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.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, May 7, 2007
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.
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.
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