The Edgeless Brownie Tray 2

So this other idea came up of how to create edgeless brownies. The theory is; assuming you don't have access to an anti-gravity machine or a way to create gravitational singularities maybe you could force the brownie mix to the edge of the inside of the spherical tray by using a pan-within-a-pan, much like a bundt cake pan. By essentially gluing two of them together, you could inject the brownie mix into the resulting pan and end up with edgeless brownies!

The pan would look something like this:



To cook it, you'd need to put it in your oven like this:



(This is all patent pending, of course.)

One problem with this method is that the brownies cooked in this pan do not have a top, they just have two bottoms where the brownie was baked in contact with the outer or inner edge. One way to get around this would be to cook the brownies about half-way, then open the oven and take out the inner sphere. The hope would be that the brownie mix would stick to the outer sphere and the inner brownie edge would form the top. But then one has to wonder why the brownie mix would be sticking to the outer sphere the way we want but not sticking to the inner sphere when we tried to remove it.

A second, more compelling problem is that the brownie mix actually expands (slightly) as it cooks. If the brownie pan was filled up all the way and closed tightly, it might explode as it cooks. This minor kink may need to be worked out. I'll let you know how the trials go.

Stages of Zombification

By popular request, the stages of zombification apparently needed some clarification:

1. You die.
2. You come back to life as an undead zombie.
3. You eat brains.
4. You get your skull crushed by a shovel.
5. You're dead again.

Addictive Little Games

I can kill all your productivity with two little links:

Onslaught

When this game came out, it took my office by storm. Every day I came to work I would hear stories of how people stayed up late into the morning playing this thing trying to beat each other's high scores.

Zwingo

Now there's this one, which was just sent to me by the person who infected our office with Onslaught before. This one is fun, easy, and also just as addictive.

The Edgeless Brownie Tray

Recently somebody told me about a specialty brownie tray designed for people who like the edge and corner pieces in a tray of brownies. Although good for its intended purpose, it is the exact opposite of what I would want in a brownie tray. I would like a brownie tray that makes brownies with no edges. As far as I see it, there are 3 possible ways to make this happen (two of which I invented, and the 3rd one was invented by Robin Toop).

Solution #1: Using a spherical cookie tray, you first suspend it in an anti-graviation field (or take it up into space). From there, you create a gravitational singularity at the center of the sphere, such that the sphere has its own gravitational field. Once you've done that, you smear brownie mix around the sphere until it is completely covered. Then you can apply heat evenly around the sphere in order to cook the brownies. Presto! Edgeless brownies!

If you're having trouble securing anti-gravitational fields or controllable gravitational singularities, I have come up with another solution.

Solution #2: We'll be using the same spherical brownie pan, but this time we'll be cooking brownies on the inside of the sphere. To do this, the sphere must have a hole so that you can inject the brownie mix. Once the mix is injected, just plug up the hole and cook the whole sphere! When done, just split the sphere in half (this spherical pan must come apart in half) in order to get at the brownies. Whoopie! Edgeless brownies!

Oh, except I forgot to mention that you need to simultaneously spin the sphere along every one of its axes of rotation in order to make sure that the brownie mix is distributed evenly along the inside of the sphere. It might be possible instead to heat the sphere slowly and rotate the sphere around, cooking the brownie to the inside of the sphere layer-by-layer.

That's when Robin suggested the completely preposterous Solution #3: Change the molecular consistency of the brownie mix so that it's no longer a liquid, but a non-Newtonian fluid (like a putty or dough) that can be molded into any shape you want. From there, we can mold it into a sphere and cook the sphere, which of course will need to be suspended in mid air so that no part of it is touching any surface (or an edge-like crust will be created). Hooray! Edgeless brownies!

Take THAT you crust-eating, edge-loving brownie eaters! We can have our brownies without edges if we want, too! (Some details may need to be worked out first.)

We Need a Pyramid

I think we need a pyramid. And by "we" I mean "the people of Earth that form the global civilization we live in today". Here's why:

• It will be a bonding experience.
  
• We currently don't have a country/culture/language/religion independent sculpture we can all stand behind together (besides the image of the Earth itself).
  
• The whole of humanity has never done anything like it before as a unified group (they have as a nation though).
  
• Heck, people will remember us for it and that's good.
  
• Why not?

If we were to build a pyramid today, how would we do it? I propose the following requirements:

• It must be bigger than the existing ones -- by at least 2 times the height (which means we'd need 2.667 times the stone by volume).
  
• It must not sink into the ground.
  
• It must be nearly invincible.
  
• It must last 10,000 years before it shows significant signs of aging.
  
• It must be visible from space and not be mistaken for a natural phenomenon.
  
• It must be no more religion-, country- and culture-dependent than pyramids already are.
  
