Voodoo Time Dot Com

I received my annual web-hosting bill a couple weeks ago, which reminded me that I actually pay about $100 per year to keep this big blank page out there on the Internets. While my inner narcissist would never allow me to cancel my hosting service — thereby unfairly depriving the world of my alternating acerbic and saccharine witticisms — it occurred to me that financing this website for its own sake is hardly the sort of intelligence one brags about at Mensa socials.

Fortunately, this is a situation which can easily be remedied by my just sitting down and typing something already. I say “easily”, but the reality is anything but. To say I have writer’s block is to say that the sun is yellow. Technically, it’s the truth, but the description hardly captures the true intensity of the condition. Mine is a block that could prevent even the most prolific of Harlequin novelists from describing the heaving of another bosom ever again. Children the world over should pray nightly that J.K. Rowling never sees the likes of this block - lest Harry Potter languish as a Hogwart’s fifth-year forever.

But it is not entirely fiscal responsibility that again brings me face to face with the blinking cursor. I seek power. Afterall, if L. Ron Hubbard can start a religion after writing mediocre science-fiction, why can’t a blogger? Likewise, in a 2001 census, 0.7% of British subjects identified themselves as Jedi. And it is estimated that there are more Klingon speakers in the world than there are speakers of Navajo. The lesson here is, in a world of more than six billion people, if you speak loudly enough, someone is bound to think you’re a damned genius.

So there it is. My latent messianic complex is the hammer, and my keyboard the chisel that will chip away at this writer’s block until only the rubble of obscurity is left behind. Then shall I begin my ascent into fame, adulation, and my eventual deity. There will be statues and obelisks erected in my honor, and the streets shall flow with the blood of the nonbelievers.

Therefore, the question is, when the inquisitors arrive (and they shall), and they look through your bookmarks, will you be found wanting?

Bye for now.

So you might have noticed that I haven’t written much here in a week or two. I have a good excuse though. Really!

See, it all started when I received an urgent call from the President of the United States. “I’m sorry to call so late in the evening,” he began (it was 3:36 AM), “but this simply cannot wait until morning. I received word at oh-two-thirty hours, that we have lost all communication with our secret lunar base. The status and whereabouts of our colonists are unknown. I’m afraid I must ask you to undertake another dangerous mission for your country.”

“No dice, Mr. President,” I answered. “I retired last year after the Delta Incursion. My walking papers are stamped all the way to the top. With all due respect, sir, not even the President of the United States can put me back on one of those confounded ETCs (Extraplanetary Transport Craft) again.”

“I’m not asking as your President, Justis,” he replied, desperation betraying his previously solemn tone, “I’m asking as your friend.” Twenty minutes later I was in a chopper headed to Groom Lake.

Again.
(more…)

So I hear there is an old folktale in parts of Europe in which an innkeeper stuffed two children in a pickle barrel on Christmas day. Interestingly enough, I cannot seem to find any information suggesting why said innkeeper would have done so. But regardless of motive, two children are now sealed in a pickle barrel. Then St. Nicholas happens by and saves the children from the pickle barrel by tapping it with his cane.

This story evidently begot a tradition in which a blown-glass Christmas tree ornament in the likeness of a pickle is placed on the family Christmas tree on Christmas Eve - presumably by Santa Claus himself. On Christmas morning, all the children run to the tree to be the first to find the pickle. Oh how they laugh and frolic! Then the lucky child who finds the pickle is rewarded with an extra gift from Santa, and gets to open the first gift of the morning.

So, in a nutshell, grab Santa’s pickle and win a toy. Then there’s the whole lap-sitting thing. I’m just sayin’…

Watch out for that pickle, kids.

Bye for now.

I just posted over at Chapel Perilous about a Swiss man whom I admire named Erich von Daniken. The reason I admire Mr. von Daniken is not that he is a prolific author, having sold well over 50 million books worldwide. It is not that he has appeared on several successful television programs or even that he has built his own theme park. I admire Erich von Daniken because he has an idea that annoys a lot of people.

