Monday, December 19, 2005

The Xmas Post

It's a funny thing about Xmas. I'm fairly certain--or at least as certain as one can be in these uncertain times--that Xmas doesn't bring anyone on this planet event he tiniest amount of joy, except for the children, but it's a tainted joy, because it centers around getting presents. You see, most people are so hell bent on making it the "best Xmas EVER," and are so wrapped up in making sure that everything goes like clockwork, that they forget to have a good time and stop being so stressed out. Holidays, especially the holidays, are the most stressful time of year, and I think Xmas, probably even more than St. Val's Day, has the highest suicide rate. And I'm sure most of those suicides are the direct result of a turkey that got a little too dry in the oven.

Weddings are the same way. People are way too stressed out to have a good time. Well, except for the guests who had nothing to do with the planning. They just drink the free booze, eat the free food, and dance with bridesmaids (or groomsmen). The actual people who are closest to the wedding itself, espcially the bride (it's her day), are the ones most likely to have panic attacks and high blood pressure on that big day. That's why I think eloping is much better.

Now, interestingly enough, funerals are the places where to the most sincere emotions are felt. Especially if the deceased was a truly loved person. People are too caught up in grief to worry about whether the funeral goes off without a hitch. And of course, some funerals are disasters (like if the coffin fell off the altar and the body fell out, and landed in a mangled heap), but most of the time, the actual disaster of losing a loved one outweights pretty much anything that could ever happen at the funeral itself.

The question: Why can't weddings and Xmases be more like funerals?

The answer: who knows? People are ridiculous.

The Good Doctor's Prescription: Have a fucking good time at Xmas, you ungrateful bunch of assholes. And if you don't, I will personally hunt you down, and shoot you full of happy drugs so that you can't help it.

Merry Xmas jerks!

Friday, December 16, 2005

We Make You Need Our Product

It is a well known, and long celebrated fact that telemarketers are hated above most other forms of advertisement and marketing schemes. That's why we at Kuha Global Enterprises, Inc, have devised a whole new way to get people to buy our products. The fine people down in Marketing have discovered that we can get much better results by using psychics to directly implant into people's minds the need to buy our product.

Why mess around with all the tedious hang ups of telemarketing campaigns, when all we need to do, is reach into a person's mind, instill in said person a deeply seeded need to buy our product (like for instance, the Quantum Occilating Trichrome Juicer, manufactured by one of our subsidiaries), and then, we extract out of their mind all the necessary information to finalize the transaction, such as credit card numbers, home address, social security numbers, and psychic imprints of all thier relatives so that we may build our customer base.

It's all so simple. Some may say it's an infringement of privacy, but we have made it abundantly clear, that by the time our sales pitch is done (and this is really just a matter of seconds), the customer not only wants our a product but needs it with a thirst that can only be quenched by the purchase of one of our many fine products and services.

The processes employed by our psychics are as non-invasive as possible, and leave only minimal damage with very few side-effects, like those reported by some of the customers of our competitors. We have never had a dissatisfied customer, because they all, in one way or another, end up with our product and are pleased by it.

Some have asked us how we acquire our telepaths. Well, the answer to that is simple. We breed them. They have no concept of an outside world, and exist only to push our products. This is fine, because they are bred to only want to push products and move merchandise. Kuha Enterprises never has surplus goods.

Our tele(pathic)marketers are some of the best in the business, and we have decided, that for a nominal fee, we will sell thier services to other corporations in need of a marketing campaign with near 100% success rate. Granted, this particular service will be very, very expensive, but we at Kuha Global Enterprises believe that it will be well worth everyone's while.

Never an unsatisfied Customer

Monday, December 12, 2005

Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men!

If you were to zoom into this picture and take a good look at the plaque on the wall, you would see that this skeleton has been dated to somewhere between 2130 and 2230 years BC. That means that this cat died over four thousand years ago. What does that mean for us as a species? I mean, why is this guy's skeleton be in a museum? And how can I get my skeleton in a museum? Hmm...good questions. First of all, who was this guy? There's no way of knowing for certain, but if you were to do a statsitcal model of all the people that ever lived, and what they did for a living, the likelihood of this guy being a blue collar worker (or the tribal equivalent thereof) is exceedingly high. Now, maybe he had a special burial, which would give him a slightly higher place in society. Maybe a priest or a chieftain. But since I don't know if the guy had a special burial (I took the picture a few years ago and haven't been back to that museum since), we can't be sure. Still, regardless of who this dude was, there is still a question to be asked: what is the significance of having this guy's corpse in a museum?

The answer? Humans are packrats. There are a few variables to consider: age,'s about it. It doesn't matter how interesting or educational the object is, if it's old or rare (preferably both) we are highly likely to keep it in a museum, or at least pay ridiculous sums of money to possess and show it off. I bet a dedicated mathematician could build you an equation modeling this trend. I mean, if Babe Ruth rookie cards are encased in mylar and stuffed in a hyperbaric chamber, this dude's skeleton is probably under lock and key...oh is. And there's security cameras.

So why do we keep this useless crap around? I mean, aside from educational purposes, these things are useless. And Babe Ruth rookie cards (or trading cards in general) are totally fucking useless.

Okay, so educational purposes. we try to learn about ancient cultures by looking at thier skeletons and how they were buried. I'm pretty sure that scientists have learned everything they can about this skeleton, so why are we hanging on to it? I mean, right now, it's just clutter. Useless, annoying clutter. I took a picture of it, but that's all the further documentation that I need.

We're packrats. I have all sorts of useless crap around my house that I have for "sentimental reasons." And you know something? I think I would be a better person if it all burned up in a catastrophic fire (except my computer, I would want that to survive; it has no sentimental purpose whatsoever beyond the storage of these pictures).

I propose that we go on a campaign to eliminate all the useless junk that we, as a species, have accumulated over the years. Dinosaur bones, human remains, statues, paintings, musical compositions, pots, arrowheads, literature. It's all worthless crap and nobody learns anything useful from it anyway. We still have all the same problems that we've always had. How many jerks have written books about the folly of war? Tons of them! Let's get rid of it. We don't need it! We can live in the now, and forget the past.