• It must clearly have no purpose other than to "be" what it is.
  
• It must be as simple as possible in its design (not ornately decorated).
  
• It must cost at least a billion dollars. If it doesn't, it means we're not thinking big enough.
  
• Its construction must include almost anybody who wants to participate.
  
• It must reflect the highest possible engineering standards of our time (it likely will already from the previous requirements).
  
• Once it is done, it must be as monetarily worthless as possible (other than the unquantifiable value of its very existence).

Since this won't be easy, I suggest we get started right away. Any takers?

Lethal Hard Quadrilogy

For those of you who get "Die Hard" and "Lethal Weapon" confused, let me clear it up for you: They're both the same movie. For years people have been referencing them differently and getting the titles confused around you, and that's what has led to your confusion. Basically there are four movies out now:

Lethal Hard
Lethal Hard 2: Lethaler
Lethal Hard 3: Hard, Harder, Lethalest
Lethal Hard 4: Live Hard or Die Lethally

They all star Mel Willis, and are basically about a moderately attractive male getting the girl in the end. Oh, and stuff blows up.

But most of all, remember; stay away from Lethal Hard 3, it's not up to par.

The Philosophy of Database Administration

Q. If a table is updated by a recurring job but never read, does it take up space on the hard disk?

A. Not anymore.

American Military Power

American power has many edges; political, economic, military, Etc. And each edge can be seen to stem from the other. For example, it may be prudent to declare that America's political power stems from their economic power, or vice versa, or that their political power stems from their military power. In any case, we all know that America would be tremendously hurt by a loss of any one of their powers. Or, at the least, a realization that one of their powers isn't as powerful as it seems. If America woke up to find that they could be politically out-outmaneuvered by Russia, that would be trouble. Similarly if they realized they could be out-produced by Germany, that would also spell disaster.

Well, what if, during a routine training exercise, a Chinese submarine popped up within torpedo range of two American nuclear submarines -- and it did so undetected until the Chinese intentionally surfaced their sub? Because that's exactly what happened recently.

Let me break it down for you. America's military power stems from being able to quickly take the fight to the enemy wherever they are. Taking the fight there means gaining sea, air and ground control of the enemy zones. Gaining that control means moving mobile military bases to those zones. Those military bases currently happen to be aircraft carriers. And as such, carriers must have the best protection that money can afford. The protection of a multi-billion-dollar, 4500-personnel carrier usually consists of at least 2 multi-billion-dollar nuclear subs, at least 10 warships, helicopters, satellites, planes, specialized buoys, and more. If this protection fails, then let's face it, the enemy zone won't be controlled for very long.

So, if America woke up one day to find out that a Chinese diesel-electric sub could move within torpedo range of one of their carriers while remaining undetected by all of the carrier's protective devices... well, that's not good. But at least this lesson wasn't learned too late.

STD of the Year

It's October, and you know what that means: The STD Awards are coming soon (watch them on MTV!). Which STD will win "STD of the Year"? Which STD will go home with the coveted "Best New STD of 2007" trophy? The excitement in the air this time of year is nothing short of magical, some describing as "electrifying!" or "a slight burning sensation". Can you feel it?

I am personally hoping that Björk will show up wearing her famous condom-dress again. And there are rumors that the Awards will be hosted by Britney Spears, which should make for some awkwardness if she's actually nominated for anything (who knows, right?).

I have spoken with some top STD analysts in order to get some insight into this years winners, including leading Social Disease Columnist Mr. Finnegan, who indicated, "Gonorrhea has been coming on really strong this year. And from my own personal research, Gonorrhea's popularity among today's youth has hit a fever pitch. Hell, I can hardly go anywhere these days without catching [wind of] it."

Also, in discussions with Professor of Venereal Diseases Dr. Borghoffr from Ontario's McBates University, I was informed, "I can't really give any clues, for fear of possibly being inaccurate and for fear of possibly affecting the results. I can tell you with some certainty, however, that AIDS is definitely on its way out, and its reputation as one of the more popular diseases has drastically decreased of late."

At any rate, it should be an interesting year for STDs.

I'd Rather Know

Do you ever have those times where you learned something that you think you were perhaps better off not knowing?

For example, let's say you knew about a tremendous calamity before it occurred. Such as, say, the exact date and time a meteorite will strike Earth and wipe out all life on it. Well, not all life, but all life excluding some micro-bacterial life living in rocks at least a kilometer down in the Earth's crust. At any rate, it's probably safe to say nobody will be making it to your birthday party (which, by the way, is canceled due to inclement weather. And magma. Lots of magma).

Anyway where was I? Oh, yes. So the question is; assuming you could do nothing to prevent it, and that you would not be able to ignore the information, would you want to know about it or not?

