Ah, video games. The source of joy for all mankind ages 8-29 in industrialized nations. But a few curious paradoxes present themselves in many of the most popular titles. Let;s break down some genre representatives.
Halo 3
This game is fun. It is also one of the few first-person shooters that is less violent than a good game of football. In fact the player's characters ("Spartans') look suspiciously like football players. More on that later. In the meantime, this game is easy to learn, easy to play, and fun. Unless, that is, you happen to be playing against people without social lives. In that case you will repeatedly be mowed down without fully understanding what just happened, especially with your competitors laughingly talking about "stickies" and "three-shots" and other esoteric phenomena. Just how I lose so badly is still beyond my comprehension. I'm supposed to find the other football players and shoot them if they are one color and not shoot them if they are another. There are obvious exceptions, though, because my own teammates often take me out, usually muttering something about "getting in the way." I am sure this is a specialized gaming term indicating that I am getting too good and must be kept in check. I explained this to them and told them to stop, but for some reason all they did was laugh and attach a plasma grenade to my Spartan's left knee. I have never seen a football player fly so far or fast...
Madden 2009
The football players in this game look just like the Halo people. I think some code was stolen at some point. I just wish there was more crossover so someone would take a rocket launcher to Brett Favre's avatar. Anyway, in the Madden games players get to watch football. Except that they have to call plays and stuff, which really cuts down on one's ability to focus on the munchies. Kinda defeats the purpose of football in my humble opinion.
The Sims
In this game, players get to control virtual people. I think they should just become an judge or a dictator or a mom and control some real people. It's less frustrating than figuring out the game menus.
Microsoft Flight Simulator X
This game could be more accurately termed "Horrible Death Simulator X" because of how many times new players usually crash. Incineration, head trauma, and "the hamburger pancake" are only a few of the options. By the time one figures out how to fly, all the fun has gone out of it. The game just feels too much like work. Specifically, it feels like the work of a professional airline pilot. More recent simulators feature month-long strikes until imaginary wages reach certain levels. The number of logos planes can display decreases as mergers decimate the competitive market.
Pac-Man
Still the best computer game ever devised, although River Raid comes close.
Showing posts with label Americana. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Americana. Show all posts
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Who wrote this stuff?
Ah, old movies. Specifically, old science fiction movies. A good one has a few basic plot elements:
1. A brilliant but socially inept scientist who uses terms like "neutralization of mass." He should have glasses made from the glass bottoms of Coke bottles still available in the fifties.
2. A horrible monster. Giant insects are always a favorite, provided they don't break the movie's budget ($120, excluding the cigarettes everyone smoked back then). Carnivorous plants are better because you can get away with stop-motion animation. "Alright, Phil, now move the ivy a little further over the model of San Francisco." Alien robots are best because you can make 'em out of old milk cartons and talk about horrible alien weapons like the xenon-helium electron baryon ray pulse heat wave gun. It should look like the offspring of a stand mixer with an attitude problem and a .50 sniper rifle. It's waves/pulses/beams should be manually drawn on the film by a four-year-old.
3. Deep, thought provoking dialogue. "Oh no, I think it's going to eat the world." "If it reaches Los Angeles it will eat Los Angeles." "Millions are fleeing the doomed city/country/planet." "Gee, we really were thick, doing all those nuclear tests."
4. Special effects. Smoke is always useful, as are scale models. Just remember that a burning wad of newspaper does not look like a flaming planet. Also, stuff looks larger when slow motion is used. Rabbits scurrying through a model of a city can be turned into ponderous, thundering bringers of doom just by playing the footage at 1/4 speed. Oh, wait. Someone already tried that...maybe if they'd played "Eye of the Tiger."
5. Someone who looks kinda like Marilyn Monroe. She should end up with:
6. The hero. The hero is, ideally, six foot one, has dark brown hair (insofar as you can tell in black and white), and carries a lot of guns that don't work against the insects/plants/alien robots/giant rabbits until the scientist bails him out. I never got why the hero (instead of the scientist) ends up with the girl. Maybe the nerd in me is just jealous. Then again, I never really liked Marilyn Monroe.
So, let's break down an old sci-fi classic: Them. Them is a movie about ants that, due to nuclear testing, grow to abnormal size (think Rosie O'Donnell only with more human kindness) and proceed to kill and eat everything they encounter.
The movie opens with a little girl being found in a catatonic state in the desert. An eerie, howling wail is present in the background, indicating the Cubs have lost again. She is picked up by some kindly people in a car or plane or something (it's been ten years since I've seen this, okay?) and brought into town. Everyone wonders what happened to the people she must have been with, but all she ever does is flip out and start yelling about "them." This is where the movie gets its title. Clever, eh? I didn't think so either and I was eight. Cigarettes are bad for you in so many ways...
Anyway, a bunch of people on the outside of town are found dead looking like they've been attacked by giant insects. The townspeople are unable to figure this out even thought he ants left a business card on every table and a few Polaroids of themselves eating the deceased's belongings and legs.
Eventually, THE SCIENTIST is brought in, aided by THE HERO and escorted by his long-suffering daughter THE MARILYN. They find an ant and THE HERO blows it away with sustained fire from a Thompson that is apparently modified to accept five-hundred round magazines. His aim is terrible, but the sheer volume of fire was evidently sufficient. He then stares at this eight-foot long ant and asks what it is, confirming that listening to sustained gunfire without ear protection can also damage one's brain. THE SCIENTIST explains that it is a giant ant, earning him admiring glances from the townsfolk, who by now have figured out how to understand normal speech.
By the end of the movie, the ants migrate to a major city and are mowed down by machine gun fire. Life goes on, but the movie has proved its point: nuclear testing results in giant bugs and you have better odds of winning the girl if your brain is smaller the .45 rounds you lug everywhere.
Ah, old movies. At least they aren't new movies. But that, I'm afraid, is another post.
1. A brilliant but socially inept scientist who uses terms like "neutralization of mass." He should have glasses made from the glass bottoms of Coke bottles still available in the fifties.
2. A horrible monster. Giant insects are always a favorite, provided they don't break the movie's budget ($120, excluding the cigarettes everyone smoked back then). Carnivorous plants are better because you can get away with stop-motion animation. "Alright, Phil, now move the ivy a little further over the model of San Francisco." Alien robots are best because you can make 'em out of old milk cartons and talk about horrible alien weapons like the xenon-helium electron baryon ray pulse heat wave gun. It should look like the offspring of a stand mixer with an attitude problem and a .50 sniper rifle. It's waves/pulses/beams should be manually drawn on the film by a four-year-old.
3. Deep, thought provoking dialogue. "Oh no, I think it's going to eat the world." "If it reaches Los Angeles it will eat Los Angeles." "Millions are fleeing the doomed city/country/planet." "Gee, we really were thick, doing all those nuclear tests."
4. Special effects. Smoke is always useful, as are scale models. Just remember that a burning wad of newspaper does not look like a flaming planet. Also, stuff looks larger when slow motion is used. Rabbits scurrying through a model of a city can be turned into ponderous, thundering bringers of doom just by playing the footage at 1/4 speed. Oh, wait. Someone already tried that...maybe if they'd played "Eye of the Tiger."
5. Someone who looks kinda like Marilyn Monroe. She should end up with:
6. The hero. The hero is, ideally, six foot one, has dark brown hair (insofar as you can tell in black and white), and carries a lot of guns that don't work against the insects/plants/alien robots/giant rabbits until the scientist bails him out. I never got why the hero (instead of the scientist) ends up with the girl. Maybe the nerd in me is just jealous. Then again, I never really liked Marilyn Monroe.
So, let's break down an old sci-fi classic: Them. Them is a movie about ants that, due to nuclear testing, grow to abnormal size (think Rosie O'Donnell only with more human kindness) and proceed to kill and eat everything they encounter.
The movie opens with a little girl being found in a catatonic state in the desert. An eerie, howling wail is present in the background, indicating the Cubs have lost again. She is picked up by some kindly people in a car or plane or something (it's been ten years since I've seen this, okay?) and brought into town. Everyone wonders what happened to the people she must have been with, but all she ever does is flip out and start yelling about "them." This is where the movie gets its title. Clever, eh? I didn't think so either and I was eight. Cigarettes are bad for you in so many ways...
Anyway, a bunch of people on the outside of town are found dead looking like they've been attacked by giant insects. The townspeople are unable to figure this out even thought he ants left a business card on every table and a few Polaroids of themselves eating the deceased's belongings and legs.