And while we're at it, I think we should just completely stop looking to the future. It's totally pointless, since we can't plan anything out properly anyway. Let's just assume, since there's no "hard evidence" to the contrary, that the world will stay the same temperature, continue to belch out oil for our driving pleasure, and that no more animals will go extinct. The future be damned, and our grandkids with it.

So, now that we've eliminated the past and future, what about the present? I think we can stay pretty safe here. No lessons learned from our forefathers (who were they again?), and no reason to look more than a day or two ahead (I think I'll go play Dungeons and Dragons tomorrow night). Hmm... Paradise! Nothing more meaninful than a backrub or a pop song from some teeny bopper idol. That is so perfect. I would live here. Right now. And never think about anything else. Oh, and the best part is: all ideas are original. The statute of limitations would be no more than a year, so you can write a book about whatever you want, and you can't get sued for plagiarism!

My friends, I think I just solved all the world's problems! I mean, let's forget what all our ancestors did! They were all a bunch of screwups; I mean, they're dead, aren't they? And if we stop having them to look at for guidance, we won't make all of their mistakes again. I think it's a perfect plan. Yup. No problems with it whatsoever.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Apple Juice is Obsolete!

The offices of Practical Solutions for Banal Lifestyles (PSBL) has finally come through! The laws of science and metaphysics have finally been unravelled for your drinking pleasure. Yes, the future is here, my friends! What you've been waiting for all along, the Quantum Occilating Trichrome Juicer! The QOT Juicer is a revolutionary new product that allows you to extract the essence, in liquid form, to basically juice, anything. Yes, it's true, anything. You can juice everything from a pineapple to a television set!

Thirsty? Got a spare sofa that you're trying to get rid of? Juice it! Just shove that sofa into the juicer and out will come a nice, cold, delicious glass of couch juice (probably a small amount of spare change and cracker crumb juice as well!). Add some vodka, and you've got a cocktail party that the your friends will talk about for months!

Not only can you juice any substance or combination of substances that exist on Earth or anywhere in the universe, you can extract the essence, in juice form, of any emotion, feeling, or abstract concept known or explored in didactic poetry since the beginning of man! Jealousy shooter: 2 parts anger, 1 part insecurity, an ounce of tequila, and a dash of triple sec. Wistful Fizz: 1 part nostalgia, 1 part childlike wonder, and a dash of club soda.

You've always wanted to drown yourself in your sorrow? Well, now you'll know what a poor substitute beer is for the real thing! Now, for the first time in the history of mankind, we can drink to our health, for real! And we can toast friendship, without all that tedious mucking about with wine and champagne.

Oh, and did I mention it also makes really good orange juice?

(The idea for this post was unabashedly stolen from some of my closest friends)

Monday, November 28, 2005

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Unmittigated Zealotry for Sale!

I am not a religious person. There, I said it. It's very strange what the world has done to atheism. It's a little less offensive to some people to claim to be an agnostic, but I'm not an agnostic. I am an atheist. It's not that I believe that God does not exist. I am convinced of it. There is a subtle but important distinction there.

You see, the essence of science is not to prove things. And I tend to take a scientific view of most things. A scientific theory can be defined as, 'the best explanation that fits the data we have.' So when we talk about the 'theory' of evolution, this is what we mean. It is not 'just a theory' it is the explanation for the origin of species that science has.

So I have this theory, that God does not exist. This explanation seems to fit the evidence most closely. Since there is no evidence that God exists, and in the case of supernatural beings, I think the burden of proof would have to rest on the theist end, it is simple induction that God does not exist. As for souls, spirits, and other metaphysical constructs, we get a little grayer. God does not have to exist for people to have souls. I'm not saying I believe people have souls; far from it, however, I think it's harder to be definite on the issue.

Religion, as far as I'm concerned, has lost the most important thing that it ever possessed: aesthetic appeal. The most aesthetically appealing religions hail from the East. They have the most developed metaphysics, resting on a certain brand of logic. No western religion is based on logic, they are based on accepting texts as the word of God...this is silly. Eastern religions are (with few exceptions) based on the problem of human suffering, it's causes, and methods of eliminating it. This is neat. So most Eastern religions are humanistic. Whereas Western religions are theocentric, and oftentimes pretty much require an increase in human suffering.

Someday, I would like to start a religion, where men are capable of becoming gods (like Buddha, not like Mormons). The term 'god' would be much more loosely defined. Sex would be okay in my religion. Morality would be a lot more subjective. I think morality and religion are probably going to continue to be tightly intertwined, so it would probably be a good idea to make the rules very loose in my religion, so people could use logic to figure out the best path, rather than memorization of rules (how many Christians, or even Jews for that matter, actually follow all the rules laid down in Exodus and Leviticus). There would be no holy texts in my religion, because those things really muddle up the works, and people start worshipping the text, rather than doing what they're supposed to be doing: worshipping me.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

I am Thankful'm thinking...

So there you are, sitting around the table, a feast of unimaginable proportions lay before you. The food is on your plate. Your glass is full of wine. Your stomach is rumbling, because you've been fasting all day waiting for this glorious moment. And then someone brings it up. You were hoping this moment wouldn't come. The question is asked, "What is everyone thankful for?" They go around the table. You're thankful that you weren't first, that's for sure...but what else? I mean, there are innumerable things you ought to be thankful for... for instance, you wouldn't be celebrating Thanksgiving if you didn't live in America, and being born here is kind of like winning the lottery in a sense. The vast majority of people are not born in America, and the largest portion of people in the world are very poor and do not get to eat turkeys in November, and don't have presidents who pardon one turkey for a photo op on said holiday. As a sidenote, I've always thought this was a stupid tradition...I mean, the Turkey has not commited any sort of crime (beyond being born a turkey sometime before Thanksgiving), and therefore has nothing to be pardoned for. But the president always saves one from the choppnig block (actually, he pardons two). So anyway, there you are, dreading your turn turn to talk about what you're thankful for.

