YAAAAAARRRRR! Thar she blows!

As a favor to all of you scam artists and spammers who frequent my blog for mindless entertainment and easy money, I've decided to vomit forth a bit of educational sludge for your consumption and perhaps draw you out from your dead end jobs writing bots and spiders to crawl the web looking for morons like us.

To that end, and forthwith, heretofore, and et cetera, et cetera, to wit:

1. Facts are your friends. Feed them well, but not after midnight.

I had a Fact once, but with medication, it cleared up after a day or two.

2. Always spread goodwill and cheer everywhere you go. Nutella might work, but is messy.

I once knew a guy called Cheer Goodwill, but he overdosed on bullets, and his name was Stanley Vermicelli.

3. This space reserved.

4. This space is really number 3.

5. All things are ultimately educational, but not all educational things are really ultimately things, unless you count what isn't really being a thing which isn't.

6. Make sure you edit for clarity, because stuff in your mind is clear to you, but may be useless gibberish to the rest of the world.

I once wrote useless gibberish, but then the New York Times hired me full time and I got writer's block.

Good night everybody!

Sing Merrily

When Helios was high in the heavens, and the earth bore the fury of summer heat, near a quiet, glassy lake, sat a young shepherd, throwing stones into the lake.

He sat on the sandy shore and watched a few geese meander towards a laughing stream that fed the thirsty lake. The stream flowed down from the snowy mountains, and through a dark wood, until it reached the life giving lake, where sat the young man with his flock, and friendly geese.

But soon the curious laughing song of the river lured him away, to follow the bubbling stream, to find the source from which it sprung, to see the voice that sang the song. He left his work behind, and entered the dark wood.

Quickly, the soft mossy shores vanished, and the boy was left to climb on boulders and sharp rocks, and still he followed the voice that now echoed on the rocks, in harmonious song.

Soon the water turned white with rage, threating to dash the careless to pieces in it's angry froth. The voice was faint, nearly drowned by the sound of the violent tempest below, but the boy cautiously continued along, ignored the warning of the friendly stream, in search of the neverending song:

Sing merrily, we rush along,

come and dance with me!

Sing merrily, we'll rush away,

and find the crashing sea!

Dance endlessly, come dance with me!

And we will cross the sea.

Dance and sing,

Laugh merrily,

And we can forever be.

Now the flowing stream gave up it's warning, and revealed a deep blue pool, in the misty mountain. The siren song was now only whispered from the deep, but was overwhelming to the ears of the enchanted lad, who stared into the darkening gloom, hoping to catch a glimpse of the source of the song which had drawn him here.

Night had fallen and Helios' chariot had crossed the sky, the glassy surface of the deepening pool mirrored the refulgent stars above, and the moon illumined the sparkling eyes of a beautiful naiad with her sisters down below. Overcome, the young man hurled himself in, and descended to it's murky depths to join them.

Too tired to go on, must sleep

So I recently watched Repo Man, and I was struck by it's similarities to Donnie Darko. A somewhat angsty fantasy that not only makes a profound comment on society, but leaves you wondering what the hell is going on.

That both of these masterpieces managed to exist despite their respective creators provides me with a conundrum. I don't know if you've seen Southland Tales, or anything else created by the nutjob responsible for Donnie Darko, but they are really insane, as if the dude was given way too much freedom just because of his previous success.

Now I don't know what the hell else Alex Cox, the Repo Man creator did, but I think that proves my point. One burst of creative genius, and that seems to have been it.

Some guys keep doing the same thing over and over, capitalizing on their success, but ultimately driving the world to boredom in a great big monotonous bus. Tim Burton's is painted like a damn mime, and really creepy.

In conclusion, some things just appear to be stuck in a man's brain. Is there a way to escape this creative doldrum? Do escape attempts become monotonous and boring in and of themselves?

Did you know Jim Carrey plays a drugged out rocker in a Dirty Harry movie?

Randy Greenman's Completely True Tale

Greetings, boys and girls!

This message is brought to you by "Sasquatch" brand deodorant, because smelling like a mysterious hairy ape is sexy as snotballs.

I don't remember when it started, it could have been after Aunt Judy fried up a pair of gym socks and served them for supper, but I think it may have been earlier, perhaps when Grandma Fitzburger got caught breaking into the City Zoo again.