Eventually, THE SCIENTIST is brought in, aided by THE HERO and escorted by his long-suffering daughter THE MARILYN. They find an ant and THE HERO blows it away with sustained fire from a Thompson that is apparently modified to accept five-hundred round magazines. His aim is terrible, but the sheer volume of fire was evidently sufficient. He then stares at this eight-foot long ant and asks what it is, confirming that listening to sustained gunfire without ear protection can also damage one's brain. THE SCIENTIST explains that it is a giant ant, earning him admiring glances from the townsfolk, who by now have figured out how to understand normal speech.
By the end of the movie, the ants migrate to a major city and are mowed down by machine gun fire. Life goes on, but the movie has proved its point: nuclear testing results in giant bugs and you have better odds of winning the girl if your brain is smaller the .45 rounds you lug everywhere.
Ah, old movies. At least they aren't new movies. But that, I'm afraid, is another post.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Who's on first? (revised for the 21st century)
Adam Smith: So whose money is being used for the stimulus?
Barack Obama: The taxpayers'.
Smith: What will you do with it?
Obama: Spend it.
Smith: What would they do with it?
Obama: Spend it.
Smith: Why is it better that you spend it?
Obama: They might save some of it.
Smith: Don't they need to?
Obama: No. The government gives The People social security for retirement, unemployment, and the measles.
Smith: How does the government pay for this?
Obama: We tax The People.
Smith: So...they don't need to save because the government saves for them?
Obama: No. We make 'em pay FICA taxes and then spend the money.
Smith: So where does the money come from for social security?
Obama: Some people die before they are eligible for benefits.
Smith: Hasn't the population curve changed so more people are living long enough to receive payment relative to those paying social security taxes? People living too long, essentially?
Obama: That's what government health care will fix.
Smith: So you're implementing government health care to kill off people at a younger age?
Obama: No. I'm implementing it to destroy the evil money-grubbing insurance providers.
Smith: And government insurance will be better?
Obama: Sure. The government can afford to operate at a loss, so there is no need for "profits" (which are really wages stolen from the proletariat).
Smith: Who compensates for the loss?
Obama: The taxpayers.
Smith: So doesn't everyone end up paying the same amount they would pay the insurance companies?
Obama: No. I said "the taxpayers," not "everyone." The rich have to cover it.
Smith: Who's rich?
Obama: People who earn over $250,000 a year. Wait, $200,000 a year. Wait, $150,000 a year...
Smith: But aren't these people often the entrepreneurs and investors who drive the economy?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: Why tax them?
Obama: Because it's not fair.
Smith: What's not fair?
Obama: That they make that much money when the average family at the poverty line only owns one television and most are not flatscreens.
Smith: But don't the poor usually not put as much into the economy?
Obama: They contribute just as much, you racist, classist, bourgeois swine.
Smith: Just askin'. What are you going to do about this situation?
Obama: Tax the rich and give to the poor.
Smith: How?
Obama: I'll start by signing a stimulus bill to jump start the economy. I'm also thinking of taking up archery.
Smith: Who gets the stimulus money?
Obama: The rich.
Smith: The rich?
Obama: The rich. Only they have to spend it on groceries. No business jets or office makeovers.
Smith: Or what?
Obama: Or we crucify them on national television before Congress.
Smith: But does it really matter to economic recovery how they spend the money as long as it gets back into the economy?
Obama: No.
Smith: So why do you care how execs spend the stimulus bill?
Obama: Grocers make less money than business jet manufacturers.
Smith: So we're back to wealth redistribution.
Obama: Such a harsh term...I prefer "enhancing socio-economic harmony with emphasis on the appropriate allocation of capital and the benefits there derived."
Smith: What does that mean?
Obama: Wealth redistribution.
Smith: Why not just let the people keep their money and spend it how they choose?
Obama: This way the government has oversight.
Smith: Oversight?
Obama: Oversight.
Smith: What's that?
Obama: Oversight?
Smith: Oversight.
Obama: I actually don't know. I understand it involves czars.
Smith: American or Japanese czars?
Obama: American, of course. I've put a high protective tariff on foreign czars.
Smith: I still don't get why the government should spend the money. Doesn't that mean that less money actually re-enters the necessary sectors?
Obama: Yes. That's why we are putting the Fed rate on the floor and deficit spending at the same time. We are "loosening the money supply."
Smith: Is that basically the same as printing money?
Obama: Yes. But it's more eco-friendly.
Smith: Does that cause inflation?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: Isn't that, well, bad?
Obama: Only for people who have been saving.
Smith: And they should have been counting on social security?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: But how does loosening the money supply actually help the economy?
Obama: It enables people to pay off mortgages.
Smith: Couldn't they pay them off before?
Obama: No.
Smith: Why not?
Obama: They couldn't afford the mortgages.
Smith: Then why did they get large mortgages in the first place?
Obama: People do silly things sometimes. You know, cling to guns and religion, vote Republican, listen to country music, pay attention to Rush Limbaugh...
Smith: And you are rewarding irresponsible finance?
Obama: Hey, hateful bourgeois scum, some of these people can't pay because they lost their jobs.
Smith: How does loosening the money supply help them? Especially if it devalues savings?
Obama: It creates jobs.
Smith: Jobs?
Obama: Jobs.
Smith: Will that work?
Obama: It already has.
Smith: Isn't unemployment at a thirty-year high?
Obama: No, I mean it got me elected.
Smith: Oh.
Obama: But job creation will save the economy.
Smith: If a job is economically viable, won't it already exist?
Obama: No.
Smith: Why not?
Obama: Yes we can!
Smith: Hm?
Obama: Yes we can!
Smith: Your grammar is wrong.
Obama: Well, CHANGE it!
Smith: You need a comma after the "yes." But quit dodging. Won't all economically viable jobs already exist?
Obama: If by "economically viable" you mean present without government intervention, then yes. We can.
Smith: Stop saying that.
Obama: I can do to you what I did to Rush.
Smith: No, you can't. I've been dead for three hundred years.
Obama: Whatever. Facts never really worried me. What matters is getting people employed. Then production will increase. Then the recession will end. Then I'll be crowned--
Smith: Isn't that what FDR tried?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: It didn't work.
Obama: Yes, it did.
Smith: No, it didn't.
Obama: Yes, it did.
Smith: Have you actually read a history book that some leftist professor did not feed you through a straw?
Obama: The Depression ended, didn't it?
Smith: Only because we had to blow up a few other countries (WWII) and needed the spike in production.
Obama: Well, there you go!
Smith: But the need for more production came first. It was followed by job creation.
Obama: In the absence of countries to blow up I propose job creation.
Smith: Shouldn't you encourage new enterprise by, say, cutting the capital gains tax?
Obama: No.
Smith: Why?
Obama: Because it taxes rich people.
Smith: But where will new companies get money if investment is discouraged?
Obama: From the government.
Smith: How is government money better?
Obama: Strings.
Smith: Strings?
Obama: Strings.
Smith: What are strings?
Obama: They enable the government to control the businesses.
Smith: And that's good?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: Why?
Obama: Because it enables the government to control capital and, eventually, all major industries.
Smith: Isn't that what Lenin did?
Obama: Maybe.
Smith: Didn't it fail?
Obama: Only when the government had to start killing peasants.
Smith: And that's okay?
Obama: If the peasants had ever received federal funding, you bet.
Smith: I'm sorry, but none of this is making sense to me.
Obama: Adam, Adam. If you can' t get the basics you'll never earn your degree in economics. And definitely not from a prestigious school like my alma mater.
Smith: Mr. President...
Obama: Yes?
Smith: If I weren't dead I'd be buying plane tickets for Switzerland. At least they admit to being socialists...
Barack Obama: The taxpayers'.
Smith: What will you do with it?
Obama: Spend it.
Smith: What would they do with it?
Obama: Spend it.
Smith: Why is it better that you spend it?
Obama: They might save some of it.
Smith: Don't they need to?
Obama: No. The government gives The People social security for retirement, unemployment, and the measles.
Smith: How does the government pay for this?
Obama: We tax The People.
Smith: So...they don't need to save because the government saves for them?
Obama: No. We make 'em pay FICA taxes and then spend the money.
Smith: So where does the money come from for social security?
Obama: Some people die before they are eligible for benefits.
Smith: Hasn't the population curve changed so more people are living long enough to receive payment relative to those paying social security taxes? People living too long, essentially?
Obama: That's what government health care will fix.
Smith: So you're implementing government health care to kill off people at a younger age?
Obama: No. I'm implementing it to destroy the evil money-grubbing insurance providers.