Invariably your turn comes around; you complement the cook, whoever made the food, whether the bird is dry or not, mention a significant other or two out of obligation, and if you're lucky, you can manage to crack a joke or two and not sound like you've been forced into it. Then everyone says grace, an interminable thirty seconds, and then, finally you get to eat. You dig in, thankful mostly that all that traditional stuff is out of the way, and you can finally do what Thanksgiving was started for in the first place, stuffing your fat face until you can't eat anymore, because if you do, you'll just yack it all up and feel like crap for the rest of the night, or worst, your stomach will burst and you'll die a horrifyingly painful death as stomach acid leaches out into your abdomen, destroying all sorts of sensitive organs and tissue.

Turkeys are hideous birds. Take a moment to click on the pictures. They're awful.
The top picture may be meant to be somewhat touching...but let's face it, it's kind of disturbing. I mean, there's really nothing majestic about these birds except that something like eighty percent of thier body mass is edible and delicious (if prepared properly and not injected with an absurd amount of meat-rubberizing hormones). I'm thankful that I'm not a Turkey. I'm thankful that I'm not from Turkey, for that matter.

It's not that I hate the Thanksgiving. Far from it, tonight, I got completely smashed and ate enough food to feed a young boy in a chinese sweatshop for three weeks. It's just that sometimes holidays are not fun in the same way that they used to be when we were kids. When you're a kid, you have no responsibility beyond having a good time...but now, holidays can become very stressful, especially if you're having dinner with family that you "haven't seen in a while." It's like some P.R. meeting or some sort international summit. You're on your best behavior. You make peace with your uncle who's an abusive closet drunk. Everybody knows it, but it's a bigger sin to disrupt the false stability of the holiday than to point out what an incredible asshole that guy is. Okay, so most of this is an extreme hypothetical situation. This year the day was mostly pleasant. However, I have had some really bad ones (wait till I post on Xmas).

I am thankful that some people will read this and get a laugh.

Monday, November 21, 2005

God is great, God is good, Let us thank Him for this food.

There's a long tradition of tyrants in this world. Some are smart, some stupid. Some are ugly, some are handsome. Some are more ruthless than others. But the one quality that they all possess, is a singular desire to maintain a status quo. To hold on to thier power.

It is no surprise, therefore, that Saddam Hussein did everything that he did. I mean, megalomania coupled with a certain degree of charisma can give someone the potential to do most anything in this world. Hussein was almost artistic in the way he subjugated the Iraqi people. I think it was Laurie Anderson who said that the only true avant-garde artists left in the world are terrorists, because they are the only people who can still manage to surprise us. Of course, that was true when Laurie Anderson said it, it may not be as true today. The terrorists of today are less and less able to shock anybody, save those who are victims. In fact, terrorist attacks are only becoming more banal and routine, particularly to those of us who merely read about them in the paper, or hear about them on BBC news.

But maybe there's one man out there, who still has the balls to subject millions of people to his will and continue to come off as a pretty nice guy. Of course, you already know just who that might be. The question is, is his brand of terrorism less, equal, or more artistic than the al-qaeda's or the now defunct regime of Saddam Hussein. Did you know that President George Walker Bush is part of school of thought that truly believes that the "end of days," the second coming of Jesus Christ, can't happen until the Jews are all back in Isreal (or maybe it's that Isreal has to be completely under the political jurisdiction of the Jews, I can't remember exactly)? Regardless, it is interesting to note that this dictates a nice chunk of his foreign policy, particularly as pertains to the Gaza Strip. Okay, I have not done the actual research on this tidbit, but a history professor told me about it, and I tend to believe her.

So, lets examine: Osama bin Laden believes that Allah has charged him with expelling the infidels from the Middle East. Bush believes that God put him in office. Saddam told his people that they should believe that Allah put him in office (a subtle but important difference). I think the question remains, who is the most sane of these three men? I think it all comes down to what carries more of a burden of insanity: a god complex or megalomania. Hmm... Since it could be argued that a god complex is just a more severe form of megalomania, it is pretty evident that Saddam Hussein is probably the sanest person in this group of crazed psychoes who have somehow ended up in charge of decision making for large numbers of people. And now which ones are still in power? An interesting trend: the most insane people are tending to stay in power.

The lesson: If you want to stay in power, you had goddamn well better be bat shit crazy and have a god complex to boot.

Friday, November 18, 2005

An Interview With an Indian

It is becoming increasingly prevalent in popular culture these days, to pretend to have different ethnicity than what you actually possess. I had a little sit-down interview with someone who has made an artform out of this practice. His name is Weetootwaag. Or just Twaag for short. He is probably of Scandinavian or Bulgarian descent, but is convinced that deep down inside, he is really a Scottish-Ojibwe. Let's see how the interview went.

Dr.K: Weetootwaag, or can I call you Twaag?

Twaag: Sure, whatever.

Dr. K: I understand...Twaag...that you claim to be the most knowledgeable person in the world of the Ojibwe language. How does it feel to be a Bulgarian with such a vast knowledge of a dying language?

Twaag: Um...I'm not Bulgarian....and I never made that claim.

Dr. K: Fascinating. And you are also a world famous bag piper, is that not correct?

Twaag: *laughs* I wouldn't exactly say world famous. But in some circles, yes, I am known to be fairly proficient on the Scottish Pipes

Dr. K: Amazing. Twaag... last of a dying breed... the only White Indian left in America who plays the Scottish Pipes. That's quite a tough legacy to hold true to, is it not?

Twaag: Um.. What are you getting at?

Dr. K: I am merely trying to establish for our readers that you are, in fact, the only White Bulgarian Scottish Indian left in America, and the spiritual battle, what can only be a losing battle, you must face on a day to day basis has laid a heavy burden on your soul...

Twaag: Um... Jesus, Doctor, when you put it that way... *sheds a single tear, a slight breeze flutters his long, flowing locks*... Umm...well, I guess I do what I can to keep the tradition alive. Bagpiping isn't exactly a dying art, but Ojibwe is and---

Dr. K: Absolutely astonishing, Twaag. I wonder, if you could tell our readers what it is that you've been keeping busy with these days?

Twaag: *somewhat annoyed* Well, I've been playing some piping gigs, I teach inner city African Americans the Ojibwe language, I guess I play D&D from time to time, and other than school, I guess I grab a beer at the bar now and then.