Now let's say it's not something that's so black-and-white. For example, let's say somebody close to you has a secret that you probably don't want to know, but maybe should know because it might help you or that friend in some way. Vague enough for you? It might be something as simple as the person smoking but not telling anybody except you, or it might be something far more important and intensely personal than that. At any rate, where do you draw the line between wanting to know and not wanting to know?

Next time you're on the toilet, think about it. --But not now. No. Right now there's more pressing matters for you to think about.

Biannually

"Biannually" has got to be one of my most hated words. That's because it means both "twice a year" and "once every two years".

For the good of humanity, I am proposing that this word be abolished from the English language. I have personally not used it in many years, opting instead to say, "twice yearly" or "every two years" as needed. I'd love to use the words "semiannually" and "biennially" instead, but the truth is that I'm worried those seldomly-used words might cause the same level of confusion. Thus, I'd rather spell it out using multiple words, like "twice yearly, meaning occurring two times in a 365 day period (or 366 day period if it's a leap year), i.e. when your age goes up by 1, it should have happened more than once but less than three times." Sure it takes longer to say, but I think it's better than the alternative.

Take these equivocal statements for example:

• "I like to shower biannually." This is either really gross or really really gross depending on which is meant. I'd propose, "I'm very dirty-dirty" instead.
• "Remember to bleed the pipes biannually, or they could burst and your house could explode." It may be safer in this case to assume one meaning over the other. What the person should have said instead of using the "biannually" statement was, "There, all done. Call me if you need anything."
• "We require equal payments of $50,000 biannually for 4 years, or Bruno here will come and visit you." Even though you may have only borrowed $100,000, it's still not clear which "biannually" the Godfather intended. Either he's being gracious and you're getting the loan interest-free, or you've just gotten yourself into a heap of trouble (better keep your stable locked at night).
• "Daryl posts to his blog biannually." --Well no... this one is okay.

A Penny Saved is a Penny Unsaved

So the other day I decided to check my ING account to see how much interest I was making. That's when I saw the following two lines in my account history:


The lesson to be learned here? People have money. Money makes interest. You should make interest [unless your name is Daryl]. So switch to ING, and save your money.

Matt Damon!

Matt Damon can act, when he wants to. But I don't envy his position in this new Bourne movie, The Bourne Ultimatum. The main reason for that is because the poster for it (as seen on buses around Toronto) makes him look like he's drunk.


But I have a theory about those posters. It's probably not an accident he looks drunk. In the previous movies it was already revealed that his character is aware of his mysterious past. Thus, there's no point for another movie, right?

WRONG.

In this next exciting thriller, Jason Bourne gets so drunk that he once again forgets who he is! The rest of the movie is comprised of Bourne stumbling around with a gun puking on people while trying to find the keys to some girl's car (he has to destroy at least 1 car per movie, there's a quota). At the climax of the movie, he starts sobering up and coming to a realization of who he is, but is so horrified when he remembers how he acted while drunk that he figures the only way to erase what he did is to start drinking again until he forgets it all. Stay tuned for The Bourne Inebriation.

When Smokey Sings

"When Smokey sings
I hear violins!
When Smokey sings
I forget everything!
As she’s packing her things
As she’s spreading her wings
The front door might slam
But the back door it rings
And Smokey sings... he sings!"

This song is confusing. First of all, since the singer never mentions what "Smokey" he's singing about, it isn't clear if Smokey is a guy or a girl. As a child I thought I was mishearing the lyrics, but I heard this song again recently and found out that I wasn't mishearing them at all.

And why is it, when Smokey sings, he [the singer] doesn't hear singing instead of violins?

And is Smokey such a bad singer that he actually forgets everything? If the singer forgot everything, did he have to relearn speech (in English) so that he could even sing about Smokey's singing? Or does he just forget everything for the duration of the song?

Perhaps it's only while Smokey Robinson is actually singing that everything is forgotten, so that as he finishes each verse he instantly remembers everything only to forget it when Smokey opens his mouth again. If so, that's quite a power to have over people. Can you imagine Smokey walking into a jewelery store and just talking non stop while walking out with all the diamonds. After that the police would ask witnesses, "So what happened?" to which the average reply would be, "What happened when?" Now that is a singer whose singing is worth singing about.

Conclusion: That song is silly.

Darylnadia

Sometimes I get tired of governments. They're too slow, they tax the hell out of you, they don't serve justice most of the time, they're too concerned with elections and they're very self-interested in general. Many times as a child I thought to myself, "Man, I'm just going to go and make my own country."

