Earlier in the week I fell ill. It was not bad, as far as illness go, but I pretty much slept all day Sunday and most of Monday. Relatively speaking, it probably made up for the insomnia of previous weeks.
However, one interesting side effect of being that sick, for me at least, is what I call fever dreams. Basically, I have amazingly strange and vivid dreams. These dreams don’t just have sound, color, and plot, they have a whole 4th Dimension of weirdness as well.
For example, when I was in the 6th grade, I was laid out with the flu. I had a dream where I was a two-dimensional object (a square to be precise), who was trying to find a way to break into the 3-dimensional world. My search was rather hampered by the gang of swirls that kept chasing me around.
No, really. I’m not kidding.
So, Sunday night, I was a chicken, a rooster, actually. I was trying to find a way to free my brethren from the clutches of the evil Colonel who bore a suspicious resemblance to a certain military commander with a line of chicken restaurants.
Yes, the Colonel was making nuggets out of my people and I was determined to stop him. After a gun battle in fast-food establishment (which was in the first person), complete with bullet-time, John Woo-esque leaping, and the dispatch of a foe via knocking him into the deep fat fryer, I learned the location of the Colonel’s secret factory.
I gathered my stalwart companions (who were also chickens) and dressed in black commando garb, we stormed the compound. A ferocious gun battle ensued (though this time in a 3rd Person overhead view), where many a chicken and man alike fell in a hail of lead. Think the D-Day scene from Saving Private Ryan done in a warehouse with chickens carrying machine guns and you’ll get the idea.
I managed to make it into the main factory and oddly enough, it was now a side-scrolling platformer (think Mario). I now had to jump between floors, evading traps and pixilated bullets, while pecking any enemy who got close enough. I eventually made it to the Colonel, who resembled Donkey-Kong wearing a white suit, glasses, and a white goatee.
Unfortunately, something must have disturbed me during the fight with the Colonel, so I never found out if I won. Instead the scene shifted and I (being regular me now, not a chicken) ended up hitting a series of hanging pails with a lead pipe, hoping a clock would fall out of one.
I am dead serious.
In retrospect, maybe I need to stop playing so many video games.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Is Better Than . . .
I happened to use the expression ‘x is better than sliced bread’ the other day. It’s an expression I use with some frequency.
Once the sentence escaped my lips, however, I wondered ‘why?’ Why is sliced bread so magical that other things need to be compared to it?
I somehow doubt that the unsliced bread of yore was particularly tough or screamed when you cut it (which would be unnerving to say the least), so why would pre-sliced bread be so wonderful? Our ancestors were hearty working folk who regularly hunted dinosaurs and fought yeti, what possible terror could a loaf of bread have held for them? I mean, I have personally cut bread. It didn’t fight back and I have all my fingers (though one had to be put back on).
So, I humbly submit that we should have a better expression. Something that truly reflects the magical experience that sliced bread simply doesn’t convey.
Please feel free to use the one you like best in your daily conversation:
X is . . .
Better than a solid gold puppy
Puppies are cute. Everyone loves them. Plus if it’s solid gold, it will a) be worth a lot of money and b) won’t poop in the house.
Better than an overclocked Intel Core 2 Extreme QX6850 (quad core)
I don’t actually know what that means, but my tech friend got all excited when he talked about it.
Better than being at a supermodel nudist convention
No explanation required.
Better than X’s bottom
Please insert the name of the person whose bottom you feel is the most perfect in the land. It should probably be your spouse’s or significant other’s if they’re within ear shot.
Better than a +5/+8 vs. Evil Holy Avenger
Those of you who know what this means are thinking ‘yeahhhhh.’
Better than a Zombot
It would have to be marvelous indeed, to be better than a hybrid zombie-robot.
Cheers,
-Jason
Once the sentence escaped my lips, however, I wondered ‘why?’ Why is sliced bread so magical that other things need to be compared to it?
I somehow doubt that the unsliced bread of yore was particularly tough or screamed when you cut it (which would be unnerving to say the least), so why would pre-sliced bread be so wonderful? Our ancestors were hearty working folk who regularly hunted dinosaurs and fought yeti, what possible terror could a loaf of bread have held for them? I mean, I have personally cut bread. It didn’t fight back and I have all my fingers (though one had to be put back on
So, I humbly submit that we should have a better expression. Something that truly reflects the magical experience that sliced bread simply doesn’t convey.