Dr. K: Really, interesting. And you drink a lot?

Twaag: *Shrugs* Sometimes, I guess. Oh man, *laughs* there was this party last week, I got so hammered *eyes glaze over in blissful remembrance of last drink.*

Dr. K: How long have you been binge drinking like this?

Twaag: Oh, I don't do it that often. A couple times a month or so.

Dr. K: So tragic. Twaag, your struggle with alcoholism has hampered your career goals as a White Scottish Indian, how has it affected your home life?

Twaag: I'm not an alcoholic.

Dr. K: My friend, you must not pretend that these problems don't exist. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

Twaag: I'm not an alcoholic.

Dr. K: Twaag, I feel that we've really gotten close in these last few minutes, and I want you to know, that you can tell me anything...of course, that doesn't mean that I won't post it on the internet... just...let it out. Tell me what you've been dying to tell someone! What your heart has been screaming to admit to for so long!

Twaag: *Silently scowling*

Dr. K: About your alcohol problem...

The interview ended here. Wetootwaag is apparently one of those violent drunks, because he viciously attacked me and gave me a black eye. I do not begrudge him this, because he has a problem he is trying to get over, not to mention the fate of an entire race of people resting squarely on his rippling shoulders. I hope this little glimpse into the private life of a reclusive White Scottish Indian Alcoholic has made it easier to feel a little tolerance, and maybe even accept these obscure and often misunderstood people of a "trans-ethnic" sort.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Cynical Ramblings on Individual Virtue

My friends, it has come to my attention, that there is a potential candidate, never before considered for an illustrious position in the fabled Pantheon of Coolness, home of such things as Pirates, Ninjas, Zombies, and Pirate-Ninja-Zombies. And I think that they might just get a shot at that spot that just opened up when Corporate Lawyers got kicked out. In case thier obvious coolness (and the above photo) has not clued you in, they are hobos, friends...hobos.

Why are hobos so cool you ask? Why should hobos have the open spot in the Pantheon of Coolness? I'm glad you asked. Hobos are solitary individuals. They are also completely self-serving, though not in exactly the same way as Pirates, Ninjas and Zombies. They are are not interested in booty (treasure), killing lots of people, or eating brains. But they are interested in not being tied down by "the man." These increasingly elusive creatures are known for a pondering, simple, philosophical kind of life.

There is no rush; there is no hurry. There is not bother...just existence. "Live like a dog," says the 20th century's true cynic. The punks and hippies are descended from hobos in a way. The hobo, to counterpoint, however, detatched completely. He never muddled about in politics, never dreamed that any such pretension would be anything but a degredation of the peace and solitude one can find by just being alone.

And so, I am going to hear arguments for and against admitting the hobo into the Pantheon of Coolness. Anyone who wishes it, is free to give their input on this matter. And the Good Doctor reserves the right, of course, to completely disregard any and perhaps all of those comments. And finally, the hobo just might get the unwanted recognition he truly deserves.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

A Thing or Two About Bart

I have this friend. Well...who can say what a friend is? His name is Black Bart. He is the pink pirate with the banjo. Standing in the foreground is some random bumpkin...most likely a sexual predator.

Anyway...what can I say about Black Bart? Well, for one thing, he's finally doing what America has been too lazy to do. He's invading China with no one to help but his sister and his girlfriend. He told me before he left, that they weren't supposed to drink the water. But if I know Bart (and I know Bart...very well), he will have built up a tolerance to it in a week flat. First, you gotta rub a little on your gums and see what happens. Then you take a little thimblefull, and slowly but surely, you will build up a tolerance. Then again, if not even the locals drink the water...I guess there's no point.

Black Bart is one of those enigmatic characters. Maybe not as wise as the Good Doctor, certainly not as good looking, but with a style and panache all his own. Did I mention that owns moon land? Yes, apparently you can do that. For a mere $150.00 you can own a plot in a neighborhood on the moon. You get a deed and everything. Some people said Bart was crazy. He would hear none of it. He said if he was ever in a court battle over it, he would rather be on the side that owned the moon land.

What else can you say about Black Bart? The nefarious "Pink Pirate of the Iron Range," has been rambunctioned into the annals of history by merely waggling a finger. He can heave a sigh, and women weep. He can laugh a laugh, and men will dance. He can strum a chord on his Banjo of the Lepton, and the whole world will quake in awe and wonderment! With a snap of his wrist, and a stroke of the brush, astonishing works of art are created. And you've gotta admit, he doesn't look half bad in pink.

Finite Rambunctions of a Lunatic Ego

There has bee a lot of speculation over the last couple of weeks over just who, in fact, the Good Doctor is. Myself. It is so hard to quantify. You can't pin him down in a sentence or two. Many a graduate student, in an attempt to write a thesis on this very subject, has found himself in a padded room, limited to a diet of lukewarm chicken broth and vitamin supplements, and in a few rare cases, an innability to comprehend spoken language...sometimes for years at a time.

There is a versimilitude inherent in his whole ego. He is by turns, a Boddhisatva, a Guru of unparalleled wisdom, a dilettante of incredible candor, a god (or at least considered by many gods to be a "really good guy" and worthy of "coming round for tea on occaision"), and an expert marksman.

What is he a Doctor of, you ask? Well, in some ways, it's a self-proclaymed tytle. He will be the first to admit that. However, the responsibility that demanded him to be the Good Doctor, was thrust upon him. He did not take it up lightly, or with anything short of the most abject humylity. This was not a voluntary act. But when the need arose, and there certainly was a need, he showed his almost infinite compassion towards the world and took up the Stethescope of Ambiguity and the Caduceus of Bipartisan Politics, and looked the world straight in the eye, stared right the most obscure and malicious corners of the human soul, the blackest, most loathsome scabs precariously situated over the festering wounds in the human spirit, and here he did not quake, my friends! Here he stood fast! And raised his arms in triumph, for all to see! For all to rejoyce and say, "YES! This is what it means, to tame the beast within! To sow the seeds of healing in an impoverished collective human spirit!"