Von Daniken’s controversial theory, in a nutshell, is that ancient astronauts from another world visited our planet in prehistoric times and performed genetic experiments with primitive primates. By mixing their alien DNA with that of various apes, these extraterrestrial scientists created humankind. This is precisely the kind of idea that is likely to irritate a lot of people. If there is anything that can unite the Creationists and the Darwinists, it’s this idea of the martian-monkey-man. And nothing good ever comes from that.

On first pass, the whole thing does sound a bit silly, or at the very least unlikely. But with an open mind, on the surface at least, it makes a little sense. Consider, for example, the recent findings that humans and chimpanzees share over 98% of our genetic recipe. But with that 2% difference, we have had the greatest impact on the planet of any species that has ever lived. Of course, many results of that impact make me think that this whole experiment could have done with one or two more iterations.

So to our hypothetical alien forebears, I’d just like to say that this joke isn’t funny anymore. I think it’s been abundantly clear for millenia now that this whole civilization thing is not working out as planned. In our currrent form, it appears that the ape to alien ratio is skewed a bit too much toward the former. I don’t know if you guys are still checking in on us, but if so, how about another shot of smart? This gene pool could use a little more chlorine.

On a side note, I’ve always thought that monkeys in human clothes was really funny. Now I’m starting to wonder if it’s really just a little ironic.

Bye for now.

Recently there was a deep sea research expedition to identify and catalogue sea life in the deepest waters between Australia and New Zealand. And, as expected, they did not fail to turn up another horde of the most hideously ugly and nightmarish creatures this planet has to offer.

In a world of total darkness and intense pressure (around 3,000 pounds per square inch), there are really only two basic animal shapes - undefined slimy blob, or something that vaguely resembles a rock with a hedge-trimmer and Christmas lights sticking out of it. Anything else implodes way before it sees the ocean floor.

Scary sea creatures tend to get the coolest names. This time we have creatures with names like Fangtooth, Gulper Eel, Coffinfish, and the slighty less scary Snotthead. Goblin Shrimp: cool, scary name; Snotthead: not so scary name.

Knowing that human beings have explored only a tiny bit of the world’s oceans, there are sure to be legions of weird yet-unknown deep sea life scraping around the remaining 70% of the Earth’s surface, and there are bound to be some even weirder than the Vampire Squid from Hell. And these creatures will have super-cool names too. Here are the kinds of deep-sea animals I hope we find someday:

The Inside-out Fish - Externally covered in sharp teeth, this fish chews up it’s prey by just running into it over and over again.

The Spiny Laser Crab - a jet black crab covered in 6-inch spikes to protect it while it lines up a shot with its natural laser eyes. Small bioluminescent organs behind the creature’s retina create light that focuses into a sharp laserbeam through the lens of the eye.

The Deathstar Fish - Appears to be a simple starfish, but as its unwitting prey approaches, the deathstar fish pulls it in with its tractor beam. It’s a trap!

Anyway, the point of all of this is that the ocean floor is gross and scary. Don’t go down there - seriously. –Unless you’re a heavily-armored submersible robot. Then it would be OK I guess.

Bye for now.

So if West Nile Virus and the SARS weren’t enough to keep one inside these days, it looks like a new player is on the scene just in time for bikini season. Better start stockpiling the calamine lotion, because Monkeypox is coming to town.

Monkeypox was discovered in 1970 in Africa - where all the best diseases come from. The symptoms show up around twelve days after exposure - which makes this one ripe for vector all over the world in no time. Symptoms include fever, headache, swollen lymph nodes, and the trademark bumpy rash. However, banana cravings and preoccupation with one’s own fecal matter are not symptomatic of Monkeypox. These are actually merely symptoms of toddlerhood - a condition affecting most humans between the ages of two and four years of age.

At this time, large packs of tiny, ground-dwelling monkeys are loose across the midwest spreading contagion among the human populace. As Monkeypox is spread by exposure to direct contact with bodily fluids, it is hypothesized that these animals are breaking into homes and using the residents’ toothbrushes. They are also known to steal fine woolen dresswear. The reasons for these behaviors are as yet unclear.