Smith: And government insurance will be better?
Obama: Sure. The government can afford to operate at a loss, so there is no need for "profits" (which are really wages stolen from the proletariat).
Smith: Who compensates for the loss?
Obama: The taxpayers.
Smith: So doesn't everyone end up paying the same amount they would pay the insurance companies?
Obama: No. I said "the taxpayers," not "everyone." The rich have to cover it.
Smith: Who's rich?
Obama: People who earn over $250,000 a year. Wait, $200,000 a year. Wait, $150,000 a year...
Smith: But aren't these people often the entrepreneurs and investors who drive the economy?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: Why tax them?
Obama: Because it's not fair.
Smith: What's not fair?
Obama: That they make that much money when the average family at the poverty line only owns one television and most are not flatscreens.
Smith: But don't the poor usually not put as much into the economy?
Obama: They contribute just as much, you racist, classist, bourgeois swine.
Smith: Just askin'. What are you going to do about this situation?
Obama: Tax the rich and give to the poor.
Smith: How?
Obama: I'll start by signing a stimulus bill to jump start the economy. I'm also thinking of taking up archery.
Smith: Who gets the stimulus money?
Obama: The rich.
Smith: The rich?
Obama: The rich. Only they have to spend it on groceries. No business jets or office makeovers.
Smith: Or what?
Obama: Or we crucify them on national television before Congress.
Smith: But does it really matter to economic recovery how they spend the money as long as it gets back into the economy?
Obama: No.
Smith: So why do you care how execs spend the stimulus bill?
Obama: Grocers make less money than business jet manufacturers.
Smith: So we're back to wealth redistribution.
Obama: Such a harsh term...I prefer "enhancing socio-economic harmony with emphasis on the appropriate allocation of capital and the benefits there derived."
Smith: What does that mean?
Obama: Wealth redistribution.
Smith: Why not just let the people keep their money and spend it how they choose?
Obama: This way the government has oversight.
Smith: Oversight?
Obama: Oversight.
Smith: What's that?
Obama: Oversight?
Smith: Oversight.
Obama: I actually don't know. I understand it involves czars.
Smith: American or Japanese czars?
Obama: American, of course. I've put a high protective tariff on foreign czars.
Smith: I still don't get why the government should spend the money. Doesn't that mean that less money actually re-enters the necessary sectors?
Obama: Yes. That's why we are putting the Fed rate on the floor and deficit spending at the same time. We are "loosening the money supply."
Smith: Is that basically the same as printing money?
Obama: Yes. But it's more eco-friendly.
Smith: Does that cause inflation?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: Isn't that, well, bad?
Obama: Only for people who have been saving.
Smith: And they should have been counting on social security?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: But how does loosening the money supply actually help the economy?
Obama: It enables people to pay off mortgages.
Smith: Couldn't they pay them off before?
Obama: No.
Smith: Why not?
Obama: They couldn't afford the mortgages.
Smith: Then why did they get large mortgages in the first place?
Obama: People do silly things sometimes. You know, cling to guns and religion, vote Republican, listen to country music, pay attention to Rush Limbaugh...
Smith: And you are rewarding irresponsible finance?
Obama: Hey, hateful bourgeois scum, some of these people can't pay because they lost their jobs.
Smith: How does loosening the money supply help them? Especially if it devalues savings?
Obama: It creates jobs.
Smith: Jobs?
Obama: Jobs.
Smith: Will that work?
Obama: It already has.
Smith: Isn't unemployment at a thirty-year high?
Obama: No, I mean it got me elected.
Smith: Oh.
Obama: But job creation will save the economy.
Smith: If a job is economically viable, won't it already exist?
Obama: No.
Smith: Why not?
Obama: Yes we can!
Smith: Hm?
Obama: Yes we can!
Smith: Your grammar is wrong.
Obama: Well, CHANGE it!
Smith: You need a comma after the "yes." But quit dodging. Won't all economically viable jobs already exist?
Obama: If by "economically viable" you mean present without government intervention, then yes. We can.
Smith: Stop saying that.
Obama: I can do to you what I did to Rush.
Smith: No, you can't. I've been dead for three hundred years.
Obama: Whatever. Facts never really worried me. What matters is getting people employed. Then production will increase. Then the recession will end. Then I'll be crowned--
Smith: Isn't that what FDR tried?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: It didn't work.
Obama: Yes, it did.
Smith: No, it didn't.
Obama: Yes, it did.
Smith: Have you actually read a history book that some leftist professor did not feed you through a straw?
Obama: The Depression ended, didn't it?
Smith: Only because we had to blow up a few other countries (WWII) and needed the spike in production.
Obama: Well, there you go!
Smith: But the need for more production came first. It was followed by job creation.
Obama: In the absence of countries to blow up I propose job creation.
Smith: Shouldn't you encourage new enterprise by, say, cutting the capital gains tax?
Obama: No.
Smith: Why?
Obama: Because it taxes rich people.
Smith: But where will new companies get money if investment is discouraged?
Obama: From the government.
Smith: How is government money better?
Obama: Strings.
Smith: Strings?
Obama: Strings.
Smith: What are strings?
Obama: They enable the government to control the businesses.
Smith: And that's good?
Obama: Yes.
Smith: Why?
Obama: Because it enables the government to control capital and, eventually, all major industries.
Smith: Isn't that what Lenin did?
Obama: Maybe.
Smith: Didn't it fail?
Obama: Only when the government had to start killing peasants.
Smith: And that's okay?
Obama: If the peasants had ever received federal funding, you bet.
Smith: I'm sorry, but none of this is making sense to me.
Obama: Adam, Adam. If you can' t get the basics you'll never earn your degree in economics. And definitely not from a prestigious school like my alma mater.
Smith: Mr. President...
Obama: Yes?
Smith: If I weren't dead I'd be buying plane tickets for Switzerland. At least they admit to being socialists...
Thursday, March 19, 2009
We who forget history...
Democracies seem to consistently choose bad policies. Ever wondered why? Britain is a welfare state. The U.S. is well on the way. Don't even ask me about continental Europe. General economic theory dictates that the non-systematic error should all cancel, so why do we experience such acute issues? In other words, inept voters should all cancel each other out. But they don't. Hmmmm....
The problem, of course, is one of human nature. That, and the fact that humans tend to naturally faction. Someone once said, "Democracy endures until the majority discovers it controls the treasury of the entirety." Issues arise when people stop thinking like individuals and start thinking of themselves as "white people" or "poor people" or "feminists" and then start towing the party line. Why do the groups not cancel? People, in large groups, are dumber than sheep. An idea (government control of the economy) that wouldn't survive ten minutes in a discussion group can endure and become policy because of people's inability to think clearly and rationally in groups. In short, groups are easy to mislead.
This phenomenon was obvious in a relatively recent social event. A man managed to get elected by a large plurality, largely due to his promises of economic revival. The validity of his programs was irrelevant, what mattered was that he offered reform and many groups--if not necessarily many individuals--loved his ideas. The issues were gradually transcended by "image," largely a result of careful cultivation by those very supporting groups. So, he was elected and promptly murdered six million Jews and millions more of other minority groups. Very nice, Hitler. He was a good orator too...
Kind of makes you wonder, eh? How a population could just drop moral issues and focus exclusively on personality and a distorted view of economics? Makes you worried, no? The solution here is, as I have previously claimed, to get people to start thinking rationally and doing our own analysis instead of counting on Oprah.
By the way, if anyone did not get the culture reference, just contact me and I will hook you up with Rush Limbaugh.
The problem, of course, is one of human nature. That, and the fact that humans tend to naturally faction. Someone once said, "Democracy endures until the majority discovers it controls the treasury of the entirety." Issues arise when people stop thinking like individuals and start thinking of themselves as "white people" or "poor people" or "feminists" and then start towing the party line. Why do the groups not cancel? People, in large groups, are dumber than sheep. An idea (government control of the economy) that wouldn't survive ten minutes in a discussion group can endure and become policy because of people's inability to think clearly and rationally in groups. In short, groups are easy to mislead.
This phenomenon was obvious in a relatively recent social event. A man managed to get elected by a large plurality, largely due to his promises of economic revival. The validity of his programs was irrelevant, what mattered was that he offered reform and many groups--if not necessarily many individuals--loved his ideas. The issues were gradually transcended by "image," largely a result of careful cultivation by those very supporting groups. So, he was elected and promptly murdered six million Jews and millions more of other minority groups. Very nice, Hitler. He was a good orator too...