And then the people knew. The Good Doctor was here to stay. He would fight their battles. He would warm their souls by the Snuggly Hearth of Ambiguous Certitude. "Sit by the fire," he says calmly. And there is nothing you can do, but curl up in a nice folding chair and listen as he imparts the True Wysdom that he alone possesses and can share. You feel comforted. There is a catharsis. It's small at first, but it grows within you over time, building slowly, rising to a tulmultuous, albeit mildly apprehensive, transfiguration of not only the dangerous bits of your mind, but very shallowest recesses of your soul.

And you start to feel better. You start to feel as though finally, after so many years of doubt and incongruity, you can finally settle down, relax, stopping worrying about all the piddling bits of basically pocket change problems, because the Good Doctor is here to take them upon himself.

A kind word, a friendly handshake, these are not the things that he offers. No, the Good Doctor offers a little of what he likes to call, The Ultimate Zen of Ambiguous Light. Let it illuminate your path forever.

Monday, November 14, 2005

When the Going Gets Wierd...

I don't have to finish the quote. It's not that important. And it seems almost trite in these dire and unsettling times. What really was Hunter S Thompson's legacy? Did he even have one? Did he even mean to leave one? Does anyone even give a shit? All of these are valid questions, and I have no intention of answering any of them. So quit asking.

The problem with trying to "sum up" a person "in a nutshell" is that it is impossible. Especially for people as mult-faceted as HST and myself. Even the most trivial figure in history, the yeoman farmer who did nothing all his life, except plow the fields, fix the fence, and maybe birth a few calves, had, when you really look at it, a deeply philosophical life, that cannot be summed up in the way that I just have. And the real tragedy is, no one will ever, ever know the full extent of a person. Ever. I don't care if you're married to them for 70+ years. There's just no way to know a person's inner most self without being that person. You try to put it down on paper. You try to write some insignificant weblog about it. No one's going to read it, except a few people that you know who drop in once a week and make a comment or two. You can spill your deepest ponderings out onto this digital diary, and the most you'll ever get is a cursory glance through it from most people, and maybe a thorough read through by your closest friends. If it's interesting enough, you might have a better shot at it.

My guess is, that most people who write blogs, don't write the most interesting things about themselves, though. They write about the trivial and mundane activities that they go through from day to day. They don't write about what's really going on during those trivial events. Of course, one has to admit that there probably are a lot of people that are genuinely boring. But I'm not ready to admit that this is true of more than the smallest, most insignificant minority.

I have been disillusioned before.

When the going gets wierd, the wierd go out for ice cream.

When the going gets wierd, the wierd throw a barbecue, where all the women dress like Nancy Reagan, and the men wear bondage gear.

When the wierd gets going, there's no stopping it for all tea in France. It's only going to get wierder from here on out, and if you doubt me, remember that Pat Robertson is still a man of a certain amount of influence in this world. Fuck you Pat Robertson.

Friday, November 11, 2005

It's Evolution Baby

Okay, I've been kind of silly in a lot of my posting up till this point. But I've just gotta lay it on the line, because this really, really pisses me off. I mean, it! This really pisses me off! I can't fucking stand it!

Okay, calm down. Some people are ignorant, that much is true. So let's educate them. Let me pose this question. What is better than not having eyes? The answer? Just about anything. It can be a handful of light sensitive cells. It could be literally anything. So when people ask, "How could something as complex as the eye evolve?" The best answer, the true answer, is very, very slowly. The eye didn't spring up overnight. It wasn't "created" in one sweep of a divine hand! That would be stupid.

These creationists also bitch up and down that the fossil record does not fit in with the theory of evolution. This is a stupid comment to make and is totally missing the point. The "theory of evolution," or as I like to call it, "natural selection," is a template that is placed over the fossil record. It is not a highly detailed calendar about what evolved when. It is a framework that can help us explain the fossil record (which is, by the way, almost prohibitively incomplete) as we see it. Natural selection is the ONLY thing that makes sense, given the data. And if you think for one second, that it doesn't occur, then consider that we induce it artificially in all sorts of animals, deciding who gets to breed with who: dogs, horses, sheep, cats, cows, etc, etc, etc. It's what we do. Natural selection differs from artificial selection in one primary respect: what determines selective pressures. In natural selection, it is nature.

I guess I could sit here all day and rant about this...but that would just make me angry. Read The Blind Watchmaker by Richard Dawkins, and get the hell out of my face, you Bible thumping, sex-fearing, science-hating, God-pushing, asshats.

A Pirate's Life for Who?

Is it just me, or are today's pirates kinda lame? Okay, so at least thier tactics aren't as bad as they could be, but come on! Where's the bravado? The showmanship? The pirates of yesteryear were least the pirate captains were. They were educated, intelligent, masters of combat and tactics. They had a sense of style; they wore flambouyant clothes, appreciated the finer things in life.

I'm not saying that today's pirates aren't badass in thier way, but it really seems to me, that something was lost along the way. When it comes down to it, these guys just seem boring. If I was a pirate today, I would bring back the style! I would be a media whore! I would wear fancy (perhaps a bit effeminate?) clothes, I would rob from the rich and steal from the poor! I would bring pirateering to new heights of awesomeness, the likes of which the world has never seen, and cannot see except in thier most frightening nightmares!

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Infantile Robot Zombies From the Outer Rim

Men, keep your women and children at home; women, beware because your men might not be who you think they are, and your children are in very serious danger of being up past thier bedtime. The threat is confirmed, my friends. Robot Zombies. Yes, you heard me. Robot Zombies. The Zombie King, has found a newer and cheaper way to subvert humanity: mass manufacture of robotic zombies that steal children, seduce women, and emasculate men.

There is a genuine danger here, my friends. These robotic zombies are not only stronger, faster, and smarter than the shambling, partially limbless zombies of yesteryear, but they are becoming increasingly capable of emulating human personalities, making it easier to subvert our world governments and topple them to install puppet regimes, in an effort to tame the human population and use them for livestock, keeping the Zombie King and his undead legions supplied with fresh brains for thier hedonistic rituals.