Enter the independent state of Darylnadia. Darylnadia is a great place to live; it has its own set of laws, own leader, own flag and national anthem (yes, it's even called "The National Anthem"). Darylnadia's land extends for a radius of about 1 meter around Daryl --er, me. It does have its own fixed land... somewhere. Can't remember where I put it exactly. But basically, when I'm in Canada the state of Darylnadia follows me around. Wherever I am there's a two-meter circular island of embassy land for Darylnadia, within which the laws of Darylnadia apply and not those of Canada.

You can imagine how being Darylnadian (or basically, "being Daryl") could lend itself to trouble. For example, if I steal something I'd have to be tried by a jury of my peers under a judge in the courts of Darylnadia, not Canada. If that judge and jury actually let me off, well... I'd be a free man, and what would stop me from repeat-offending? Lucky for me that all the inhabitants of Darylnadia are decent, responsible and law-abiding citizens.

Stealing happens to be illegal in both Canada and Darylnadia, but not all the laws are the same. In most cases the laws of Darylnadia are much harsher than those of Canada. For example, did you know that in Darylnadia the fine for smoking (at all, anywhere) is $20,000? And that's not a maximum fine either, it's a minimum. Also, the punishment for abusing an animal is execution. Same for abusing children, actually. There are only a few things that are not illegal in Darylnadia but are illegal in Canada. I can't list them all of the top of my head, but for example, jay-walking is not illegal in Darylnadia.

You want some facts about Darylnadia? Sure:

• It has 0% crime,
• Its capital and largest city is Daryl,
• Its official language is English,
• Its government is a monarchy with a king well-loved by the people,
• Its geographical area is approximately 2*pi square meters,
• Its population is 1,
• It is a very clean country,
• It has great respect for the environment,
• It has no army,
• It has no foreign policy agenda,
• It has freedom of speech, religion, and breakfast,
• It has the highest per capita literacy rating in the world,
• It has the highest standards of human and animal rights of any known country,
• It has no minimum drinking age,
  
• Its shares a currency with Canada.
  

Want to visit Darylnadia? Well if you know me, chances are you've already visited. It's an unguarded border (depending how deep into the country you want to venture). Anybody who is found within its lands is granted automatic Darylnadia Visitor Status. So come on down! (Though it can get crowded here sometimes, just to warn you.)

How To Recognize A Werewolf

Sorry, you're on your own.

How To Recognize A Zombie

Similarly with zombies, if you're not on the lookout, you can find yourself brainless in a pinch. So look out for people who:

• Want to hug you from a distance,
• Are a little more "bitey" than most people,
• Order the soylent sandwich at Denny's,
• Used to be dead but are standing before you (Jesus excluded),
• When you ask them, "How was your day?" they reply, "Aannnghhh!!" (teenagers excluded),
• Are wearing "Microsoft Certified Engineer" t-shirts,
• Laugh during "Bio-Dome" starring Pauly Shore, and,
  
• Get up after you "accidentally" back over them with your car.
  

How To Recognize A Vampire

Few people realize that we regular humans (the "sheep") are at daily risk of being sucked dry by the hose-toothed vampires that are hidden all around us. But that's not even the scary part. The scary part is that hardly anybody can recognize a vampire from a regular human. Most people are just blood-sacks waiting to be punctured. That's where I come in.

For those of you who were wondering if anybody you know is a vampire, these traits should help you identify them. Because vampires;

• Are typically white people for some reason (except for some dhampires like Blade),
  
• Are mostly males,
  
• Act normally most of the time but can suddenly change into crazed, blood-sucking lunatics on a whim, yelling "Gaaaaaahh!!!" as they do it,
  
• Are usually rich somehow, even though you'd think that having to avoid sunlight their entire lives would hamper their prospects,
  
• Are prone to having bad breath (but not garlic-breath),
  
• Aren't often in church attendance,
  
• Change jobs often (to hide from their co-workers that they don't age), and,
  
• Avoid public rest-rooms, on account of those places usually having big mirrors. This usually means they have something stuck in their teeth.*
  

That should help you in identifying any vampires. Thank me later.

* "--No, other side. Top tooth, not bottom! No, the tooth next to that one. Yeah, that's the one. Other side. You got it. No wait, it's still there. Okay, I think it's gone now. Yeah, it's gone."

Satan Drives A Porsche

I once heard Satan say, "Nice car! I love those Bavarians. So meticulous." In case you're wondering, no he wasn't saying it to me. --But actually I tend to agree with him on that one, even though we disagree on mostly everything else.

Ever since then I figured Beelzebub must be driving some kind of German car. Not because Germans are evil (they're not), but rather because they build good cars and Satan has expensive tastes. I kinda imagined it to be the original VW Beetle, you know due to the whole Hilter-commissioning relationship. And of all people to make use of a car that can float, you'd think it would be Satan.

However, today I learned that Satan drives a Porsche. And not only does he drive one, but he likes to take it onto the track and try to devour people's souls with it. Again, I probably shouldn't be surprised.