Please feel free to use the one you like best in your daily conversation:
X is . . .
Better than a solid gold puppy
Puppies are cute. Everyone loves them. Plus if it’s solid gold, it will a) be worth a lot of money and b) won’t poop in the house.
Better than an overclocked Intel Core 2 Extreme QX6850 (quad core)
I don’t actually know what that means, but my tech friend got all excited when he talked about it.
Better than being at a supermodel nudist convention
No explanation required.
Better than X’s bottom
Please insert the name of the person whose bottom you feel is the most perfect in the land. It should probably be your spouse’s or significant other’s if they’re within ear shot.
Better than a +5/+8 vs. Evil Holy Avenger
Those of you who know what this means are thinking ‘yeahhhhh.’
Better than a Zombot
It would have to be marvelous indeed, to be better than a hybrid zombie-robot.
Cheers,
-Jason
Monday, January 28, 2008
Morning folks! Jason is off sick today, so I am filling in. Let’s all hope he gets better soon!
I also just wanted to say that I hope all our readers are doing well. Total donations during December and January have been $0.00, so I’m hoping it’s not because everyone has spent all their money over the holidays and has nothing left to eat. Not to sound like a shallow greedy bastard, but although this site is not fully powered by donations, they certainly help. I’d also like to thank everyone who has donated in the past for your support, and remind folks to let us know if you experience any issues with the new rewards section.
Thanks!
- Leigh
I also just wanted to say that I hope all our readers are doing well. Total donations during December and January have been $0.00, so I’m hoping it’s not because everyone has spent all their money over the holidays and has nothing left to eat. Not to sound like a shallow greedy bastard, but although this site is not fully powered by donations, they certainly help. I’d also like to thank everyone who has donated in the past for your support, and remind folks to let us know if you experience any issues with the new rewards section.
Thanks!
- Leigh
Friday, January 25, 2008
Triumph, the Insult Comedy Dog
I happened across this clip from Triumph the Insult Dog about the opening of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. It was too good not to share. Enjoy!
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3EYintUu-o
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U85cAKt7x48&feature=related
Cheers,
-Jason
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3EYintUu-o
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U85cAKt7x48&feature=related
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Moving Up in the Ranks
Arklebar, Dark Lord of Berenir, King of Uburia, and Conqueror of Kordrun drummed his fingers on the armrest. Before him lay the royal map room, where several very nervous men in uniforms stood staring at their feet.
“So,” began Arklebar, “you’re telling me that we lost?”
“Yes, Sire,” said the man with the biggest array of medals. “As you can see from the map, enemy forces surprised us at Sandwich Pass and your entire Western Army was annihilated.” He hesitantly pointed at the large, minutely detailed map of the continent that filled two-thirds of the room. A number of carved wooden figures were set at various points, painted in the colors of various nations.
“We’re the red ones?” asked Arklebar.
“Yes, Lord,” said the same man. “The half-dozen blue figures clustered around the knocked over red figures represents the battle.”
“How come none of the blue figures are knocked over?”
“We, ummm, didn’t inflict enough casualties.”
“Really? Three thousand heavily armed psychopaths didn’t kill enough people to knock over even one blue guy?”
“Well, Sire,” began the man. “It was hobby night. They were busy making macaroni ducks when they were surprised.”
“Macaroni ducks?”
“Yes, we find it keeps morale up.”
Arklebar considered this for a moment. “Huh.” He leaned forward, the giant spikes on his shoulder plates casting ominous shadows. “You know what else keeps morale up?”
The man swallowed, as the other men quietly stepped away. “No, Lord.”
“Executions.” Arklebar signaled and a guard efficiently lopped the man’s head off. There was a fountain of blood and two thuds. The first was from a head with a very surprised expression as it hit the table and the second came a moment later as the rest of the body hit the floor.
“Well,” said Arklebar, after a moment of silence. “Who’s next in line to be General?”
No one answered.
“Come on, somebody speak up.” Arklebar raised his hand and the guard stepped forward again.
“Ummm,” said a young man, who was liberally splashed with blood. “I don’t think there’s anyone else.”
“What? I command over 50,000 men. Who’s the next senior officer?”
“I don’t think you have any left.”
Arklebar raised a finger and the guard stepped forward, but then lowered it after a moment. “Explain.”