But there is one hope. First, you need to destroy all the electronics in your house, because without a fresh supply of Delta waves from a television set, or radiation from your microwave, or an easily accessible outlet, these robotic zombies will have nothing to feed off of. We must willingly push ourselves back to the stone age; this will force the real zombie legions from thier hiding places in the mountian caves and eventually draw the Zombie King himself out of his palace high in the Himalayas where he can be slain once and for all...

Someday, the battle will be over. I just hope this message reaches you all in time.

They Might Be Giants

You know what the coolest thing in the universe is? Of course you don't. That's why I'm going to tell you what it is, so you don't have to get all stressed out about it. You ready? The coolest thing in the universe (besides my ego) is black holes.

I mean, what could possibly be cooler than an object more massive than the entire solar system but smaller than a pinhead. Now you're asking, "But Doctor, how do you know for sure that Black Holes are the coolest things in the universe?" To which my first reply would be, "because I know better than you," but that's not very constructive. The honest response is, "Ahh, my young pupil, there is one thing that is orders of magnitude more cool than a Black Hole."

You wait with bated breath. Is it a Supernova? Good try, but not quite. Is it you, Doctor? Flattering, but I will not tolerate such distractions. Is it Pirates? Zombies? Ninjas? Reams and reams can be and have been written about the coolness of these things, but sadly no, they are not cooler than a Black Hole. So what is? My friends, the only thing that's cooler than a Black Hole is Two Black Holes Smashing Into Each Other!

See above photo and click here.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

A little link post, for those that didn't see them somewhere else

Okay, the world is a wierd place. We all know that. Some of us even learn to cope with it, perhaps even accept it, come to terms with it, transcend it, become one with it.

But sometimes's a few really wierd things pop up and you do a double take, you think about it for a while, you show it to your friends, or at least tell them about it, like a website dedicated to Christmas letters sent to Christopher Walken, for instance. Or a dog food commercial that isn't quite what it seems. Or my personal favorite, an article about a dead hooker.

These aren't the best examples of strangeness that anyone has ever seen, of course, but they're my favorites from today. And I give thanks to Almighty Bob for the opportunity to see this crazy shit.

Piety, then, is that which is dear to the gods.

It has been written that Socrates was a short, fat, bald man. Ugly, even. For a culture as obssessed with aesthetics as Athens, I can maybe see why his overly rational, questioning, i.e. not very externally beautiful way of speaking coupled with his physical ugliness did not much to endear him to the people who eventually sentenced him to death.

Of course, let's not forget that Scorates was still an old man when he drank the hemlock. It's not like he was a twenty-something rebel, or even a thirty-something so-called son of god and man. He was an old fart who enjoyed playing word games and messing with people's heads. And who lived on as the most recognizeable name in philosophy? Was it the people who made the old man drink the hemlock? Or was it the man who did the drinking?

I think that the Party in 1984 had the right idea when dealing with dissidents. Do not execute them. Do everything it takes to convince the dissident that he is wrong and that you are right and that he was foolish, perhaps even insane to hold his beliefs. And then you kill him, when he loves you the most. It destroys the possibility of a martyr.

By the way, the title of this article is not a quote from Socrates, it is Euthyphro speaking to Socrates on the subject of...well...piety. I think it's one of the funnier dialogues, if only because it solves absolutely nothing by the end.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

There's nothing disgusting about the human body

Do you think it's offensive to make fun of people who are less fortunate than you? Take the first family for instance. This is a little clipping from the The Onion. I laughed, you laughed, we all had a good laugh about it. But is right, to make fun of someone who is shitting blood? And furthermore, is right to make fun of a retard who is shitting blood? I mean... is the word 'retard' even a little too harsh?

First of all, I am typically against making fun of retards. Especially the ones with rectal bleeding. However, for some reason, this seems more reasonable. I mean, it is true, is it not, that we only elected her husband to be our president because we felt sorry for the poor monkey boy bastard, right? I mean, it couldn't have been because the majority of Americans believed him to be the best man for the job, that would be ludicrous.

I think I am going to prescribe a little therapy. Go out, this week sometime, and make fun of a retard. and see if it really makes you feel better about yourself. And then, depending on the result, I think we can make an educated decision about whether or not The Onion was out of line.

Monday, November 07, 2005

There's a method, a strategy, if you will, to my madness

Many of my faithful readers have been asking, nay, begging, for a little behind the scenes look at my methodolygies when writing an important article, upon which the fate of Western civilization rests. Some have asked, "Isn't that a lot of pressure?" To which I reassuringly state, "It totally is! But don't worry, I won't rest until every Tym, Dyck, and Henryetta, has thier daily dose of the Good Doctor!"

And so here you are, a little inside peek at what goes on when I'm writing one of my earth shattering reports about the "fundamental conditions upon which man is allowed to exist!" As you can see, I go through extensive and exhausting revisionary procedures to make sure that every article is tailor made for it's target audience, YOU!

I hurt, my friends. If an article isn't perfect, I will beat myself up for literally seconds, until the problem can be corrected. And if it isn't perfect after that...I publysh it anyway. Because that's what it takes to be the best. That's what it takes, my friends. You may think that this genyus just comes naturally, but no! It is dredged up from the deepest darkest parts of my soul, so that you can enjoy and maybe make yourselves better people in the long run. It is a constant battle between sanyty and revelation, between glorious triumph and bitter defeat, between abject faylure and transcendent perfection!!!!

I hope this little look into the inner workings of the Doctor has brought you some peace. It has really allowed me to share a lyttle piece of myself with you. Just know, faithful readers, that I will always be here, ready with a friendly word, a picture of a naked Greco-Roman deity, or a bit of advice for times of trouble. For whenever there is injustice in the world, I will be there; whenever there is turmoil, I will be there; whenever there is a loaded bong, I will be there; whenever there is a dinner special at the local Chinese restaurant, I will definitley be there...with chopsticks. This is my solemn pledge.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Jesus is just alright with me.