Kevin: More Than Meets The Eye

Most of Kevin's life is shrouded in myth and mystery. It is widely known that he grew up in Japan and was taught the art of samurai at a young age by his step-uncle Vladimir, and that his obsession with a late 16th-century English vase eventually led to his deportation from his adopted home in Surrey. It is also known that he rescues bunnies from active volcanoes between cloud-surfing competitions, and that he likes to perform experiments with plastics in his lifelong quest to invent a material that is indistinguishable from snot yet has ten times the tensile strength. But when it comes to Kevin himself, his loves and desires, little is held in public knowledge.

I have forever been trying to unlock the mystery of Kevin. Convinced that there is some central tenet of his past that would account for his sudden change from raging alcoholic to defender of the mystical realm of Narnia, I have ventured all across the globe. Having spoken with numerous Kevin experts and scholars of all different educational institutions, having excavated the childhood home of his and his ancestors, and having applied the latest in laser-mapping technologies to his belly-button lint, I am still no closer to finding the truth. In fact, were I not grossly overpaid at my job of Kevinologist all these years, I would have surely given up decades ago.

That is, until very recently. No doubt you have all heard the news of the unveiling of Kevin's new blog, the very purpose of which seems to be to slap all Kevinology research in the face and bring disgrace to Kevinologists the world over. Just when the last of us were about to give up in frustration, Kevin releases a blog whose subject matter can only be described as a U-turn from all things Kevin. In fact, for the first time ever, on the subject of Kevin, I am completely speechless. His blog makes no sense. It is no doubt an attempt to confound all those who try to understand him at all but the surface level. Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself.

So I am quitting my job as Kevinologist at the University, in favour of retiring to my grape-vines and the solitude of my country estate. All that I have to say about Kevin, besides all the stuff I already said that is completely false, is that when it comes to him there is definitely more than meets the eye. Oh, and he might be a robot in disguise.

Helper Monkeys Disappearing

This has got to be a problem. Some people out there are stealing helper monkeys from those who need them. I have no doubt that the question plaguing the police assigned to the case right now is; why?

If you were to ask me, I'd think the answer was obvious. Given the Infinite Monkey Theorem, that after enough time, enough monkeys at typewriters will eventually compose a great work of literature (such as duplicating the complete works of William Shakespeare), the case of the disappearing helper monkeys seems a trivial one to solve.

Think about it; if a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters will eventually compose a great work, then maybe a dozen or so really smart monkeys at maybe 2-to-3 typewriters apiece will write something decent in a fraction of the time. Thus, all the detectives have to do to solve these heinous crimes is to hang around typewriter dealers. After all, we all know that a thousand monkeys at a thousand computer consoles will produce nothing. They'd waste their time surfing for monkey porn on the internet and playing networked first-monkey-shooter games, essentially turning into stereotypical college students. But at typewriters they'd be more productive than any college students ever! Not only would they have no distractions, but they could use more than one typewriter at a time since their feet are like little hands.

Also, the people in charge of the monkeys don't have to wait for a perfect work of literature to emerge, they only need something reasonably good in order to make a profit. In fact, if they were willing to put up with a lot of fixable typos, some side-plots that could be easily eliminated, and were willing to augment the writing themselves with a bit of fairly intelligent human typing, then they could further cut down the production time by many orders of magnitude.

Such a strategy could have a huge payoff. With all these changes to the equation, the seemingly inconceivable "Infinite Monkey Theorem" could give rise the very real "Monthly Monkey Scriptorium", generating millions of dollars in revenue for the human overlords. Heck, it may be common practice today and we don't even know about it, which would help to explain things like the script for "Ghostrider". Such a diabolical yet ingenious idea is far more likely to enrich its inventors than stealing dalmatian puppies for their coats.

With more monkeys going missing by the day, these people have got to be stopped quickly. As there are few places to purchase typewriters these days, the investigating cops would only have to stake out the places left in order to catch the thieves. I'm sure that within a few days the number of monkeys stolen will outnumber the number of available typewriters and the thieves' thirst for fresh typewriters will be unbearable. Little would they know that the trap would be set. Problem solved.

Sherlock Holmes eat your heart out.

A Civilization's Downfall

Just as the ancient prophecies had foretold, he was borne to us from the Surface in a womb of steel and glass. Down he floated through the realm of the upper hydrospheres, eventually coming to rest in the holy place of the Gods. When we found the Hairless One, he was wounded and starving for air. We took him into our hospitals and nursed him back to health, mobilizing our entire economy in order to ensure his survival. Once he had regained his strength, he was given lordship over all our lands, and became our king. The time of splendor had begun.

