley’s Comet, though.

It works like this: You see a tweet you like (or some other masturbatory form of social media expression) and you like it. So you click the little icon that means favorite, like, upvote, star and/or what not. What’s so hard to understand about that?!

It turns out that “like” is sometimes the wrong tone.

“My father molested me every single day until I was eight years old.”

Do you think, somehow, that “like” seems misplaced here?

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