This is proof that you can sell anying and I mean anything in action figure form. At this science museum where I once worked, they had Benjamin Franklin and Albert Einstein in glorious plastic replicas. Franklin came with a kite and a key, and Einstein had a little piece of chalk. That's kind of cool, you know? I mean, you could finally settle that age old question of who would win in a fight: Al or Ben. But Jesus and Moses brought to life in thier stereotypical images in cheap thermoplastic for all the children to have hours of fun with. I mean, do these really go with all your other toys? Most of my toys were He-man and Transformers and GI-Joe. Jesus didn't stand a chance against any of those guys. Oh sure, he was the son of God and all, but he was a pacifist. He would "turn the other cheek" when Skeletor brought his smack down upon the savior. And Moses? He was old! I'm surprised those Isrealites didn't tip him off his high horse for spoiling thier good time. Bring back the golden calf! These rules suck! Adultery rules!

Anyway, I saw these in a store in London. What really gets me, is the context. It was a crappy little toy store somewhere in London, I forget where. But take a close look at the picture. Look at all the shitty merchandise around the two iconic semi-deified dead guys. I mean, what the hell? This is what the liberator of the Jews and fucking Messiah are reduced to?

I came very, very close to purchasing at least the Jesus one. Then again, the Moses toy has accessories: a staff and a big stone tablet. I'm pretty sure the odds are stacked against Jesus when Moses lays the almighty smack down by cracking him over the head with the ten commandments, "Thou shalt feel my wrath, bitch!" This would be the ultimate duke-it-out between the wrathful God and the loving God. "Turning the other cheek, J-man? Well, don't mind if I do!" CRACK! and while Jesus is unconscious, a pool of blood spreading out from his gaping head wound, Moses claims Mary Magdalene for himself. To the victor goes the spoils!

That's enough blasphemy for one day.

Saturday, November 05, 2005

The Fundamentals of proper penile care.

I never, ever want to lose my penis. There I said it, and I'm sure there's not a guy or girl out there that will begrudge this one simple wish. No matter what happens, when I die, I want to still have my penis.

As a corrollary wish, if ever someone makes a statue of me (and the likelyhood of this is high), and it's a nude statue (again, highly likely, given my Adonis-like physique), I want for my statue's penis to be made of something that's a little more resistant to cracking than marble. I mean...this is Apollo, for Chrissake! If he can't keep his penis through the ages, what hope is there for my statue? Unless! The newest space-age alloys are employed to make sure that if every other piece of my statue gets obliterated in a nuclear holocaust, at least my penis will make it out intact, with not a scratch.

They Just lie there and They die there

The Mona Lisa was painted on a piece of wood, in case you didn't know. It's also warping and the world's top scientists have been working round the clock for centuries to stop it from getting worse. I mean... if we lose the Mona Lisa (and when I say 'we' I mean the HUMAN RACE), what will we have to live for?

Everything that we love and cherish in the world hinges on THIS PAINTING surviving for the next generation to crowd into a small room and take one shitty, badly framed, unsteady picture and take it home and put it up on the internet on thier stupid blog for all the world to say, "wow, That guy saw the Mona Lisa, he must be cultured."

Yes, yes I am.

Precarious Underpinnings of a Fragile Pedantic Worldview

In case you haven't noticed, there are no pictures of me on this blog. And there never will be. But here's one of my girlfriend. She has a dog and four cats. Behind her in the picture is a coffin. It didn't really look very comfortable. I'm hoping mine is much nicer.
As for the expression on her face...well...I'm not sure what that's all about. It was taken like a year and a half ago. Who can say? Our thought processes of that day are lost to the fickle nature of the human memory core. All we have now of that fateful day at the British Museum is a few images. Perfectly accurate as far as that goes, but lacking context and solidity....not to mention, sounds and smells.
Of course, there's no use crying over lost memories. That would be stupid.

Bread with Olive Oil and Vinegar

By the way, all of these pictures are ones that I took. Just so you know. Anyway, this is the Venus de Milo. I think it's interesting, that she's really not that hot. I mean, her body is smoking gorgeous. She's athletic, has solid, well defined abs (without being an American Gladiator, which is important), pert, handful-sized breasts. But look at her face. Snooty is not quite the right word. Maybe bored. Maybe she's thinking, "I'm may be missing my arms, but hey, you know, I'm a goddess and I can probably just grow new ones. I just don't want to, so what are you going to do about it?"
Nah, that's probably not it either. I'm sure she had her arms at one point in time and her expression hasn't changed at least since just before she lost them. Anyway, the bottom line is, her face is not what we could call, "Marylin Monroe perfect," you know? Don't get me wrong, I'm sure if she was flesh and blood, the godliness of her would probably overwhelm what minor physical flaws she has....I'm just saying....

Friday, November 04, 2005

When We Get Back, I'll Drop a Line

It would have been nice to have taken a picture from farther away so that you can really get a good idea of how crowded this cemetary is. And here is this grave, tucked away behind some other graves. If the name on that headstone wasn't what it was, not a single person would ever, ever go near it. You have to leave the path, walk around a much larger headstone for some guy that you've never heard of, and there it is, hiding. It's somewhere near the south central area of the largest cemetery in Paris.
I like the Doors. They had a certain panache that is not duplicatable. I don't want to get too metaphysical, Morrison did so much of that, that I don't need to translate it into this free blog journal thing. But I will say that there are very few people who have the sort of presence that Morisson had. Some lose it over time (Jimmy Page and Robert Plant), and some manage to hang onto it in some form or another (Roy Harper, et al), but the ones who become truly famous, are the ones who DIE while they are totally soaked in it.

Look where I live!

My girlfriend named this cat Nero. It's kind of funny. Admit it. I am listening to Godspeed You Black Emperor.

In Rome, the cats run the show. I have a grainy video clip of me trying to pet this cat. It didn't react at first; it was very intent on its grooming. It did meow hoarsely at me after a moment or two though, and I recoiled slightly, not wanting to get bitten. Who knows what diseases it may or may not have? It promptly went back to its grooming.

No human gets to live at the colliseum. These cats do, though. Orderlies go by every now and again, and clean up thier excrement. I am fairly certain they make a healthy living on mice. And no doubt tourists feed them as well. There is no doubt in my mind that Nero is still alive and well and living in the Colliseum, testily meowing at overly sensitive American tourists. This makes me happy.