As a giant he walked among us. He was a peaceful leader, surpassing us all in stature and intelligence. He reorganized our social programs, ended poverty, and oversaw the construction of vast monuments that served as testaments to our people's culture and ingenuity. He was a hero to our children, and a saviour to our elderly. Our new king enlightened our society with technological improvements and innovations that our people had failed to achieve despite many generations of research. As well, he shared with us stories of the many wonders of the Heavens that existed beyond the Surface. For several years he ruled this way, earning both the respect and trust of all our citizens.

But then things started to change.

Over time, he became fixated on the metal womb from which he arrived to us, constantly studying it and complaining of its deficiency of something he called "shtearing weele". His leadership too began to change. He began to recluse himself in his favorite palace and draw maps of the Heavens. He began to instruct our military leaders to build more armaments and enlist more soldiers, even though we had not gone to war for over a thousand years. As well, perhaps saddest of all, the Hairless One ordered more and more of our women to his palace, in a vain attempt to fill the void left in his heart by being severed from the Heavens beyond the Surface. With his change of focus, we were left essentially leaderless.

It was in his eleventh year of rule that the Disease began to spread. Many of our kind fell victim to it and developed spots and sores all over their bodies. Our immune systems seemed unable to fight off the virus, and thousands died. Just when we thought we were closing in on a cure for the murderous sores, another mysterious disease --the Illness-- broke out and began to devour our population. It was said that if the first Disease didn't kill you, the second Illness would. Our underwater farms and fisheries began to be devoid of labour, and as a result there were riots in the cities. The military fragmented, with half loyal to the king's protection and the other half bent on destroying him as a way to end our troubles.

When the war began, there was little hope left for our kind. Our population had dwindled, our people were starving and sick, and the king was left powerless on the throne. Tens of thousands died, and there weren't even enough of us left to pick up the bodies of the fallen. The military factions were fighting over nothing more than crumbled remains of an empire. Towards the end, as they closed in on the king's throne hall, we all watched as he escaped in a giant bubble that floated up to the Surface.

Many left behind ended up dying alone in the ruins of our once great cities. Some of us escaped in our aquapods, looking to find a new place to call home under this beautiful blue planet we call Sea.

Hybrids

This morning on my commute to work I saw a steering wheel by the side of the road. I figure that has got to have sucked for some unlucky soul. There are plenty of things that can go wrong with a car at speed on the highway, but the steering wheel coming off has got to be one of the worst. --Or, if you're easily entertained, then it's one of the best.

I figure the only thing left to do if fate deals you that hand is to floor the gas pedal, sit back and enjoy the ride. With no steering wheel, who knows what far-off places you will be whisked to by chance? You may end up crashing into something that was hiding the body of Jimmy Hoffa, and you'd be a hero for finding it! Well, a hero with increased insurance rates, at least. Alternatively, you may end up driving clear of the city, running out of land to drive on, flying off the edge of some cliff and crashing into the ocean. If you were lucky (which you could argue you already were not), you'd end up discovering some long-lost civilization of pre-historic underwater intelligent monkey/human hybrids. They'd likely take care of you and make you their leader, and again you'd probably be better off than you were before.

I looked for carnage and traffic mayhem further down the road after I saw the steering wheel, but saw none. That leads me to believe that either the problem happened a while ago and traffic has since recovered, there was no problem and the lost steering wheel is the result of some criminal defeating a Club, or the person who lost the wheel at speed on the highway actually did floor it and is now dining in the royal palace of the monkey/human hybrids. There are no other possibilities.

How to Walk in a Mall

You've walked through malls before. You've seen people pull fancy moves in the crowds and wondered to yourself, "How can I become so effective at walking through a mall?" Well folks, today is your lucky day, because I can tell you how! By practicing these moves at home in your living room, you will become a master mall-walker in no time. Once you have perfected these techniques, you can unleash your mad skills upon the unsuspecting public at a mall near you. Now, without further ado, here's what you need to do:

1. Don't move aside for people who are walking in your way. Just walk straight. You're better than everybody else, so they have to move for you.

2. When walking along in the mall, try to take up as much room as possible. If you're with somebody, be sure to hold their hand yet walk as far away from them as possible (forming a "clothes-line"). Even if you're both of the same sex, guys; don't let it distract you that you're holding your best bud's hand -- remember, the key here is to take up as much room as possible.

3. Walk slowly. Take your time. Don't worry about those other busy-bodies walking quickly to their destinations. They just don't get that life is all about the journey -- your journey. The fact that they are actually trying to get somewhere in a timely fashion means that they just don't get what the journey (yours) is all about.

4. When coming to the the top/bottom of an escalator, instead of walking away when you step off the moving steps, stop and take the time to look around for a while. After all you may have forgotten why you took the escalator in the first place, so it's best to take a look around and get your bearings in your new surroundings before heading off in a particular direction. Pay no mind to the people piling up behind you; they'll be awestruck at your mall navigation skills.