Kind of makes you wonder, eh? How a population could just drop moral issues and focus exclusively on personality and a distorted view of economics? Makes you worried, no? The solution here is, as I have previously claimed, to get people to start thinking rationally and doing our own analysis instead of counting on Oprah.
By the way, if anyone did not get the culture reference, just contact me and I will hook you up with Rush Limbaugh.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Why not to wear heels to a speech and debate tourney...
I am a competitive speaker and debater. I attend at least a few tournaments each year, and I am struck by how incredibly ironic a few of the aspects of the competition really are. Here are a few examples. I apologize to anyone who doesn't get the inside jokes. You'll come to realize that effective communication is a thoroughly alien concept to many speakers, myself included.
We begin with the first day of the tournament. Speakers pour in from several states and are all squeezed into such proximity that spontaneous fusion is real possibility. I thought I saw a petite debater actually be squashed out of existence between two boxes of evidence in Milwaukee. The reason for the crush? Everyone want to reach the table to Sign In. Signing In is a mysterious process, because no matter which line you choose you will be in exactly the worst possible place. If your last name begins with "g" you will end up in the "r" line and vice versa. This problem could be solved with signs, of course, but the signs are at the tables and the tables are inaccessible beginning thirty seconds after the doors unlock. Once one has Signed In one must proceed to Script Submission. Script Submission suffers from similar line confusion, but is made even more complex by the fact that the Submission Personnel must inspect every single script. This is difficult, especially when so many speeches are calculated to cause crying. I kid you not. Half of the speeches I hear at tournaments make Bambi look like a Red Skelton skit. Some of the Interpretives even make A Walk to Remember seem reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin's work. I think the people who work this station are either supernaturally gifted or simply fortified by preventative doses of Prozac.
The net effect of this process is to ensure that the tournament starts 20-60 minutes later than planned. Usually these minutes are spent, by the vast majority of the competitors, sitting around and waiting for Postings, the near-mythical sheets of paper that tell us where the rounds are and against whom we are competing. This is especially crucial in debate. Right before the debate rounds start, hundreds of suited teenagers pack the areas where Postings will soon magically appear, a bit like a bunch of giant penguins around a pile of decomposing fish. Unlike penguins, however, we treat the Bearer of the Postings with an almost eerie respect. Then, when the Posting is complete, we contemplate lifting him or her upon our shoulders and triumphantly parading him/her around the building, but mostly we just bolt for the competition rooms.
This activity deserves a paragraph to itself. Put yourself in my black dress shoes. The Postings go up. I am in Room SF 163 and up against a ferocious debater. Now, three factors come into play. First is the need for raw speed. Never underestimate the psychological advantage of being set up and coolly jotting down your value arguments as your opponent scrambles into the room. Second is the fact that the room is some distance across campus and on the far side of the building in which the Postings were placed. Third is the fact that both buildings involved are packed with scrambling people. The secret is to move fast and to never stop moving. I start down the first hallway, neatly dodging the first of two 12 year olds carrying unprotected chocolate ice cream cones randomly amongst the suits. The rest of the hall simply calls for footwork until I reach the first choke point. This is where LD debaters (who really don't carry much evidence) have a huge advantage over TPers who frequently have evidence crates the size of Chevy Impalas. I use my briefcase to wedge through the mass. Another debater uses my wake to slide through even faster. No matter. He tries to pass me as I clear the other side. I clothesline him with my Apologetics bag as we exit the clot. Splash one. The first point cleared, I head for the door. Like all doors in this building it is wheelchair friendly, meaning it is almost impossible to open the first few inches, after which it springs open and stays that way for a few seconds. I time my approach. The nearest debaters are six, maybe seven seconds behind me. I wait a half-second, trigger the door and dart through. I hear footsteps behind me quicken to a run, but I am down to the walkway and on the sidewalk by the time I hear a faint swoosh as the door suddenly closes, followed by a double thump. Splash two more. I approach the other building and see the unthinkable: the other debater is a girl and is almost as close to the building. Direct tactics of the type appropriate against male opponents are out of the question; chivalry is not completely dead, but I have options. I turn and detour across the still-soft ground, darting along a shortcut between buildings. She follows, and quickly pulls ahead as she follows an even more direct line along the wet surface. I see her high heels penetrate damp soil and hear the gunshot-like crack as one sheers off, followed by a bellow of rage. Splash another. I duck just in time as her briefcase whistles through the space previously occupied by my head. I am not quick enough to avoid the flung wreckage of a shoe, but by now I have a sizeable lead. I run up the steps to the destination building and manage to throw my case into the gap in the automatic door as it swings shut, holding it long enough to scramble through. More people are rapidly dispersing inside. One has a wingtip shoe protruding from his ear. I dive around a corner and tuck and roll as two TP teams collide and their evidence collections reach critical mass. The ensuing blast throws open the door to my room. I whip out my flowpad and notes, sit, and manage to scrape together my composure. One point three seconds later my opponent walks in. "Hello," she says, smiling. "Hope you haven't been waiting long." Both her shoes are intact. Spares, of course, but all in all a successful run. I was doing pretty well to take out one set. "Hi," I reply. "Not too long. Glad to see you got here okay. Some of these folks are barbarians."
This process repeats six times during prelim rounds for debates and four times for speech. The mood is less frantic on the subsequent days when we usually run on time. This allows for more effective use of elbows. There are also great shows of heroism and courage. Consider, for example, protecting the timers. Almost everything in this post is either hyperbole or mere fiction. Not this. Some guy off the street showed up after the end of a competition day and tried to steal the timepieces we need for both speech and debate. One of the moms, a small but evidently quite ferocious woman, managed to retain the timers. This cleptomaniacal creep is lucky, though, that he did not run afoul of either the tournament director or my mother. Remember the scene and the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark? These ladies have a stare that can melt your face clean off. Tournament directors deserve medals. If we ever get serious about negotiating with North Korea we should send in the Indy tournament director. She could stare steadily into Kim Jong Il's eyes and say, "You don't want to do that, Kim. I have the power to make you miss your round. I don't want to have to do that, Kim. So just shut the reactors down." It would work instantly, and the only thing we'd have to concede to North Korea would be a new pair of pants for Mr. Il.
Not everyone associated with our tournament has the Stare, but some other intimidating individuals are the judges. There are two types of judges: parent and community. Parent judges are people with kids in the tournament (but in a different event than the one being judged). Community judges are volunteers. Let me be clear here. Few judges are mean and without these fine volunteers tournaments would be impossible. The problem is that, while judging, judges often look quite intent. A lot of concentration is usually in evidence, and this frequently prevents laughter, a major downside when one's speech is meant to be funny. Nothing tops letting loose a joke that has three judges thrashing in their seats with laughter while the fourth clearly does not get it and the last is wearing an expression that implies he hates his life and speaker is Not Helping. Even worse is going immediately after a speech calculated to make the judges cry. Especially when yours is a funny speech. Here you are, telling funny stories and jokes to illustrate your points even as the tear stains are just beginning to dry. Just great.
Responsive judges are more fun in every event, but especially debate. My favorite judges are ones who nod when they like or agree with a point. This way, I have a good idea of how I'm doing relative to my opponent. A bit stranger, but still encouraging, are judges who nod all the time. I can say, "Hundreds of thousands are dying in Darfur because of blind idealism," and he just nods, slowly. My opponent says, "Well, millions are dying in Darfur because of evil pragmatism." He nods at exactly the same rate. I say, "The petaflop barrier has been broken because of Darfurian idealistic analysis of the Categorical Imperative's effect on climate change in conjunction with the ban on CFC's but only in months not containing the letter "e" and due to the increased levels of awesome following the release of Halo 3." He keeps nodding. Cautious probing with a pen reveals that the judge is animatronic. The real one is somewhere else in the room. She is playing with an Etch-a-Sketch and has already handed me the win because she likes my tie.
The last tournament went pretty well for me. I won Apologetics, Impromptu, LD debate, placed in a few other things, and got first overall. I love these events, but that doesn't mean they make sense. Still, hard to top in terms of sheer intensity, eh? Football has nothing on this...
