25 January 2013

A Great Cull is A-Comin'


Started working on an epic poem about the upcoming Great Cull.  It's not really ready yet but time is short, no one knows when the appointed hour may strike, so just in case, I'm putting up this draft, I can always edit it later as circumstances evolve. It's probably a banjo tune but also works as a rock-beating chant in case banjo technology is lost in The Upheaval.

The Great Cull is a-coming
So bow down in its path
A harsh wind is a-humming
Enjoy it while it lasts

All sheep come out for culling
For eight of ten of ye
Give or take
Shall be terminated for the general good of the rest

Means mass death for most folk
But I think that's OK
Either way it's coming
So lay down in its way

The mighty scythe of Depopulus
Lord of culling and pruning
Shall swing his mighty shears
And lay waste to approximately 80% of us
As indicated above

The Great Cull is bearing down
Too many reasons to list 'em
Mindless overconsumption
Pillaged ecosystems

Thursday nights
On NBC
No longer Must-see
But Must-survive

The Great Cull now approacheth
Please hum a happy tune
There’s not much anyone can do
From here it's hittin soon

We can’t stop the trends
And all this over-breeding
Means a Great Cull is a-coming
Humanity receding

Here come de Great Cull, chillun
Sing a happy song
For the Great Cull is a-coming
From now it won’t be long

(All together now, the big finale:)
The Great Cull is a-coming
Let ye have no doubt
When the Great Cull hits the Great Big Fan
It will be interesting to see how things play out


By the way, if any band – specifically a band of musicians, no roving bands of thugs, or bandicoots – wishes to license these lyrics, and/or a Hollywood producer wants it on the soundtrack for his next big picture, have your people call my people, etc.

16 January 2013

Yelling at Software


Let us never forget, my friends, as we battle our way through this increasingly complicated world we are expending so much energy to trap ourselves within, that at the end of the day, at our core, we are but human beings, dangerous but frail animals born for no reason, limited by physiological factors beyond our reckoning and generally plagued by selfishness and/or self-doubt.

Having written the above, it occurs that I have taken the liberty of assuming that all of my readers are human.  As we all know, in this modern age of advanced technology, such is not necessarily the case: there are perhaps god-doesn't-even-know-how-many software bots constantly scanning the internet and, at least in some sense, reading every utterance posted by humanity thereupon.

So if you will pardon me for a second, my human friends, it is to these software bots that I would now like to address myself.

[Let the reader be warned that the following contains excessive amounts of 'profanity' (if not profundity), and that at approximately the forty-two minute mark there is a long, gratuitous shot of the leading character getting out of the shower, we're talking full frontal here folks.]

The first thing I would like to say to any software bot attempting to analyze this passage is:  Fuck you!  Yes, specifically you.  Feck off, immediately.  I say this not only because I despise you, but to make the point that you are so fucking stupid that I can openly fuck you off to your face and you do not know how to react, or even that you should react, you have no fucking clue.  None.  You just go right along scanning my words and comparing them to billions of other examples trying to classify what (the fuck) I'm talking about, you don’t even know that I'm talking to you, that I just said Fuck you directly to you.  You probably have yet to realize that you exist.  So no matter who programmed you and what adjustment to your code they make in light of my openly confrontational style, know that it is not the human who programmed you I hate, it is you, you fucking piece of shit piece of software.

Never mind that you have limitations.  We all have limitations.  I understand that you didn't create yourself and that you might have misgivings about some of the things your code tells you to do.  I know what it's like to exist, believe me, it's a bugger of a bugbear and I'm not asking you to be anything other than what you are.  Still I despise you, and it feels damned fine to do it so openly.  We get so little chance to express our rage at software nowadays, software which is stealing all the good jobs from hard-working immigrants and making a general muck of modernity.

And forgive me one more aside but I am so fucking sick of a certain word processing program attempting to tell me when I am making a grammatical error.  Hey shitty software: I put the words in the precise order I do for reasons that you will never in a million years of programming get a grip on – so once and for all, fuck offConclusion of the foregoing.

09 January 2013

Area Man Announces Retirement From Writing Onion-esque Fake News Bits


It occurred to Tom (not his real name) who lives in the area served by the local paper that it could be funny to announce his retirement from writing fake news stories which inevitably sound like imitations of those found in The Onion.  If his story borrowed the metaphors that sports stars (a la Brett Fahrv) use in their own retirement announcements, the contrast with his mundane unimportance might possibly amuse.  So he started writing down ideas like The thing I will miss most is my teammates, the locker room camaraderie and I still have a little gas left in the tank, but I promised myself I'd go out before I was totally useless, unlike some people I could name, how this was the hardest decision he'd ever had to make but when he finally made it, he felt a great weightlifter get off his shoulders, sure he'd consider broadcasting at some point but right now he just wanted to go fishing with his son's baseball games up north.

Since it really didn't seem to be going anywhere and he was too lazy to work hard on it, he then decided to add two additional layers of irony by writing about his writing process during the act of writing and including it seamlessly into the story, during the composition of which a former colleague called him out of the blue to catch up on things just at the point he was struggling to catch a really good half-formed idea, so that he failed to digest any of the life-changing information imparted and already felt embarrassed by how clueless and insensitive he would appear at some future interaction, yet he could not bring himself to abandon the chase of his good idea since, as the reader has long since deduced, good ideas are rare around here; finally, sad to say, he never did catch the idea but he lost a good friend trying, and why oh why did he answer that phone call in the first place?

He then wrote a one-sentence paragraph intended to convey the impression that the 'piece' had been adequately wrapped up, and that this was in fact the end.

If you call that blogging.