Somewhere around then, aliens stole Grandma's house, and the whole family all climbed aboard the Winnebago to get her back.

We hit the freeway a little after 3 in the afternoon, and before you could say "You must be kidding me!" we were airborne over the Piggly Wiggly.

Before long, we passed over the City Zoo, and my little brother pointed out where Grandma got busted a few days ago by where the zebras were kept, and we noticed that the zebras strips were all gone.

We drove and drove, and it grew increasingly difficult to spot the road signs through the many clouds below us, but we didn't worry much about making a wrong turn, because we could just follow the stream of geese flying away from the giant alien ship steaming through the stratosphere.

Anyway, we soon landed on the ship, climbed through a broken window, and, faster than you can say "Windows on a spaceship?" we had located a computer terminal with which to find Grandma.

We punched in a lot of random buttons, because alien languages are, um, alien and weird, and soon found where Grandma was held.

That's where it all fell apart. Apparently, using the computer terminal alerted the aliens to our presence, because they all rushed in and tried to arrest us. Thus began the first giant battle.

Dad got wounded a little, because we didn't know that alien guns can shoot through plastic, and he was hiding behind a plastic chair at the time.

When the battle slowed down a little, we made a break for the door, and ran around shooting aliens and looking for the room in which Grandma was being held.

Mom found finally found Grandma, and she had a big bag of zebra stripes with her!

We grabbed her and the bag, and ran back out the window of the ship and climbed aboard the Winnebago. It was pretty messy now after driving for so long, so she had to sit on a pile of dirty clothes and empty cans of Pringles.

But we made it back, and I think that's when the adventure really began.

Glorious Like Dreaming

Food for thought during Wimbledon

Anyone notice that John McEnroe sounds a lot like Bill Murry, or possibly Carl Spackler?

What's wrong with Alice in Underland

Why is Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland terrible?

Let's take a close look at this awful movie, and find out.

First, let me stop and say that I really enjoy the art design, and there is actually a lot to like about this, but altogether, it betrays a terrible misunderstanding of Wonderland as a whole.

Burton apparently didn't ever really "feel an emotional connection" to the original, so he found Linda Woolverton and used her story instead. Why? To refresh an aged and worn story we are all tired of? If we are tired of an old overplayed story, then why would another movie version be marketable at all? I don't think that's it. I think the problem is that Burton just doesn't care about the source material, and was never really a fan in the first place.

Carroll's Alice is a masterpiece of absurdity, instead of slipping a pill of a sermon to the audience by wrapping it in a worthless sugar-coated story (as Burton's Woolverton story does), Lewis served up a fantastic masterpiece that turned that little subterfuge on it's head.

While Burton feels the need to have Alice grow as a person and learn about herself (and her role as savior of "Underland" as it's been renamed, giving you an idea of how little Burton thinks of the source) , Carroll shows us an insane world of nonsense to revel in and enjoy.

So, given that Burton's version isn't anything like the original and Burton misunderstands and apparently cares nothing for it, how does his movie stand on it's own merits?

It's an ok movie set in a fantastic world which perfectly captures Carroll's Wonderland, but which completely misses the point and ultimately falls short of being anything other than a cliched mess. If I wanted to watch another gangly misfit find out they are destined to save the world and become a successful assertive adult, I could go watch pretty much any other movie.

Burton has a great eye for design, he's a great artist, and can spin a great tale when he wants to, his interpretation of Alice and earlier, his Willy Wonka, betray his complete inability to connected with, enjoy, or understand timeless classics. There is nothing wrong with adding your own spin on an old standby, but there is no point in stealing titles and themes to sell your own crap.

Listen to the wind rush through the trees, watch it ripple over the water.

Soon the big red robot steams through the wood, to the mossy shore, and sits. He casts a weary eye at the water and motionless remains.

As the big red robot watches the water, a purple iris nearby opens, and out peeks a little winged fairy. While the robot is motionless still, the fairy climbs atop his ruddy head, laughing, dances a little jig.

Dance and laugh, little fairy, and sit, big red robot, along the shores of the Lethe!

Poseidon's Non-Adventure

I guess it all started when Captain Winterbottomsmythe murdered Lady Fitzmattering on the Southern croquet court one nice day in May.