We begin with the first day of the tournament. Speakers pour in from several states and are all squeezed into such proximity that spontaneous fusion is real possibility. I thought I saw a petite debater actually be squashed out of existence between two boxes of evidence in Milwaukee. The reason for the crush? Everyone want to reach the table to Sign In. Signing In is a mysterious process, because no matter which line you choose you will be in exactly the worst possible place. If your last name begins with "g" you will end up in the "r" line and vice versa. This problem could be solved with signs, of course, but the signs are at the tables and the tables are inaccessible beginning thirty seconds after the doors unlock. Once one has Signed In one must proceed to Script Submission. Script Submission suffers from similar line confusion, but is made even more complex by the fact that the Submission Personnel must inspect every single script. This is difficult, especially when so many speeches are calculated to cause crying. I kid you not. Half of the speeches I hear at tournaments make Bambi look like a Red Skelton skit. Some of the Interpretives even make A Walk to Remember seem reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin's work. I think the people who work this station are either supernaturally gifted or simply fortified by preventative doses of Prozac.
The net effect of this process is to ensure that the tournament starts 20-60 minutes later than planned. Usually these minutes are spent, by the vast majority of the competitors, sitting around and waiting for Postings, the near-mythical sheets of paper that tell us where the rounds are and against whom we are competing. This is especially crucial in debate. Right before the debate rounds start, hundreds of suited teenagers pack the areas where Postings will soon magically appear, a bit like a bunch of giant penguins around a pile of decomposing fish. Unlike penguins, however, we treat the Bearer of the Postings with an almost eerie respect. Then, when the Posting is complete, we contemplate lifting him or her upon our shoulders and triumphantly parading him/her around the building, but mostly we just bolt for the competition rooms.
This activity deserves a paragraph to itself. Put yourself in my black dress shoes. The Postings go up. I am in Room SF 163 and up against a ferocious debater. Now, three factors come into play. First is the need for raw speed. Never underestimate the psychological advantage of being set up and coolly jotting down your value arguments as your opponent scrambles into the room. Second is the fact that the room is some distance across campus and on the far side of the building in which the Postings were placed. Third is the fact that both buildings involved are packed with scrambling people. The secret is to move fast and to never stop moving. I start down the first hallway, neatly dodging the first of two 12 year olds carrying unprotected chocolate ice cream cones randomly amongst the suits. The rest of the hall simply calls for footwork until I reach the first choke point. This is where LD debaters (who really don't carry much evidence) have a huge advantage over TPers who frequently have evidence crates the size of Chevy Impalas. I use my briefcase to wedge through the mass. Another debater uses my wake to slide through even faster. No matter. He tries to pass me as I clear the other side. I clothesline him with my Apologetics bag as we exit the clot. Splash one. The first point cleared, I head for the door. Like all doors in this building it is wheelchair friendly, meaning it is almost impossible to open the first few inches, after which it springs open and stays that way for a few seconds. I time my approach. The nearest debaters are six, maybe seven seconds behind me. I wait a half-second, trigger the door and dart through. I hear footsteps behind me quicken to a run, but I am down to the walkway and on the sidewalk by the time I hear a faint swoosh as the door suddenly closes, followed by a double thump. Splash two more. I approach the other building and see the unthinkable: the other debater is a girl and is almost as close to the building. Direct tactics of the type appropriate against male opponents are out of the question; chivalry is not completely dead, but I have options. I turn and detour across the still-soft ground, darting along a shortcut between buildings. She follows, and quickly pulls ahead as she follows an even more direct line along the wet surface. I see her high heels penetrate damp soil and hear the gunshot-like crack as one sheers off, followed by a bellow of rage. Splash another. I duck just in time as her briefcase whistles through the space previously occupied by my head. I am not quick enough to avoid the flung wreckage of a shoe, but by now I have a sizeable lead. I run up the steps to the destination building and manage to throw my case into the gap in the automatic door as it swings shut, holding it long enough to scramble through. More people are rapidly dispersing inside. One has a wingtip shoe protruding from his ear. I dive around a corner and tuck and roll as two TP teams collide and their evidence collections reach critical mass. The ensuing blast throws open the door to my room. I whip out my flowpad and notes, sit, and manage to scrape together my composure. One point three seconds later my opponent walks in. "Hello," she says, smiling. "Hope you haven't been waiting long." Both her shoes are intact. Spares, of course, but all in all a successful run. I was doing pretty well to take out one set. "Hi," I reply. "Not too long. Glad to see you got here okay. Some of these folks are barbarians."
This process repeats six times during prelim rounds for debates and four times for speech. The mood is less frantic on the subsequent days when we usually run on time. This allows for more effective use of elbows. There are also great shows of heroism and courage. Consider, for example, protecting the timers. Almost everything in this post is either hyperbole or mere fiction. Not this. Some guy off the street showed up after the end of a competition day and tried to steal the timepieces we need for both speech and debate. One of the moms, a small but evidently quite ferocious woman, managed to retain the timers. This cleptomaniacal creep is lucky, though, that he did not run afoul of either the tournament director or my mother. Remember the scene and the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark? These ladies have a stare that can melt your face clean off. Tournament directors deserve medals. If we ever get serious about negotiating with North Korea we should send in the Indy tournament director. She could stare steadily into Kim Jong Il's eyes and say, "You don't want to do that, Kim. I have the power to make you miss your round. I don't want to have to do that, Kim. So just shut the reactors down." It would work instantly, and the only thing we'd have to concede to North Korea would be a new pair of pants for Mr. Il.
Not everyone associated with our tournament has the Stare, but some other intimidating individuals are the judges. There are two types of judges: parent and community. Parent judges are people with kids in the tournament (but in a different event than the one being judged). Community judges are volunteers. Let me be clear here. Few judges are mean and without these fine volunteers tournaments would be impossible. The problem is that, while judging, judges often look quite intent. A lot of concentration is usually in evidence, and this frequently prevents laughter, a major downside when one's speech is meant to be funny. Nothing tops letting loose a joke that has three judges thrashing in their seats with laughter while the fourth clearly does not get it and the last is wearing an expression that implies he hates his life and speaker is Not Helping. Even worse is going immediately after a speech calculated to make the judges cry. Especially when yours is a funny speech. Here you are, telling funny stories and jokes to illustrate your points even as the tear stains are just beginning to dry. Just great.
Responsive judges are more fun in every event, but especially debate. My favorite judges are ones who nod when they like or agree with a point. This way, I have a good idea of how I'm doing relative to my opponent. A bit stranger, but still encouraging, are judges who nod all the time. I can say, "Hundreds of thousands are dying in Darfur because of blind idealism," and he just nods, slowly. My opponent says, "Well, millions are dying in Darfur because of evil pragmatism." He nods at exactly the same rate. I say, "The petaflop barrier has been broken because of Darfurian idealistic analysis of the Categorical Imperative's effect on climate change in conjunction with the ban on CFC's but only in months not containing the letter "e" and due to the increased levels of awesome following the release of Halo 3." He keeps nodding. Cautious probing with a pen reveals that the judge is animatronic. The real one is somewhere else in the room. She is playing with an Etch-a-Sketch and has already handed me the win because she likes my tie.
The last tournament went pretty well for me. I won Apologetics, Impromptu, LD debate, placed in a few other things, and got first overall. I love these events, but that doesn't mean they make sense. Still, hard to top in terms of sheer intensity, eh? Football has nothing on this...
Sunday, March 1, 2009
My computer crashed twice while I was writing this...
I like computers. Really, I do. But I just don't understand some of their...eccentricities. Imagine if today's operating systems were cars.
Windows XP
This is a Volkswagen Microbus fifteen feet long with the engine of a Pinto. It's large, wobbly, cartoonish, and seems to heavy for the available power to move it an inch. Upon entering the vehicle we find large, squishy seat cushions in primary colors. They are actually quite comfortable once one overcomes the sensation of returning to kindergarten. Time to drive. Insert the key into the ignition and turn it. Three to five minutes later, the engine starts. Now gently press the accelerator. Nothing happens. But what did you expect? We need Service Pack One. Time to get out and push. After four hours of painful dragging, pleading, shoving, we manage to navigate the Macrobus to the Microsoft dealership. There we receive Service Pack One: 15,000 pounds of armor plate to protect against attackers. The engine now gives a sort of feeble moan when started. But not to fear, Service Pack Two has been released! It strips off the 15,000 pounds of armor plate and installs 15,000 pounds of Kevlar. Also included are extra rubber bands for the engine.