5. Advanced: If you think you can handle it, try the flip maneouvre. To do this, walk in front of somebody at the same speed as they are walking, then suddenly turn and walk in the complete opposite direction (without stopping first)! This takes skill to execute properly.

6. Advanced: If you see somebody of a race, sex, or wearing clothes that you don't like, then go ahead snicker at them -- right in their face so that they know they're not wanted in your turf. You're the alpha male dog here. And if you're a female, well then at least the name will fit.

Don't Flush Your Cat

Bad things can happen. No matter how naughty your cat has been, or how much the bet is worth, don't do it. Oh yeah, and also it's rather inhumane.

This has gotta make you wonder where the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles go when such a thing happens. Maybe they can get away on their skateboards, but Splinter probably can't run that fast. You'd think he'd smell like wet rat for days.

Quick With The Ziplock!

Today I was trying to close a ziplock bag with one hand while holding the bag in that hand. On 1-to-10 the scale of "difficult things I've had to do in my life" it would rate about 1.072. To put that into perspective, it lies somewhere above doing the hokey-pokey and below catching a frightened snake with bare hands. It was somewhat difficult, and I wasn't too quick about it. But that was okay, because I had all the time I needed to complete the task. Besides, it's not as if the world's fate rested upon the speed with which I could close the bag, right?

Well, I have it on good authority that on August 4th, 2038 at 11:09 AM EST (or thereabouts) the world's fate will rest upon that exact task being completed quickly. For if it is to take too long, a huge asteroid will collide with Earth and wipe out virtually all life. [I say "virtually" because all that would survive would be a few colonies of bacteria that live within rocks deep underground.] You see, at that time there will be some person in a spacecraft in orbit above the earth (I'm not making this up) and he or she will be using one arm to hold onto a bar that will keep the person near necessary controls while the other is frantically trying to seal a ziplock bag without losing grip of the bag. The bag will contain a liquid that, if too much of it leaks out and comes in contact with the controls, will short them out in true Hollywood fashion causing the onboard asteroid-destroying weaponry to instantly become as accurate as Dick Cheney's mallard aiming capabilities (in other words, "goodbye planet"). Thus, the entire planet's fate will rest upon closing that bag quickly and with one hand.

The thing is, I don't have it on any authority exactly who the person is that will have to close that ziplock bag. It could be me. In that case, I had better be prepared, right? And what better way to prepare than to practice? Granted I wasn't actually practicing when I tried to close the bag, but it can still be considered practice. Kinda like how playing with dolls can be considered practice for motherhood (unless you are a guy), but more directly so.

You should give it a try; it could be you that saves or destroys us all based solely on how quickly you can seal a ziplock bag with one hand while holding the bag with that hand.

Excerpt On Left Nut Discussion

[12:59] Him: see, now his comment contains naughty words that her virgin ears shouldn't read
[13:00] Him: uh, virgin eyes
[13:00] Me: Hehe.
[13:00] Me: That's okay, she's probably not a virgin.
[13:00] Him: then what's the problem? she's already familiar with men's left nuts
[13:00] Me: Haha.
[13:00] Me: But why not right ones?
[13:01] Him: those too
[13:01] Me: Maybe they say it to avoid ambiguity; if they say, "My right nut" people may take it to mean, "My correct nut" or "My nut that is honourable."
[13:02] Him: or maybe they are part of the conspiracy of right-handed people who value everything on the right, while conflating all things left as sinister and evil.
[13:03] Me: Maybe. But wouldn't you rather keep your evil nut than your "nice" one?
[13:03] Him: like, if you had to give an arm, you'd give your right, since you're left handed. but if you're right handed, you'd give your left arm, and hence your left nut
[13:03] Me: That makes no sense and you know it.
[13:03] Him: well, depends on the nature of its evilousity
[13:04] Me: I would assume it's the one that whispers to your unit, "Psst! Yo, over there,... see that? Yeah, point yourself in that direction, buddy. Right on."
[13:04] Him: I think, given the purpose of a nut, that'd be it's JOB, and thus it'd be doing good.
[13:04] Him: no, it does make sense. given two identical nuts, either is fair game for a trade. but given the cultural bias against the left side, the left nut is considered inferior
[13:05] Me: I wonder if people in Britain, who drive on the other side of the road, say, "I say there, Nigel. I would give my right nut for that crumpet."