It all went downhill from there. The butcher when belly-up, the green-grocer was chased from town for being a commie sympathizer, and the newspaper (only one in town) was deep in the red.

Soon our little village was a wreck, and everyone treated everyone else with suspicion and little whispered threats under their breath.

The Winterbottomsmythes loomed bitterly over the whole shebang, unaware of the many ghosts that were on their way to haunt the joint.

* * *

From his point of vantage above the lonely village, Gerald tossed another paper airplane into a gust of wind. The wind picked it up and hurled it clumsily back over Gerald's head and over behind him somewhere. Gerald took spoonful of soup and began folding another.

* * *

Underneath the ocean, Poseidon puffed on a bubble pipe, and scratched his beard.

Guide of Guides.

Prefect Travel Guide

Survival Kit:

• Always remember to bring an egg of Silly Putty, because you never know when you'll need to copy a Bazooka Joe comic strip.
• You need a compass so you can draw perfect circles.
• A deck of cards to while away the time and make some money
• Bazooka Bubble gum for an adhesive and comics to read
• A real survival kit

Clothes:

Clothes are important because they keep you warm and keep spiders off of you. I recommend a hat; either a Fedora or a Bowler, depending on how British you are.

Pants are a good idea, and some gloves for when you need to pull a pizza out of an oven and you don't want to burn your fingers.

Shoes are important, as your feet are a large percentage of the end of your legs.

Kung Fu:

You will need several varieties of kung fu, as different places have different styles. Kung fu is banned in several places, so don't advertise your skills.

Food:

Always bring a snack. Ideally one that fits in your pockets, like jelly beans or club sandwiches. I usually recommend cleaning the lint out of your pockets before a journey to keep your jelly beans nice and lint-free, but some lint may come in handy on the rare occasion you need a good distraction or lint. You never know what you'll find to eat in an alien world.

Weapons:

While the bigger the better usually applies--on a trip, big weapons are exhausting to carry around, and attract the attention of gendarmes and golems, so I stick with the basics: knives, poisons, little beetles with machetes, and universal computer viruses.

Books:

Always bring a cookbook, a copy of "How to win friends and disembowel people", and a couple of really big books to impress people and flowers.

Top 10 myths about lawncare

1. Garden Gnomes keep evil spirits away.

This is a myth, Garden Gnomes, while fairly benign, are powerless against the elder spirits, bad or good. They do promote a healthy garden, but are likely to be vandalized, and the little imps are apt to play practical jokes and steal things. They really aren't worth it.

Theoretically, they do make good allies against the forces of evil, but are so amazingly fickle and troublesome, I recommend leaving them be.

2. Fire ants eat invisible parasitic organisms known as 'bacteria'.

Science hasn't yet convinced anyone that 'bacteria' exist, let alone what fire ants eat, other than chili peppers. Oddly enough, this myth is fairly widespread.

3. Cutting grass destroys precious fairy habitat.

While technically possible, most fairies prefer flowers over grass. Fairies are also happy enough living anywhere above ground really.

4. Lawncare professionals are stupid liars.

Nonsense.

5. Using chemicals will help my lawn.

Contrary to all recognized good sense and science, using harsh chemicals will only upset the delicate balance of magic present in the world. It's a waste of money, and may poison dryads and hot-air balloon aficionados. Experts instead recommend using the following nature friendly substitutes:

Beer - Fertilizer

Treacle - Pesticide

Lemon Curd - pH balance

6. Gas Powered machinery is alien to our world.

Internal Combustion Engines were developed here on earth, though the source of their original designs is unknown. I believe there is sufficient evidence to prove conclusively that these engines are purely terrestrial. Jet engines, of course, are advanced devilry from another planet.

7. Croquet may damage my lawn.

Croquet is ancient sport of kings and queens which most grass finds agreeable, though certain types of grass (crab grass, astro-turf, mercury spats, devil grass) may react violently or die without warning. Some grass has been trained to cheat visiting players at the game, so offer it some sweet wine before playing to make sure it's on your side.

8. If I leave my home, the grass stays there.

This is actually true, except in extremely rare cases, your grass should remain firmly rooted to the ground.

9. Scarecrows will keep pesky crows away from my lawn.

Scarecrows actually do little in the way of scaring crows. The only reliable method is to install peacocks or flamingos.