“Well, you’ve executed every senior and junior officer you have. General Errew there,” he said gesturing at the corpse. “Was just a lieutenant 9 months ago. Your officers are actively refusing promotions now. Many have busted themselves down to sergeants. Captain Bower had himself court-martialed all the way down to Corporeal.”
“And who are you?”
“Private Kren, Lord.” He gestured at the map. “I move the figures and . . . err . . . clean up.”
“Hmmm, I like you, Private. How’d you like to be General?”
“No thank you, Sire.”
“Come on! You get all sorts of perks. There’re fancy uniforms, good pay, and lots of medals.” Arklebar leaned forward. “The ladies love the medals, if you get my drift.”
“I will, but I have some conditions.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Not being executed would be pretty much it.” He thought for a second. “And no sneaky ‘toss him down a well when no one’s looking’ either.”
Arklebar rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“I’d like that in writing.”
“Fine.”
“In front of witnesses.”
“Oh come on!”
“And notarized.”
“You’re killing me here,” said Arklebar. “Really.”
Cheers,
-Jason
“So,” began Arklebar, “you’re telling me that we lost?”
“Yes, Sire,” said the man with the biggest array of medals. “As you can see from the map, enemy forces surprised us at Sandwich Pass and your entire Western Army was annihilated.” He hesitantly pointed at the large, minutely detailed map of the continent that filled two-thirds of the room. A number of carved wooden figures were set at various points, painted in the colors of various nations.
“We’re the red ones?” asked Arklebar.
“Yes, Lord,” said the same man. “The half-dozen blue figures clustered around the knocked over red figures represents the battle.”
“How come none of the blue figures are knocked over?”
“We, ummm, didn’t inflict enough casualties.”
“Really? Three thousand heavily armed psychopaths didn’t kill enough people to knock over even one blue guy?”
“Well, Sire,” began the man. “It was hobby night. They were busy making macaroni ducks when they were surprised.”
“Macaroni ducks?”
“Yes, we find it keeps morale up.”
Arklebar considered this for a moment. “Huh.” He leaned forward, the giant spikes on his shoulder plates casting ominous shadows. “You know what else keeps morale up?”
The man swallowed, as the other men quietly stepped away. “No, Lord.”
“Executions.” Arklebar signaled and a guard efficiently lopped the man’s head off. There was a fountain of blood and two thuds. The first was from a head with a very surprised expression as it hit the table and the second came a moment later as the rest of the body hit the floor.
“Well,” said Arklebar, after a moment of silence. “Who’s next in line to be General?”
No one answered.
“Come on, somebody speak up.” Arklebar raised his hand and the guard stepped forward again.
“Ummm,” said a young man, who was liberally splashed with blood. “I don’t think there’s anyone else.”
“What? I command over 50,000 men. Who’s the next senior officer?”
“I don’t think you have any left.”
Arklebar raised a finger and the guard stepped forward, but then lowered it after a moment. “Explain.”
“Well, you’ve executed every senior and junior officer you have. General Errew there,” he said gesturing at the corpse. “Was just a lieutenant 9 months ago. Your officers are actively refusing promotions now. Many have busted themselves down to sergeants. Captain Bower had himself court-martialed all the way down to Corporeal.”
“And who are you?”
“Private Kren, Lord.” He gestured at the map. “I move the figures and . . . err . . . clean up.”
“Hmmm, I like you, Private. How’d you like to be General?”
“No thank you, Sire.”
“Come on! You get all sorts of perks. There’re fancy uniforms, good pay, and lots of medals.” Arklebar leaned forward. “The ladies love the medals, if you get my drift.”
“I will, but I have some conditions.”
“Really? Such as?”
“Not being executed would be pretty much it.” He thought for a second. “And no sneaky ‘toss him down a well when no one’s looking’ either.”
Arklebar rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“I’d like that in writing.”
“Fine.”
“In front of witnesses.”
“Oh come on!”
“And notarized.”
“You’re killing me here,” said Arklebar. “Really.”
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Insomnia Has No Rhymes
I have occasional bouts of insomnia. Last night was around an 8 out of a possible 10, so I had plenty of time to stare at the ceiling and wonder what it would be like to actually sleep.
Out of curiousity (or boredom, hard to tell) I kept a more-or-less accurate list of the things that went through my head. Here they are:
1:14 AM
My cat is either the dumbest creature in the world or the smartest. She will sit just out of reach and then want attention, forcing me to reach for her. She then darts away and does it again 10 minutes later. She’s either so dumb that she hasn’t yet figured out that I need to touch her to pet her or she’s running some sort of Pavlovian experiment to see just how much she can get away with. Either way, it’s been going on for 14 years now.