Windows Vista
This is a slight upgrade. Vista is a conversion van. It is painted an attractive designer color and has a smooth, understated interior. Lifting the hood, however, reveals that the engine in encased in a solid block of epoxy to prevent any amateur mechanics from tinkering. The overall effect, though, is rather better than XP. Now turn the key. A light comes on in the dashboard. "Are you sure you want to turn on Vista?" Hit yes. Five to eight minutes later, the engine starts. Now look at the gear selector. Your options are Documents, Pictures, Music, and Games. Click Music. The little light switches back on. "Are you sure you want to listen to music?" Hit yes, maybe a bit more firmly this time. It opens Windows Media Player, or WMP. If Iraq had been discovered to be developing WMP, Obama would not be President. Microsoft can get away with it. But your Vista system was not really meant for playing music or typing documents. No, it exists mainly to update itself. You can't turn in on, turn it off, or touch it without having to visit the dealership for chunks of armor plate until the smooth, designer interior looks like the inside of a blender full of random nuts and bolts. Even then, it asks, "Are you sure you want to attack your computer with an axe?" "Are you sure you want to withdraw the axe from the keyboard?" "Are you sure you want to prepare to swing again?" "Are you sure y--"
Mac OS X
This is a shiny white Lamborghini Murcielago. It's fast, pretty, and no one else you know owns one. Upon entering the vehicle, we find that the seats automatically adjust, the mirrors change angle, and the engine starts, emitting a low, powerful hum. You begin to pull onto the highway, anxious to put the car through its paces, only to be informed that the interstate is not Mac-compatible. It turns out that only 4.5 percent of roads in this nation will allow the use of your Lamborghini. Even more disturbingly, the car seems to drive itself. Everything happens almost magically and without clear input, although your checking account seems to be empty and mine is swiftly draining. It's been fun, but it is also time to move on to Linux. The doors will not open. The locks close again as fast as we can open them. Once you buy a Mac and "experience" it, there is no escape. Luckily for you, I remembered to pack an acetylene torch.
Linux
I'm not yet sure what the Linux car is, because all we currently have is two tons of assorted parts and assembly instructions derived by consensus. Its incarnations range from a Corvette to a Beetle. Thanks to my prodigious programming and system design skills, ours is a bird fountain with three awkwardly positioned wheels.
You'll note that the software industry is not receiving a massive bailout. Perhaps they are just not worthy. But I suspect that the government still uses a single, enormous, convoluted abacus.
Windows XP
This is a Volkswagen Microbus fifteen feet long with the engine of a Pinto. It's large, wobbly, cartoonish, and seems to heavy for the available power to move it an inch. Upon entering the vehicle we find large, squishy seat cushions in primary colors. They are actually quite comfortable once one overcomes the sensation of returning to kindergarten. Time to drive. Insert the key into the ignition and turn it. Three to five minutes later, the engine starts. Now gently press the accelerator. Nothing happens. But what did you expect? We need Service Pack One. Time to get out and push. After four hours of painful dragging, pleading, shoving, we manage to navigate the Macrobus to the Microsoft dealership. There we receive Service Pack One: 15,000 pounds of armor plate to protect against attackers. The engine now gives a sort of feeble moan when started. But not to fear, Service Pack Two has been released! It strips off the 15,000 pounds of armor plate and installs 15,000 pounds of Kevlar. Also included are extra rubber bands for the engine.
Windows Vista
This is a slight upgrade. Vista is a conversion van. It is painted an attractive designer color and has a smooth, understated interior. Lifting the hood, however, reveals that the engine in encased in a solid block of epoxy to prevent any amateur mechanics from tinkering. The overall effect, though, is rather better than XP. Now turn the key. A light comes on in the dashboard. "Are you sure you want to turn on Vista?" Hit yes. Five to eight minutes later, the engine starts. Now look at the gear selector. Your options are Documents, Pictures, Music, and Games. Click Music. The little light switches back on. "Are you sure you want to listen to music?" Hit yes, maybe a bit more firmly this time. It opens Windows Media Player, or WMP. If Iraq had been discovered to be developing WMP, Obama would not be President. Microsoft can get away with it. But your Vista system was not really meant for playing music or typing documents. No, it exists mainly to update itself. You can't turn in on, turn it off, or touch it without having to visit the dealership for chunks of armor plate until the smooth, designer interior looks like the inside of a blender full of random nuts and bolts. Even then, it asks, "Are you sure you want to attack your computer with an axe?" "Are you sure you want to withdraw the axe from the keyboard?" "Are you sure you want to prepare to swing again?" "Are you sure y--"
Mac OS X
This is a shiny white Lamborghini Murcielago. It's fast, pretty, and no one else you know owns one. Upon entering the vehicle, we find that the seats automatically adjust, the mirrors change angle, and the engine starts, emitting a low, powerful hum. You begin to pull onto the highway, anxious to put the car through its paces, only to be informed that the interstate is not Mac-compatible. It turns out that only 4.5 percent of roads in this nation will allow the use of your Lamborghini. Even more disturbingly, the car seems to drive itself. Everything happens almost magically and without clear input, although your checking account seems to be empty and mine is swiftly draining. It's been fun, but it is also time to move on to Linux. The doors will not open. The locks close again as fast as we can open them. Once you buy a Mac and "experience" it, there is no escape. Luckily for you, I remembered to pack an acetylene torch.
Linux
I'm not yet sure what the Linux car is, because all we currently have is two tons of assorted parts and assembly instructions derived by consensus. Its incarnations range from a Corvette to a Beetle. Thanks to my prodigious programming and system design skills, ours is a bird fountain with three awkwardly positioned wheels.
You'll note that the software industry is not receiving a massive bailout. Perhaps they are just not worthy. But I suspect that the government still uses a single, enormous, convoluted abacus.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
But wait, there's more!
I hate infomercials. So I wrote one. I will give five dollars to whoever convinces Billy Mays to actually do this.
"Hi, Billy Mays here for UberOxiDiciPutty, the solution to all your household, global, and spiritual problems!" Random hand gestures that imply he is wearing invisible handcuffs and trying to stab you through the television screen.
"UberOxiDiciPutty is a Scientific Discovery made Right Here in America by German Engineers using Japanese Electronics and assembled by Swiss Craftsmen from Genuine Components." More gestures. The television creaks ominously.
"Do you have leaky pipes? UberOxiDiciPutty is the solution! Just apply it!!!!! So easy this untrained, unpracticed child can use it!!!!!!!!!!!!" Enter a frightened looking seven-year-old. She keeps glancing offstage, as though her parents are being held at gunpoint until she fixes the pipes.
"Here, Mandy--"
"I'm Stephanie."
"Whatever, brat. Now watch as Melanie mends those pipes in a snap!" The camera zooms in extremely close to the pipes so only Stephanie's hands are visible. They seem oddly large, hairy, and professional looking. The hands throw some UberOxiDiciPutty at the pipes. They stop leaking.
"And just like that Melanie fixes the pipes!!! Wouldn't you like to be able to fix your pipes?" Stephanie begins crying. "What's this? UderOxiDiciPutty can fix that!" Billy splatters approximately a kilo and a half of noxoius UberOxiDiciPutty into Stephanie's eyes. Her head bursts into flame. Parental voices cry out, followed by a scuffling noise and a warning shot.
"And just like that, UberOxiDiciPutty quiets upset children!" Stephanie manages to plunge her head into the tub of water awaiting the laundry demonstration.
"Why thank you, Melanie!!! I almost forgot!!! Even though I'm reading from a teleprompter!!! UberOxiDiciPutty is to stains as Rosie O'Donnell is to a buffet!!!" He grabs a pile of shirts that look like they've been home to a family of sick badgers for a few years. One of them is actually oozing something that looks suspiciously like warm roofing tar. Billy throws the entire pile into the water.
"Now watch the power!!!! Just one scoop of UberOxiDiciPutty can clean all of these clothes!!! They will look like new!!!" He tosses another handful of crud into the water. Smoke and steam erupt from the surface. A terrified badger scrambles out of the tub, it's fur falling out even as is mauls a cameraman. Billy pulls out a shirt, apparently from immediately behind the tub. It is gleaming white and has a faint halo of light surrounding it. He hastily yanks off the tag.
"Just like new!!!! No, it's better!!! This shirt is now imbued with the strength of UberOxiDiciPutty!!!! We stitched together a parachute from shirts treated with this amazing substance!!!" A skydiver leaps out of an airplane. We briefly see a parachute of shirts opening above him. The camera cuts to a skydiver standing on the ground, grinning. He gives a thumbs-up. He is wearing a different color than the diver who left the aircraft. The audio is indistinct, but screams are just discernible in the distance.
"And that's not all!!!!!! UberOxiDiciPutty offers the perfect means to prepare for inlaws and family get-togethers!!!" Camera cuts to a woman snickering as she balances a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty on top of the front door. "Let's hear her mention my cooking now," she cackles. The ceiling over the bucket begins to blacken.