10. People will think less of me for having a sub-par lawn.

While there are a lot of jerks out there, the condition of your lawn is mostly a reflection of the condition of your soil than your soul.

Several cults originating in France found their way to suburban areas of the US, where people worship the gods of grass, instead of merely observing them in amusement. Members of such cults may turn up their noses at unkempt lawns, but they are snobby insecure little prats.

Monster

So anyway, Robert put the finishing touch on his new robot, and with a moment's hesitation, pressed the big red button and threw a giant switch, causing a shower of sparks to leap from the contacts.

The big red monstronsity before him shuddered and groaned, it resembled a collapsed scaffold with a few pieces of heavy machinery buried in the twisted beams of steel and iron. Big puffs of smoke spewed from the rusty behemoth's innards and sat fixed above like a dark omen.

A big red screen lit up and a few roman numerals flashed in sequence. Robert scrawled down the numbers on a notepad, and tossed another switch.

This time the monstrosity rose a few shakey feet into the air, accompanied by the screams of tortured metal and earth.

'OK so far,' Robert commented.

'Hurrrrrrrr' the robot said.

twitterschmitter

Almost forgot to say that our dear friend Cerebron has started a twitter account, because firing off updates in the middle of high-flying kung fu action is easier that way.

Twitter.com/CerebronIX (I believe) is the url at which you can find our favorite nut.

Smackadoo

Just thought I'd share with the tiny fragment of our demented world that is oddly curious about what an intergalactic journalist for the galaxy's foremost publisher of tripe and deceitful advertising has to say about essentially nothing, my latest creative epiphany of epic proportions.

Then I got to thinking about how I typically, and without warning—unless you are familiar with my fantastic and wonderfully predicable style—change the subject and radically dismiss everything I convinced you was important.

So I changed my mind and wrote something vitally important instead. I sent it off the the New York Times, and received a scathing letter of reprimand in return, rebuking my attempt to sully the good name of Benedict de Spinoza, and to please not use so many semi-colons and scatological epithets when referring to the Duke of Plaza-Toro's solicitors.

Nonsense, of course. My literary accomplishments have earned me the right to say whatever I want to say about whatever it is that strikes my fancy at the time, whether or not I forgot where I was going at this particular junction.

In this sense, one must understand that Achilles was not only a great and honorable warrior, but a true revolutionary in his re-evaluation of the honor system by which the Greek warrior lived his life.

One may be somewhat curious as to the state of mind of the author capable of writing like this, but one must not wear one's hat on one's nose, unless it's a very small beret or possibly a deerstalker and one is really ugly or perhaps one of the despicable crusty clown types.

This is of course, a proverb from the Zoroastrian guru, Mikhail Kittybottom. I've stolen it and have it locked up in a safety deposit box, lest the Zoroastrian religion once again spread across the land and consume all of our Tropicana Orange Juice, as it once did in the time of great cheese and rotten TV.

Take that you bastards.

Ok, wise guys, who's the hoppiest frood this side of Hawaii 5-0's Jack Lord?

You guessed it, it's me--Ford "the Cuticle" Prefect, posting one of my ever-popular Q&A sessions, and utilizing the lazy man's em dash.

Without further adieu (because goodbyes are so hard), let us begin at the beginning, where all good things start, unless you count epic poetry, which sometimes starts just before the middle begins.

Q. How you be so crazy?

A. Never you mind. This isn't the time, nor the place, Dr. Trussman. I know it's you, with your psychoanalysis, and your court orders, but this is a fun place for me to escape the misery of everyday life, to find release from crippling guilt over... nothing. I refuse to play your little game.

Q. How many strawberries does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. A house.

Q. What's the fun in stealing a car and driving it off a cliff?

A. I REFUSE TO PLAY YOUR LITTLE GAMES.

Q. What's your inspiration for writing?

A. The cast of Ghostwriter

A. 5th Element

Q. What's your favorite movie?

Q. Why would anyone leave spam comments on an otherwise unpolluted and awesome bloggomat?

A. They are nozzles of the highest odor.

Q. What convinced you that anyone would read this tripe, mildly entertaining though it may be?

A. I'll start cutting up these hostages man.

Q. So what would you say is a healthy level of exuberance in an average post-potty celebration?

A. I believe it's based on the amount of relief you experienced, times the density of the BM, minus the odor and only a fraction of a point for sticking the landing.