1:55 AM
To my knowledge, no movie has ever dealt with Godzilla pooping. Obviously, he must eat something, therefore he must also poop. It’s a mystery.
2:21 AM
I think I dozed off for a second. My cat chose that moment to jump on my chest.
2:51 AM
My neighbor has a diesel tow truck. He often arises in the middle of the night and drives away. Mayhap he is a super-hero with tow truck related powers. “My tow truck sense is tingling! There’s a car, a 1988 Honda Civic, and it’s stalled! To the tow truck!!!!”
3:07 AM
Insomnia sucks. Nothing rhymes with it. I think Steven King wrote a novel called Insomnia. Granted, he probably just picks up a dictionary, finds a word at random, and then writes something scary around that word. If I did that, I’d end up with a novel called ‘Isthmian’ about a haunted isthmus.
3:30 AM
I have an uninteresting ceiling.
3:36 AM
My ceiling is still uninteresting.
3:38 AM
I grow tired of looking at my ceiling.
3:40 AM
My ceiling is mocking me with its flat whiteness.
4:08 AM
I don’t actually know what an ‘isthmus’ is. I should look that up.
4:28 AM
I count the bars on the individual numbers on my digital clock. 1 has two bars. 2 has five. Interestingly enough, 4, 5, and 6 have the same number bars as the number they represent. This is an amazing revelation at 4:30 in the morning.
4:43 AM
I wonder if King Kong flings his poo? If he does, Skull Island would be really nasty. Why the hell is it called Skull Island? Oh yeah, there’s a giant mountain shaped like a skull. That makes sense and it sounds better than Clavicle Island. I wonder if it has an isthmus?
4:51 AM
I moved and now my cat wants attention. My Rogue just hit 60 and I need to go to Outlands and start working on my Skinning and Leatherworking. This is vitally important for reasons I cannot articulate.
5:00 AM – 7:00-ish
I think I was actually asleep. I’m honestly not sure. I was either awake and wondering if I was asleep or asleep and dreaming I was awake and wondering if I was asleep. I think I was mostly awake, as nothing was obviously melting and my cat wasn’t speaking French.
7:18 AM
‘Rutabaga’ would be a great name for a Steven King novel.
7:30 AM
I’m trying to remember what the colors in the Olympic rings are. I’m pretty sure there’s a black and a yellow, but I can’t remember the others. This seems really important for some reason.
7:30 AM to 9:15 AM-ish
I think I was honestly asleep here, as I don’t remember looking at the clock.
9:30 AM
Time to get up and get busy. If I’m lucky, I won’t nod off at the computer. Mothra is a funny name. I wonder if the tiny twins that accompany it sing when it poops.
Cheers,
-Jason
Out of curiousity (or boredom, hard to tell) I kept a more-or-less accurate list of the things that went through my head. Here they are:
1:14 AM
My cat is either the dumbest creature in the world or the smartest. She will sit just out of reach and then want attention, forcing me to reach for her. She then darts away and does it again 10 minutes later. She’s either so dumb that she hasn’t yet figured out that I need to touch her to pet her or she’s running some sort of Pavlovian experiment to see just how much she can get away with. Either way, it’s been going on for 14 years now.
1:55 AM
To my knowledge, no movie has ever dealt with Godzilla pooping. Obviously, he must eat something, therefore he must also poop. It’s a mystery.
2:21 AM
I think I dozed off for a second. My cat chose that moment to jump on my chest.
2:51 AM
My neighbor has a diesel tow truck. He often arises in the middle of the night and drives away. Mayhap he is a super-hero with tow truck related powers. “My tow truck sense is tingling! There’s a car, a 1988 Honda Civic, and it’s stalled! To the tow truck!!!!”
3:07 AM
Insomnia sucks. Nothing rhymes with it. I think Steven King wrote a novel called Insomnia. Granted, he probably just picks up a dictionary, finds a word at random, and then writes something scary around that word. If I did that, I’d end up with a novel called ‘Isthmian’ about a haunted isthmus.
3:30 AM
I have an uninteresting ceiling.
3:36 AM
My ceiling is still uninteresting.
3:38 AM
I grow tired of looking at my ceiling.