A wise man once told me, “Never trust a monkey.” Only now do I finally see the wisdom in that admonition. And only now do I feel remorse for having him institutionalized. That wise man is gone now, but his wisdom remains, and I am able to pass it on to you now. Never, but never, trust a monkey - especially one with minty breath wearing a sportcoat.

Bye for now.

So, I’m back from my little bout with the plague, and I am once again able to actually do things like stay awake for more than two consecutive hours. This evening, I shoveled up all of my used tissues that covered every flat surface of my apartment like biohazardous snow drifts. I wanted to build an igloo or something from my empty Kleenex boxes, but there were only three of them. So I put my feet into two of them, and slid around the carpet. It’s like ice skating… without ice… or skates…

Actually, it’s not much like ice skating at all. It’s more like shuffling around the carpet with boxes on your feet.

So, with the SARS going around, now is an excellent time to be sick. I highly recommend it. People get real nervous about having you around. For best results, make sure you occasionally ask “Is it hot in here?”. Then ask people to check your forehead. You’ll be headed home from work early in no time.

Thought for the day: Would sending someone a used tissue in the mail be considered bioterrorism?

If you’re in New Mexico and it’s the second Tuesday of February, you’re likely to find yourself in the midst of a little celebration. After decades of crop circles, cattle mutilations, midnight abductions, and anal probes, New Mexico lawmakers have finally come to properly appreciate these cultural contributions of extraterrestrial beings.

After many months of emotional debate, state legislators in Santa Fe have agreed to set aside a day somewhere between the 8th and the 14th of February to commemorate the alleged crash landing of an alien spacecraft in the New Mexico desert near the town of Roswell in 1947. The US government claims that such an event never took place, whereas Roswell-area merchants assure us that it most certainly did, and they are more than happy to sell us a map to the crash site, as well as a variety of paraphernalia including T-shirts, expensive binoculars, and alien bobble-head dolls to take along on the trip. They’ll also sell you astronaut ice cream which tastes dry and chalky, and not at all like ice cream - or like astronauts for that matter.

So, standing in the middle of godforsaken nowhere with an ice cream wafer in one hand, and a bobble-head martian in the other, we begin to suspect the New Mexico tourist industry has a pretty good thing going. And it is in this spirit of intergalactic commerce that thousands of Star Trek fans in aluminum foil hats will descend on Roswell on February 10, 2004 to celebrate the first annual Extraterrestrial Culture Day. There is sure to be no shortage of garish homemade costumes and awkward social interaction.

There exists a whole cornucopia of marketing opportunities here. Between merchandise and tourism alone, there are fortunes to be made. Think bus tours, lectures, star gazing, and of course the ubiquitous “Our intergalactic overlords travelled 12.68 light years from Alpha-Crapulon IX, and all they brought me was this lousy T-shirt.” T-shirts. And for the total abduction experience, participating gastroenterologists will be offering 30% off all colonoscopies.

Actually, I made up that last part. But I think it’s a pretty great idea.

In 2006, Extraterrestrial Culture Day will fall on February 14 - St. Valentine’s Day. I can see the two holidays colliding in a big way. I’ll let you make your own anal probe jokes.

Bye for now.

Since I’m on the whole subject of words lately, I started thinking about words I dislike. These are common words that I hate to say or hear said. I have no explanation for this.

Bequeath
Creamy
Lather
Luxurious, Luxuriant
Meal
Normalcy
Organic (when describing anything but a carbon-based compound)
Panties
Scrumptious
Smoothy
Succulent
Sumptuous
Synergy (Syngeristic, Synergize)
Zany
Zesty

I saw this at F.A.O. Schwartz yesterday…

How any child could get to sleep with this alien zombie baby staring back at them is beyond me. This seems like the kind of thing you get as a gift from your weird great-aunt who lives six states away… or maybe H.R. Giger.

Sweet dreams…