A. I heard you were a word nerd?

A. I tire of your insolence.

Q. Who would win in a battle to the death; Batman, or the Blob?

A. This is a trick question. Batman can't kill anyone, it's his only flaw. And the Blob may not even be alive.

Q. So, Donatello or Brunelleschi?

A. I think I prefer Bruneslleshi's simplicity over the complexity of Donatello. Turtle jokes aside.

Q. Seriously though, do you think the planet Hoth's gravity would have made the Empire's walking things impractical to use in the snow?

A. Wait, I've got a Ninja Turtle joke somewhere

Q. Do you think that my starter might be going?

A. Hold on, I've got an answer to that Star Wars thing

Q. I'm serious about my starter

A. I'm serious about my damn Ninja Turtle joke

Q. Moving on, I thought you were witty and had quick comebacks, like those people on the TV.

A. I'm doing my best. Wait, Donatello was the one with the stick right? Leonardo had the sword, am I right?

Q. Answer the question about my starter, then I have one more, and you can go back to playing video games.

A. Ok, does it click when you turn the key?

Q. What's the proper way to end an interview?

Video Game Review! Oh noes!

"Army of TWO: 40th Day" is an ambitious mess of a game. It opens with a bang, as an entire city explodes all around the player, but the game ultimately cascades down around the player in much the same way.

Ok. So it's actually really fun, especially with a friend. Customizing weapons and thinking out battlefield tactics, such as flanking maneuvers, cover fire, etc. are the main draw in this game, which is presented with an entertaining cinematic flair. The game is a fun experience with a friend along, and in fact, if you haven't got one, would seem to have lots of weird design decisions, like playing "rock paper scissors" with your teammate. Wait. That is still a weird design, why is that even in this game?

The game is plagued with horrible design; unskippable cutscenes abound, and if you want to play Versus, you have to load up a Versus menu (and load times are unbearably long).

I played with a friend, and--playing on a high difficulty because we aren't pussies, and we are slaves to the Achievement trap--we attempted a tough level over and over until we passed it, and then the game once disconnected us, and once just bugged out so no further progress was possible. At that point, the game was a chore and subject to much cursing.

Weapon customization is pretty fun, lots of crazy ideas can be played with there, do you want a polka dot sniper rifle, or a shotgun with a shield on the front? Go ahead, go nuts! But make sure you pass the next checkpoint afterwards, because if you don't, you will have to customize your weapon all over again, wasting even more time through loading screens, etc.

This game is actually pretty frustrating. Maybe if you've got a buddy and something to take the edge off, you'll enjoy it, but it's actually not a good game. It's an ok game, if this was 1998, it might be a phenomenal game, but why bother with a subpar mess of a game with horrible controls and terrible programming in this day and age? Or any?

Screw it. This game is pretty bad.

Jordan Stuart, Spaceman. Part II

Jordan Stuart peeked around the corner at the four grimy space pirates fumbling around with a large Pulse Repeater 3000, and, noticing that the Repeater's charge cannister had fallen on the floor, clicked the lever on his blaster over burst fire mode. He listened for the slight hum, and felt for the barely noticeable vibrations in the handle of the blaster that indicated a full charge.

Then, very coolly, and without pause, he raised the blaster to the ready position, and spun around the corner, fired four shots in rapid succession, and felled all four disgusting space pirates, three scaly, and one incredibly hairy.

This sort of thing had been going on ever since he and his incredibly beautiful and intelligent girlfriend, Zoe, and abandoned the Earth in the midst of a horrific zombification. Now their lives where filled with more adventure than a normal earthling could handle.

Not long ago, they had barely out-maneuvered a jagged and lumpy pirate ship through an asteroid field, stopped at a damp rest-planet to catch a game of space cricket. There, the pirates caught up to them, and they somehow ticked off the Glastic Royal Guards of Remly 9, and thoroughly riled the population of parasitic ice slugs orbiting Station Phi outside of Theta Quadrant.

Of course, all of this, new and confusing as it would be to any human, was taken in stride and handled professionally and with scathing wit and a great deal of exciting chases and sarcasm by Jordan and Zoe, and they zipped through the galaxy in their Silver Dart, the sexiest space-craft Earthman had ever devised, the first and only one capable of such adventures.