3:40 AM
My ceiling is mocking me with its flat whiteness.
4:08 AM
I don’t actually know what an ‘isthmus’ is. I should look that up.
4:28 AM
I count the bars on the individual numbers on my digital clock. 1 has two bars. 2 has five. Interestingly enough, 4, 5, and 6 have the same number bars as the number they represent. This is an amazing revelation at 4:30 in the morning.
4:43 AM
I wonder if King Kong flings his poo? If he does, Skull Island would be really nasty. Why the hell is it called Skull Island? Oh yeah, there’s a giant mountain shaped like a skull. That makes sense and it sounds better than Clavicle Island. I wonder if it has an isthmus?
4:51 AM
I moved and now my cat wants attention. My Rogue just hit 60 and I need to go to Outlands and start working on my Skinning and Leatherworking. This is vitally important for reasons I cannot articulate.
5:00 AM – 7:00-ish
I think I was actually asleep. I’m honestly not sure. I was either awake and wondering if I was asleep or asleep and dreaming I was awake and wondering if I was asleep. I think I was mostly awake, as nothing was obviously melting and my cat wasn’t speaking French.
7:18 AM
‘Rutabaga’ would be a great name for a Steven King novel.
7:30 AM
I’m trying to remember what the colors in the Olympic rings are. I’m pretty sure there’s a black and a yellow, but I can’t remember the others. This seems really important for some reason.
7:30 AM to 9:15 AM-ish
I think I was honestly asleep here, as I don’t remember looking at the clock.
9:30 AM
Time to get up and get busy. If I’m lucky, I won’t nod off at the computer. Mothra is a funny name. I wonder if the tiny twins that accompany it sing when it poops.
Cheers,
-Jason
Monday, January 21, 2008
Road Signs
Whilst playing WoW the other day, I was trying to find a particular area and was checking the various signs as I rode by. It then occurred to me: “Who put these up?”
While you expect road signs in a reasonably ‘civilized’ place such as Durotar or whatever zone Stormwind is in (Horde player here, I honestly don’t know), who put them up in places like Shadowmoon Vale or the Burning Steppes?
I somehow doubt the local denizens did. If they had, I would also expect them to be wrong. The sign to the nearest city would probably lead into the middle of a bunch of Scarlet Crusade types or at least into a very deep hole.
But no, the signs are omnipresent and are actually correct. It is if some elder god of analness decreed it to be and his faithful followers carried out his edict.
“We have organized the silverware drawers, oh greatest of beings. Now the fish forks will never touch upon those meant for salad.”
“You bring honor to my name, yet I have one more task for you.”
“We eagerly await your task, oh most methodical one.”
“Then I command you to travel forth and put up road signs, so that travelers may ever find their way.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, people keep getting lost and falling into pits. It’s inefficient and mucks things up. Put up signs at every crossroad, so that everyone, no matter the faction, may benefit from them.”
“Where exactly, your meticulousness?”
“Everywhere. I want roads signs on every road in every land in every dimension.”
“Ummm, there’s only three of us, most anal of all.”
“Then you should probably get started, shouldn’t you?”
Cheers,
-Jason
While you expect road signs in a reasonably ‘civilized’ place such as Durotar or whatever zone Stormwind is in (Horde player here, I honestly don’t know), who put them up in places like Shadowmoon Vale or the Burning Steppes?
I somehow doubt the local denizens did. If they had, I would also expect them to be wrong. The sign to the nearest city would probably lead into the middle of a bunch of Scarlet Crusade types or at least into a very deep hole.
But no, the signs are omnipresent and are actually correct. It is if some elder god of analness decreed it to be and his faithful followers carried out his edict.
“We have organized the silverware drawers, oh greatest of beings. Now the fish forks will never touch upon those meant for salad.”
“You bring honor to my name, yet I have one more task for you.”
“We eagerly await your task, oh most methodical one.”
“Then I command you to travel forth and put up road signs, so that travelers may ever find their way.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, people keep getting lost and falling into pits. It’s inefficient and mucks things up. Put up signs at every crossroad, so that everyone, no matter the faction, may benefit from them.”
“Where exactly, your meticulousness?”
“Everywhere. I want roads signs on every road in every land in every dimension.”
“Ummm, there’s only three of us, most anal of all.”
“Then you should probably get started, shouldn’t you?”
Cheers,
-Jason
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