"Order now!!! $19.95 will get you a full tub! Two more payments of $19.95 will get you a tub full of UberOxiDiciPutty!!! But you must call now!!! Now!!! Now!!! But wait!!!! We will include, free, a set of premium asbestos cleaning gloves with a lifetime warranty!!!!!" Billy Mays passes out from lack of oxygen. His hands continue to gesture, causing the TV screen to crack. A small drop of UberOxiDiciPutty falls from the table and lands on his head. A faint sizzling noise begins. The badger, now completely hairless, darts over and begins to eat one of his hands. Stephanie throws a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty over both of them. The result, ranking among the greatest moments in television history, levels most of southern California. She deserves a medal. She needs a wig.
"Hi, Billy Mays here for UberOxiDiciPutty, the solution to all your household, global, and spiritual problems!" Random hand gestures that imply he is wearing invisible handcuffs and trying to stab you through the television screen.
"UberOxiDiciPutty is a Scientific Discovery made Right Here in America by German Engineers using Japanese Electronics and assembled by Swiss Craftsmen from Genuine Components." More gestures. The television creaks ominously.
"Do you have leaky pipes? UberOxiDiciPutty is the solution! Just apply it!!!!! So easy this untrained, unpracticed child can use it!!!!!!!!!!!!" Enter a frightened looking seven-year-old. She keeps glancing offstage, as though her parents are being held at gunpoint until she fixes the pipes.
"Here, Mandy--"
"I'm Stephanie."
"Whatever, brat. Now watch as Melanie mends those pipes in a snap!" The camera zooms in extremely close to the pipes so only Stephanie's hands are visible. They seem oddly large, hairy, and professional looking. The hands throw some UberOxiDiciPutty at the pipes. They stop leaking.
"And just like that Melanie fixes the pipes!!! Wouldn't you like to be able to fix your pipes?" Stephanie begins crying. "What's this? UderOxiDiciPutty can fix that!" Billy splatters approximately a kilo and a half of noxoius UberOxiDiciPutty into Stephanie's eyes. Her head bursts into flame. Parental voices cry out, followed by a scuffling noise and a warning shot.
"And just like that, UberOxiDiciPutty quiets upset children!" Stephanie manages to plunge her head into the tub of water awaiting the laundry demonstration.
"Why thank you, Melanie!!! I almost forgot!!! Even though I'm reading from a teleprompter!!! UberOxiDiciPutty is to stains as Rosie O'Donnell is to a buffet!!!" He grabs a pile of shirts that look like they've been home to a family of sick badgers for a few years. One of them is actually oozing something that looks suspiciously like warm roofing tar. Billy throws the entire pile into the water.
"Now watch the power!!!! Just one scoop of UberOxiDiciPutty can clean all of these clothes!!! They will look like new!!!" He tosses another handful of crud into the water. Smoke and steam erupt from the surface. A terrified badger scrambles out of the tub, it's fur falling out even as is mauls a cameraman. Billy pulls out a shirt, apparently from immediately behind the tub. It is gleaming white and has a faint halo of light surrounding it. He hastily yanks off the tag.
"Just like new!!!! No, it's better!!! This shirt is now imbued with the strength of UberOxiDiciPutty!!!! We stitched together a parachute from shirts treated with this amazing substance!!!" A skydiver leaps out of an airplane. We briefly see a parachute of shirts opening above him. The camera cuts to a skydiver standing on the ground, grinning. He gives a thumbs-up. He is wearing a different color than the diver who left the aircraft. The audio is indistinct, but screams are just discernible in the distance.
"And that's not all!!!!!! UberOxiDiciPutty offers the perfect means to prepare for inlaws and family get-togethers!!!" Camera cuts to a woman snickering as she balances a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty on top of the front door. "Let's hear her mention my cooking now," she cackles. The ceiling over the bucket begins to blacken.
"Order now!!! $19.95 will get you a full tub! Two more payments of $19.95 will get you a tub full of UberOxiDiciPutty!!! But you must call now!!! Now!!! Now!!! But wait!!!! We will include, free, a set of premium asbestos cleaning gloves with a lifetime warranty!!!!!" Billy Mays passes out from lack of oxygen. His hands continue to gesture, causing the TV screen to crack. A small drop of UberOxiDiciPutty falls from the table and lands on his head. A faint sizzling noise begins. The badger, now completely hairless, darts over and begins to eat one of his hands. Stephanie throws a bucket of UberOxiDiciPutty over both of them. The result, ranking among the greatest moments in television history, levels most of southern California. She deserves a medal. She needs a wig.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Professional sports and the prospect of alien invasion
Football. Basketball. Baseball. We all seem obsessed with them. I am currently watching professional bull riding, and I'm pretty sure someone is obsessed with that, too. Why? Why do we pay money to applaud as grown men swat little balls or tackle each other or get mauled by 2000 pounds of angry muscle? We waste time, incur the wrath of PETA, and expend incredible resources to watch other people do stuff. Amazing? Obviously. Sinister, perhaps? I think so. It is clear that many "sports leagues" are alien conspiracies to convert us into helpless couch potatoes. Proof? You want proof? Let's start with a look at the people involved in professional sports, hm?
1. Plaxico Burress
This guy is an alien. The Giants' wide receiver was attempting to acquaint himself with earthling weaponry, but he did insufficient homework. As a result, he decided to carry a Glock without a holster, do this in New York state, and pull the trigger while the end with the hole in it was pointed at his leg. As most of my readers who are not aliens have likely deduced, all three of these acts were either illegal, stupid, or both. Surely a human earning a few million dollars a year would be smarter. The only logical explanation is that he is an alien without extensive knowledge of why holsters are important, what New York's laws are, and which end the bullets come out of.
2. Bret Favre
This alien is no longer involved with the conspiracy directly; the aliens did not anticipate that some of their people might actually develop a liking for football. Favre, in addition to subversively introducing the alien system of pronunciation, has become rather fond of his records. He keeps coming out of retirement to further protect them, and will continue to do so for the rest of his five-hundred year lifespan. Old? He's barely past adolescence.
3. Dennis Rodman
Look up a picture. Yeah...I don't think I need to say anything else.
But why? How does the aliens' support of sports benefit them in their ongoing quest to toast us and seize our planet with its scenery intact? Think about what sports do. They bind us, with ever increasing strength, to our couches decreasing our ability to protect ourselves. More importantly, they divide us. Millions of people hold deep, almost religious opinions, about stuff that does not matter. Cubs fans hate Cardinals fans. Aggies fans hate Longhorn fans. Americans own lots and lots of guns. The situation is the same in the rest of the world, except with soccer and blunt instruments. By my estimates, the Global Sports War, with no fewer than 1500 separate sides, will erupt in less than twenty years. When the dust settles, only people uninterested in sports will have survived. In other words, the only people left alive after 2029 will be monks. And most monks are really, really bad at blowing up aliens.
Is there a solution? Of course. We must give monks as many nuclear weapons as possible.
P.S. Come 2029, if you are a Patriots fan, you better hope somebody has mercy on you. I guarantee the entire population of Indiana won't.
1. Plaxico Burress
This guy is an alien. The Giants' wide receiver was attempting to acquaint himself with earthling weaponry, but he did insufficient homework. As a result, he decided to carry a Glock without a holster, do this in New York state, and pull the trigger while the end with the hole in it was pointed at his leg. As most of my readers who are not aliens have likely deduced, all three of these acts were either illegal, stupid, or both. Surely a human earning a few million dollars a year would be smarter. The only logical explanation is that he is an alien without extensive knowledge of why holsters are important, what New York's laws are, and which end the bullets come out of.
2. Bret Favre
This alien is no longer involved with the conspiracy directly; the aliens did not anticipate that some of their people might actually develop a liking for football. Favre, in addition to subversively introducing the alien system of pronunciation, has become rather fond of his records. He keeps coming out of retirement to further protect them, and will continue to do so for the rest of his five-hundred year lifespan. Old? He's barely past adolescence.
3. Dennis Rodman
Look up a picture. Yeah...I don't think I need to say anything else.
But why? How does the aliens' support of sports benefit them in their ongoing quest to toast us and seize our planet with its scenery intact? Think about what sports do. They bind us, with ever increasing strength, to our couches decreasing our ability to protect ourselves. More importantly, they divide us. Millions of people hold deep, almost religious opinions, about stuff that does not matter. Cubs fans hate Cardinals fans. Aggies fans hate Longhorn fans. Americans own lots and lots of guns. The situation is the same in the rest of the world, except with soccer and blunt instruments. By my estimates, the Global Sports War, with no fewer than 1500 separate sides, will erupt in less than twenty years. When the dust settles, only people uninterested in sports will have survived. In other words, the only people left alive after 2029 will be monks. And most monks are really, really bad at blowing up aliens.