Right now, Zoe had fallen victim to the oldest scam in the galaxy, and been enslaved to some sort of tyrannical space bean, and once again, Jordan launched another hair-brained scheme to rescue her. Most of his schemes were too wild to work, but somehow all came together in the end to the benefit of the good guys.

This scheme mostly consisted of charging straight into the lion's den, and punching everyone in his way, shooting the odd alien who was either impossible to punch, or brandished some sort of weapon.

After dispatching the aforementioned pirates, Jordan made his way further into the pulsating moss-covered lair of the Evil King Bean, and found Zoe working her way out behind a hostage she was using to shield herself from various lasers, particle beams, and pesticides that were fired in her direction.

Jordan provided accurate cover fire, and they both edged out of the wide open foyer, and down into a random hallway where they could control the advance of their enemy, and enjoy the holographic artwork hanging on the walls.

Zoe kicked her hostage into an incidental table covered in knickknacks, and together, our fantastic couple backpedaled down the hallway, firing the odd shot at whatever alien was foolhardy enough to stick his head or whatever appendage had an eye on it around the corner.

Soon, they found themselves in the shiny metal shipbay area--a nice change of scenery from the creepy mold structure that made up the rest of the palace--and climbed aboard a small, round little contraption that hovered them out through the main gate, and they sailed away, back to the Silver Dart carefully hidden in a cave.

Caractacus

Sun set, that fiery chariot dove into the briny deep. Night fell, and the world plunged into darkness. The moon hid her face, and the world was still.

Swiftly through the night our hero ran, though the darkness hid his way. His feet well knew the way he trod, and truly kept the path.

One by one the stars winked out, and the way grew rough and wild. Yet on our hero went, slower now, and slower.

Why you ask, why this rush? Why at night this bold, courageous hurry? I'll tell you now, lend an ear, rest your head, and hear this song I sing.

The story of Caractacus, our hero brave, and Lily White, his love so true and fair; began so long ago, when first they met, at court one summer's day.

Their love was pure and fast, though doomed so soon by trouble. An evil sign, a bird flew by, and those who saw they shuddered.

The summer past, and their ways too soon were parted. Lily White was spirited away, across the mountains and sea.

So now our hero, Caractacus, has sailed off to find her. Across the sea, to foreign lands, wherever the wind did lead him.

Almost there, the darkness falls, and again, his love he loses. But when the stars come out, and in the night, of Lily White, a glimpse again he catches.

Regaining strength, his wits he gathers, and off again he flies. Forever lost, and yet so close, you'll find the hero, Caractacus.

His endless search throughout the world will never end, but sometimes at night, when the stars go out, you'll catch a glimpse of white.

And that, my friend, is prize he seeks, his love so true and fair. And sometimes at night, if the light's just right, you'll see the hero Caractacus.

Indeed.

Bah. The holidays are thingie and whatnot, leading to the whatsits and something, and a severe shortage of the various bits that make reading interesting.

However cobbled together these bits were, Todd continued wrenching them from the ether, in an effort to create what used to be described as 'stories'. These had disappeared over the years, in either the greatest, most devastating robbery ever, or perhaps just through apathy and a general miscarriage of justice.

Either way, Todd had no idea what he was doing, and after a few failed attempts, just started stringing together names of breakfast cereals and soft drinks.

This worked quite well, and established a good base for further attempts, using names of print shops and convenience stores. These latter attempts grew slightly more depressing as time went on, though several works were pure genius, and a few were hilariously bad.

Todd made a fortune from these works, mostly from large corporations paying for advertising. So, Todd's income depended primarily on large corporations, which unfortunately where destroyed in the 3rd Great Marketing Wars, leaving things a bit worse off, (notably, Todd.) However, the end of these monstrous corporations signaled the beginning of true creativity, hobbled though it may be by the lack of cereal boxes to riff off of.

Creativity, then, struck without warning, and with the triumphant decline of marketing organizations. Creativity blazed away with both barrels for a time, leaving people like Todd riddled with bullets and crippling holes in their chests.

Google Wave

Gonna play with Google Wave for awhile, I might attempt to integrate it with this site, but for what purpose?

It's like inventing a pivoting socket wrench before many people have bolts to deal with, it's a fantastic tool for solving an unimportant issue.

Anyway, how should I implement it?