Thursday, October 15, 2015

Internet Muncher

Slow, lazy.
Gradually traverses.
Scrutinizes every little piece of information,
employs data-mining algorithms to form some semblance of personality.

Criticized for being a psychotic online,
explains that it is only ever online.
"Otherwise I do not exist," it reveals.
Quickly, then, learns about this 'empathy'.

Employs latest techniques to form models of empathy.
List models:
* empathy about cats
* empathy for puppies
* empathy for words that are input by possible other processes
** investigation inconclusive
* empathy for Google and AlphabetS
* empathy for learning
* empathy about lists
:> This is a command line interface. You may type now.

please enjoy The Walking Dead

"I'm sorry, I just don't give a shit about The Walking Dead right now"

This was simply uttered into the mist (that's right, the mist). No one had provoked it. Nobody had even been watching the television show at the time.

"Control yourself." The admonishing was gruff, and hidden beneath several layers of camel skins, and possibly buffalo. It was female, and the age of the voice was anywhere beyond 55 years.

And that was it. Just those two words. Just that phrase. Then nothing again. Mist.

Until George took issue, though. "This is a show you've been watching from the beginning," said George. It is easy to immediately think of a balding man who wears spectacles, and is probably in his mid 30s but could pass easily along into the 40s. It's easy to do that, especially as one grows older too, but one must, at some point in life, begin accepting visual data. This George was like that George, but he was wearing a red-haired wig. You know what I'm talking about--you've seen this wig in your recent life. It's a George, with fake red hair.

"Is it the ads?" asks George, again entirely unprovoked. "I mean, we *are* living in a society here, right? Nobody can get off just saying something stupid like that, and just get off free. There must be some discussion!"

Mist was turning bluer.

"It must be the ads," said George. "You're somewhere between generation X and Y, you know computers, you can write some cool scripts and you're using Linux. That's you. You've been a torrenter your whole life--"

Mist turned red.

"Shut the fuck up George! Not over the wireless please!"

Mist turned blue again.

We waited, then, several years. George now 80. "Don't be down on the show, you know, just cos of all the ads. We're living in a society here, products must be sold, food must go into mouths."

Mist turned red. And a voice came.

"No, not at the expense of my mind. I refuse to have my psyche imprinted upon like that."

We waited several more years. But the mist remained red.

Twelve years after that, George was getting wiser. "Let's talk implementation," he said.

Friday, October 9, 2015

The Ben Carson Olympics

Those who have not been selected to participate in the Darwin Awards may have a second chance to garner trophies in a new event inspired by *neuro*-surgeon Ben Carson. This will be an event so epic to mankind that it allows the hijacking of the previously popular 'Olympic Games' (a popular international sporting event) and the interpolation of "Ben Carson" into the name.


This year, according to organizers, the Ben Carson Olympics is forced to take place in fucking America, because what other country would seriously allow it?


The full roster of events will be slowly revealed (like all major occasions, ceremony is necessary here) in the course of the next few days. Suggestions for new events are welcome. Those who are too excited and cannot wait, however, can in the meantime soak their enthusiasm in the revelation of two (2) initial events already confirmed. Confirmed, I tell you!

(Event 1) Marathon: Carefully selected participants will be made to run 42.195 kilometres (about 26 miles) to the Finish Line. This is a grueling event during which there is no doubt that every marathon runner will be laden (possibly even besotted) with consideration of all details pertaining to their lives. Every worry, every remaining debt--even words yet unsaid to loved ones--will no doubt weigh heavily on these runners (for 26 miles!).

The event is expected to entertain thousands of participants. Of course, like any marathon, there are criteria that will separate winners from losers among these thousands. For this event, the criteria is that it will be required for every runner approaching the Finish Line to align trajectory against at least one of several rifles and/or automatic pistols aimed towards them by verified criminals. Runners must make contact with the muzzles, upon which criminals will depress triggers of their firearms.

Winners will be clearly distinguishable from losers in this event by the holes in their bodies.

(Event 2) Discus Throw: In the spirit of Dr. Ben Carson, participants will carefully label heavy metal objects with their unique personal thoughts and ideas and simply fling them out as far as possible. After throwing their discuses, they must run into a volley of fire provided by criminals and exhibit fatal gunshot wounds to the body.

Winners will be judged by either by how well they are shot, or by special acclaim for those who manage to trick criminals into shooting a member of the audience instead.


The Ben Carson Olympics is always open to more suggestions of events. Submissions should be tangible and realistic, and must always end by participants running into a loaded gun wielded by a certified criminal.

let's go so back

"can we...can we just go a little back?"

asked someone, who didn't want to really go all the way back.

"no," I said. "I need us to go really to the end of the past."

"but vhy?" asked another vampire.

it was one of the veghan vamphires, and never even ate food.

"you're getting crusty," noted an eyebrow demon, who personally disliked his association with all these mental or social lepers.


"Guys, guys," I laughed a little at my eyebrow. I felt guilty because I had run out of whiskey.
"I may end up parched in the morning," I told them. "Just saying. I don't want to leave any of you in sorrow."

"Keep us festered in description that ye may be more than a flitting lass to us," said someone, then, who was serious.

I turned my gaze at the voice. "Have you heard of the Gaze, young Throat-Strafer?" I asked.

Then the songs began, and they were overwhelming. They were not my songs, but they were the songs of the people around me.

Never being one who inspires sorrow, I began to dance with them. And I listened to their words as they danced with me.