Cut It Off

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. So when I was in the spaceship apparently I wasn't conscious, but through extensive hypnotherapy (that I had to pay because our government is so cheap) the following dialogue was extracted:

"Why is one leg shorter than the others?"
"It's not that much shorter. Besides, half the population only have 4 legs."
"This is silly, why does Joanne's only have 4 legs and ours has 5? I want a new specimen."
"Well talk to Mr. Halfinger about it."
"No, he's a jerkwad."
"You're a jerkwad."
"Yeah, but I don't make the whole class dissect these thingies just to satisfy my jollies."
"Look, if you're so worked up about that 5th leg just cut it off."
"Cut it off.... yeah?"
"Yeah. It probably doesn't need it. I'm sure the thing won't even miss that stumpy little leg when it wakes up."
"Maybe..."
"You could keep it as a souvenir."
"Heh heh..."
"Or stick it in Joanne's locker."
"Yeah, that'd be funny. Alrite. Hand me the scissors. Right. Now: hold it up for me... Hold it up!"
"Okay okay... but... wait; there's no bone in this leg."
"Maybe that's why it's so short."
"It's not that short, dude."
"Okay whatever; maybe that's why it's only as long as it is."
"Better. Got the scissors ready?"
"Yep."
"On three. Ready? One... Twooooo... Th--"
"HEY, WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?"
"Nothing, Mr. Halfinger."

Tom Cruise's Left Nut

Why is it that people (guys, usually) would "give their left nut for [something good]". Why not their right one? How is it that value is assigned to each nut separately? Furthermore, how can one nut be deemed so worthless in comparison to the other that they'd give it away in exchange for something else?

Now, I would hope that what they would give it away for is actually quite important, but you never know. On the weekend I heard Tom Cruise say he'd give his left nut to become a cadet major ("Taps", 1981). Maybe his nuts aren't worth all that much to him or something, but it doesn't sound like a fair trade to me. I'm sure there are some guys out there with the power to make him a cadet major that might call him up and say, "So, were you serious about that?" Now what they'd do with Tom's ball is beyond me... Maybe frame it? They'd have to flatten it first.

Then take the Chinese eunuchs as another example. They gave up BOTH their nuts just to serve the Emperor of China. They must have wanted that a little more than Tom Cruise wanted the "perks" that went along with moving up in the marine corps. Still... if I was browsing monster.com and I happened to come across a posting that required some light travel, experience with MS Office and my left nut, I'd probably pass.

I, for one, wouldn't give my left nut for almost anything. I say almost because maybe I'd give it away in exchange for a) the same nut right back in the same place and otherwise intact plus b) a cool million dollars. But actually, in that event I'd have to hope that whosoever's offer I accepted actually didn't try to collect the nut. I'd hope that they'd say, "Here, just take the million and we'll call it even. But I want the attaché case back; it wasn't part of the deal."

Unbreakable

When I was a kid I thought that everything that could be put together could be taken apart and then put back together again. Cuz really, what are we but made up of little atomic building block pieces? *POP* Skeletor's plastic head comes off. *POP* Skeletor's head goes back on. Simple.

That's when I was a kid. Then I got a bit older and realized that there was a small subclass of things that were harder to put back together than to take apart. --Still possible, mind you. Just harder. Take mom's fancy dishes for example. Easily knocked from the cabinet when playing murder-ball in the dining room in full hockey gear, but harder to put back together than Skeletor's head or my own dismembered corpse. But, with the right glue (and I'm talking some futuristic, invisible super-glue here) and expert hands (of somebody who spent lots of time with building blocks) those plates would look brand spanking new and be right back behind the glass of the cabinet faster than you could say, "What the heck is he blabbing on about?"

So then I got even older. That's when cold, harsh reality set in. Yeah, it was about time for me to grow up and realize that maybe not everything could be put back together exactly like it was. Like, well, the rebuilt Germany after WWII was probably not exactly the same as it had been before. And a cottage-cheese replica of the Louvre would probably never be the same once it was left in the sun for 2 days after being sneezed on by Lionel Ritche's daughter. Oh, well. Maybe not everything can be put back together again.

Anyway, I gotta go replace a lightbulb in my bathroom (it's easier than fixing it).

Ghostbusters

It's all a trick played on the audience. And it happened twice.

Busting ghosts? Please. It's about sex.

Now I know what you're thinking: Of course that's what a guy would think. But before you put me off, riddle this; why at the end do they hold these "busting" guns at crotch-level, fire it at this woman, who then turns into this big monster and then in the end they all end up covered in sticky, white goo?

The second movie was worse. Turns out shooting lasers didn't get through to the audience. So they tossed them in favour of vaguely member-shaped guns that literally squirt goo out of the end. What do they do with them? Climb up the dress of the statue of liberty and squirt it all over her insides (which apparently makes her happy enough to start walking).

Think about it.

Ghostbusters? Yeah, they're busters all right.

These blog things are stupid.

Anybody with a blog is a loser.