Sticks and Stones

This is the Rosetta Stone. For all of you uneducated savages who have never heard if it, it is a large (very large) tablet with a set of decrees printed in two langauages, Egyptian and Greek. This pretty little artifact alone is what allowed smart people to translate the Egyptian written language. For a complete text of the stone, click here.

I kind of like the idea of a hieroglyphic language. Or at least a sophisticated ideogram type language like Japanaese and such. Then a word is a letter. When I write the letter 'k,' it means absolutely nothing unless it has context. But a hieroglyph by itself has meaning. As does a Japanese character. I understand that they have a phonetic alphabet as well, though it too is very pretty to look at, I'm sure.

I think it's interesting that in China, they used to draw out single ideograms on a single sheet of paper and it was an artform. Oh, yeah, Caligraphy. That's the ticket. Such a symple art with symple concept. But so much meaning.

If I had a calligraphy picture on my wall, it would have to be the word for "stone," because I'm kind of like stone. Hard and enduring, but given enough time, I can be worn down and softened up. It takes me a while to make friends sometimes...

I'll "Bust" you up!

So Scary! "Raaaaaawr! Me Karl Marx! I will eat your children!...uh...just as soon as I can get my jaw moving again."
I've always thought that fear of communism and cannibalism are two of the funniest things in the world. First of all, being afraid of communism is very strange because the people who are afraid of it, are not afraid of capitalism. This doesn't make sense. And people who are afraid of cannibalism are are wasting a very useful food supply! Or at least a lucrative source of organs for harvesting, which is a kind of cannibalism if you look at it in a certain way.

If someone was cooking and it smelled just absolutely wonderful, and then put a plate in front of me and told me it was human flesh, I would probably at the very least, taste it, it as long as they didn't tell me where they got it. If it was good, I would probably eat the rest of it, and then decide whether or not to pursue cannibalism in a more serious sense.

Don't Worry Karl, the Happy Days will come again!

Look at this thing. It's very big. It's huge. It's made of marble and bronze. And it's somewhere in England. It's not like Communism was a bad idea, as such. It was just a woefully unprepared for the tendencies of man and his happy go lucky attitude towards his own freedom. I'm not here to make any judgements on this issue. I just think it's going to become my personal goal to be famous enough to have a grave that big.

The Trappings of Living a Double Life

The first thing you have to remember when picking up a new identity (a secret identity) is that it is secret. You can't tell your friends. This is the biggest problem for so many people who want to pick up an alter ego. No matter how much you want to you can't tell your friends. It is a purpose defeating act! I reapeat, don't tell anyone!

The worst person you can tell is your significant other, my friends! He or she is the most likely person to rat you out. I mean, at first, it will be okay, they will feel honored to be in on this little secret, well, not so little. I mean, a second identity is pretty big. But if you were, say to break up with that significant other (no matter how much you're in love, it's always a possibility), they will use your alter ego against you and probably at a time that isn't very useful for whatever plans your other self is trying to accomplish. And let's not forget, there is the possibility that your other identity is going to want to get a girlfriend, or even get married. And this can't happen if your girlfriend or wife knows that you even have a secret identity.

So remember, rule number one: Your new identiy can have NO contact with your old life. It defeats the purpose!

Okay, now, that we have that established, you might be thinking about what sort of person your alter ego is. Well, it's up to you, but I would suggest trying out a totally different persona. If you're they shy quiet type in your primary life, go for the bold, brash and perhaps misguided type for your new secondary life. Next, name your alter ego. Go ahead. He or she will need a name. Here, you want to avoid the obvious pitfalls of generic names. Use names like John, Bob, or Matt very sparingly. Your new ego needs a name that will stick out. I mean, let's face it, if you're going through the trouble of starting a new identity, it probably wouldn't do to be a lame one. But then, you've gotta be careful about being too stupid about the name; avoid things like: Zaphina, Nick Danger, or Igor Petrovski (if you're obviously not Slavic). This part is particularly easy if you're making an alter ego because you have super powers and are thinking of taking up a life of crime or planning on being a super hero. Just come up with a name that's in line with your super powers. Check the internet and make sure that no two-bit Marvel superhero doesn't already have your name.

Your ego is going to need a backstory. He needs an origin. Parent's names, birthday, be familiar with his or her zodiac sign, favorite foods, likes, dislikes, aunts, uncles, grandparents. I mean, it's convenient if he was an orphan, but there aren't very many orphans who don't know at least a few of thier foster parents' names, you know? You can make this up on the fly, but if you're not very good at that sort of thing, then you're going to want to sit down and spend some time fleshing out his origins.

Next, official stuff: If you can get him or her a social security number and birth certificate, that's ideal, but most people simply don't have access to these sorts of things. For the most part, this stuff isn't really that necessary. Let's face it, if you're a superhero, people are going to know that you have another identity. And for the most part, alter egos are shed from time to time and will fade out of existence, once you go back to your primary life. Oh, and that reminds me, if your alter ego is going to be somewhat permanent, then you're going to want to make sure that he or she doesn't get too famous. If you haven't figured out why, then imagine this scenario: Your real life wife is watching T.V. at home and sees a movie preview as you walk into the room. Only the new action hero in the movie looks a lot like you. She turns around and says, "Wow, this new action hero, Din Weasel looks a lot like you honey...wait a minute....Hey! I thought you were visiting your mother with cancer! You were filming a movie and making millions of dollars! How come we live in this shitty trailer! What the fuck is going on here!" You can probably smooth that one over with a diamond ring and a new house (you can afford it), but now your alter ego is compromised. And that is very nearly a case of breaking rule number one!

Most people create alter egos for fun and enjoyment and sometimes to further other goals, like getting a novel published or some such thing. Superheroes and villains have the most obvious uses for them, but the average Joe could use one from time to time as well. Just remember these few simple tips and you'll be on your way to leading the double life in no time flat!

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Hookers are people too

I'd like to kick everything off with a little poem I call, "Hookers are People Too."

All those hookers are people too
They just want money to hang out with you
is that so bad?
it's not so sad!
As long as they don't have syphillis too