Is there a solution? Of course. We must give monks as many nuclear weapons as possible.
P.S. Come 2029, if you are a Patriots fan, you better hope somebody has mercy on you. I guarantee the entire population of Indiana won't.
Friday, February 6, 2009
I'm freeeeeeeeee...free fallin'
I love theme parks. I didn't always much appreciate them; for many years I had this irrational fear of streaking straight down at 90 miles per hour in a vehicle designed by engineers not currently riding in it. Luckily, at Cedar Point I overcame this entirely groundless phobia long enough to discover I actually like roller coasters. I think that the lawn mowing I did over the summer finally killed off enough brain cells. Let us examine the theme park experience.
Step One: Travel
There are plenty of ways to die interestingly in Anytown, USA, but go ahead and travel a few hundred miles to visit Cedar Point. This way, you get to pay gas money to countries like Saudi Arabia and United Arab Emirates, helping their struggling economies. In Dubhai the number of indoor ski slopes per capita has fallen to below 3.4, resulting in, well, I don't know what. At the end of the journey, you are faced with another opportunity to discard the bits of green paper you've been accumulating. This time, you shell out 100 bucks a night at a Super 8 twenty miles from the park. Most horrifying, you feel fortunate to have secured this rate. Perhaps this is because it pales in comparison to:
Step Two: Admission
Roller coasters are just barely visible over the horizon as you are directed to the nearest available parking space. Most parks have parking lots that make Kansas look positively cramped. Last year more people starved to death lost in parking lots outside Cedar Point than in all the world's natural deserts combined. Haggard and weary, you reach the gate only to be asked to surrender any and all cash you might be carrying. 401(k)s might also be confiscated. Decurrencied and searched to make sure you aren't smuggling food into the park, you are free to enjoy the wonder, fear, adrenaline, and pure joy of:
Step Three: Lines
If set end to end, the lines at Cedar Point would wrap around Rosie O'Donnell and Al Gore combined. We waited nearly two hours for one ride even though we went on two of the slower days of the season. Even more ferocious than the length of the lines are their contents. Horrifying as it may sound, these lines of composed of living human beings, among the strangest elements in the known universe. The denizens of lines provide great entertainment, but more than once I felt like calling for security and, on rather more occasions, the CDC. In line for the Maverick (a coaster more fun the Sarah Palin in a Gander Mountain without security cameras), we got to listen, for an hour and a half, to iPod Man. I should clarify; iPod Man is in no way associated with Apple Computers. I think he might be associated with the clinical trial of an inhibition-lowering drug that works a bit too well. For ninety minutes he listened to his iPod, happily belting out the lyrics at random intervals. Everyone would be minding their own business, standing around and pretending they weren't contemplating making a break for it, when suddenly a voice would launch into "He Reigns" a Newsboys song of which I used to be moderately fond. In a fantasy world, everyone would have joined in and a Billy Graham-style revival would have swept Sandusky, Ohio into the New Millennium. In this world everyone looked slightly nervous and resolutely avoided eye-contact. A real shame, I think. Creepiness aside, I give this guy credit for at least being willing to show some sign of worship in public.
Step Four: Things Man Was Not Meant To Know
After the two-hour line comes the two-minute ride. The rides themselves always have vaguely ominous names. Case in point: The Corkscrew. I admit, most of the mental images that come to mind are not positive. The common corkscrew's application beyond the realm of wine bottles does not bear contemplation. I like my nasal passages the way God made them. The coaster is nowhere near as sinister as the name implies; it simply contains a corkscrew-shaped loop. Now consider the Mantis. A mantis is a bug. It's not even poisonous. So the coaster won't be too vicious, right? Well...the Mantis is a coaster on which the riders stand astride a bicycle seat-like saddle and underneath a shoulder harness. The seat ratchets up, the harness ratchets down. The problem here is fairly evident to anyone familiar with classical American humor. The harness will invariably be a bit too low and the seat a bit too high. Add four g's and the situation is suddenly not funny at all to the victim and an absolute scream to whoever is standing next to him. I'm just glad I was the guy standing next to him. And don't even get me started on Top Thrill Dragster. Too late. Hah! This ride features a line slightly longer than the total length of the track. I wonder why, because TTD consists solely of a hydraulic launch system, a 400-foot tall hill, and a few dozen foolish victims. They recommend you leave behind easily lost things like limbs before boarding.
In summary, we give up time, money, safety, and sanity to simulate falling to our deaths. It just seems to me that there is an easier way.
Step One: Travel
There are plenty of ways to die interestingly in Anytown, USA, but go ahead and travel a few hundred miles to visit Cedar Point. This way, you get to pay gas money to countries like Saudi Arabia and United Arab Emirates, helping their struggling economies. In Dubhai the number of indoor ski slopes per capita has fallen to below 3.4, resulting in, well, I don't know what. At the end of the journey, you are faced with another opportunity to discard the bits of green paper you've been accumulating. This time, you shell out 100 bucks a night at a Super 8 twenty miles from the park. Most horrifying, you feel fortunate to have secured this rate. Perhaps this is because it pales in comparison to:
Step Two: Admission
Roller coasters are just barely visible over the horizon as you are directed to the nearest available parking space. Most parks have parking lots that make Kansas look positively cramped. Last year more people starved to death lost in parking lots outside Cedar Point than in all the world's natural deserts combined. Haggard and weary, you reach the gate only to be asked to surrender any and all cash you might be carrying. 401(k)s might also be confiscated. Decurrencied and searched to make sure you aren't smuggling food into the park, you are free to enjoy the wonder, fear, adrenaline, and pure joy of:
Step Three: Lines
If set end to end, the lines at Cedar Point would wrap around Rosie O'Donnell and Al Gore combined. We waited nearly two hours for one ride even though we went on two of the slower days of the season. Even more ferocious than the length of the lines are their contents. Horrifying as it may sound, these lines of composed of living human beings, among the strangest elements in the known universe. The denizens of lines provide great entertainment, but more than once I felt like calling for security and, on rather more occasions, the CDC. In line for the Maverick (a coaster more fun the Sarah Palin in a Gander Mountain without security cameras), we got to listen, for an hour and a half, to iPod Man. I should clarify; iPod Man is in no way associated with Apple Computers. I think he might be associated with the clinical trial of an inhibition-lowering drug that works a bit too well. For ninety minutes he listened to his iPod, happily belting out the lyrics at random intervals. Everyone would be minding their own business, standing around and pretending they weren't contemplating making a break for it, when suddenly a voice would launch into "He Reigns" a Newsboys song of which I used to be moderately fond. In a fantasy world, everyone would have joined in and a Billy Graham-style revival would have swept Sandusky, Ohio into the New Millennium. In this world everyone looked slightly nervous and resolutely avoided eye-contact. A real shame, I think. Creepiness aside, I give this guy credit for at least being willing to show some sign of worship in public.
Step Four: Things Man Was Not Meant To Know
After the two-hour line comes the two-minute ride. The rides themselves always have vaguely ominous names. Case in point: The Corkscrew. I admit, most of the mental images that come to mind are not positive. The common corkscrew's application beyond the realm of wine bottles does not bear contemplation. I like my nasal passages the way God made them. The coaster is nowhere near as sinister as the name implies; it simply contains a corkscrew-shaped loop. Now consider the Mantis. A mantis is a bug. It's not even poisonous. So the coaster won't be too vicious, right? Well...the Mantis is a coaster on which the riders stand astride a bicycle seat-like saddle and underneath a shoulder harness. The seat ratchets up, the harness ratchets down. The problem here is fairly evident to anyone familiar with classical American humor. The harness will invariably be a bit too low and the seat a bit too high. Add four g's and the situation is suddenly not funny at all to the victim and an absolute scream to whoever is standing next to him. I'm just glad I was the guy standing next to him. And don't even get me started on Top Thrill Dragster. Too late. Hah! This ride features a line slightly longer than the total length of the track. I wonder why, because TTD consists solely of a hydraulic launch system, a 400-foot tall hill, and a few dozen foolish victims. They recommend you leave behind easily lost things like limbs before boarding.
In summary, we give up time, money, safety, and sanity to simulate falling to our deaths. It just seems to me that there is an easier way.
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