Tuesday, August 07, 2018
If your best argument is to quote Voltaire...
...your freedom of speech isn't worth anybody dying for.
Thursday, July 05, 2018
If My Social Studies 30 Classmates Journaled Their Adventures With Time Machines...
Based on their responses in class circa 1992:
Dear Diary,
Today I used the Machine for the first and last time. Naturally, there was one time and place to which I felt compelled to travel: April 30, 1889 and Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary. Fortunately my lessons in spoken and written Deutsche were sufficient that I was able to find the birthing hospital and made my way to the nursery. I encountered a nurse who was naturally startled by my manner of dress, but otherwise pleasant and accommodating. Pointing to a bassinet, I asked, "Is this baby Adolf Hitler?" "Ja!" she answered. I made small talk as best I could and then excused myself to find a closet in which to wait until I could access the room without being witnessed by anyone. Some ten minutes later fortune smiled upon me, and I entered the room unobserved. With a pillow, I did the deed. I returned to the present, and destroyed the Machine.
I feel as though I have become the very kind of monster I sought to destroy. May history judge me more favourably than I do myself.
Based on their responses on Facebook circa 2018:
Dear Diary,
Today I used the Machine for the first and last time. Naturally, there was one time and place to which I felt compelled to travel: April 30, 1889 and Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary. Fortunately my lessons in spoken and written Deutsche were sufficient that I was able to find the birthing hospital and made my way to the nursery. I encountered a nurse who was naturally startled by my manner of dress, but otherwise pleasant and accommodating. Pointing to a bassinet, I asked, "Is this baby Adolf Hitler?" "Ja!" she answered.
Dear Diary,
Today I used the Machine for the first and last time. Naturally, there was one time and place to which I felt compelled to travel: April 30, 1889 and Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary. Fortunately my lessons in spoken and written Deutsche were sufficient that I was able to find the birthing hospital and made my way to the nursery. I encountered a nurse who was naturally startled by my manner of dress, but otherwise pleasant and accommodating. Pointing to a bassinet, I asked, "Is this baby Adolf Hitler?" "Ja!" she answered. I made small talk as best I could and then excused myself to find a closet in which to wait until I could access the room without being witnessed by anyone. Some ten minutes later fortune smiled upon me, and I entered the room unobserved. With a pillow, I did the deed. I returned to the present, and destroyed the Machine.
I feel as though I have become the very kind of monster I sought to destroy. May history judge me more favourably than I do myself.
Based on their responses on Facebook circa 2018:
Dear Diary,
Today I used the Machine for the first and last time. Naturally, there was one time and place to which I felt compelled to travel: April 30, 1889 and Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary. Fortunately my lessons in spoken and written Deutsche were sufficient that I was able to find the birthing hospital and made my way to the nursery. I encountered a nurse who was naturally startled by my manner of dress, but otherwise pleasant and accommodating. Pointing to a bassinet, I asked, "Is this baby Adolf Hitler?" "Ja!" she answered.
"Not everyone you don't like is Hitler!" I yelled back in response. Why are unionists always so hysterical?
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
The Typesetters' Grift
Spanish: "We do not pronounce the letter 'H'. It's just there for show."
French: "We also do not pronounce the 'H'. In fact, we do not always pronounce the last letter of the word."
French: "We also do not pronounce the 'H'. In fact, we do not always pronounce the last letter of the word."
English: "Hold our beercestershire."
Friday, May 18, 2018
And I'll never be royal
I feel like I've seen that pose and that fascinator before.
Ah, here we are.
Ecce princeps!
Monday, May 14, 2018
Monday, April 23, 2018
The Restaurant at the End of Print Media
SCENE: The People's Kitchen. It would be indistinguishable from any large, restaurant kitchen, except for the immense barbeque pit that dominates the room and the the large cages lining the walls, draped in shadow, all but entirely concealing the occupants within. Delicious smelling pieces of meat slowly turn on spits and racks above the glowing red coals. Above the double-doored entrance is a hand-painted sign, faintly yellowed with greasy soot, depicts a jolly chef carrying a platter with a roast pig wearing green eyeshades, a pencil behind one ear, and an apple in its mouth, followed by several waiters carrying assorted dishes, drinks, and garnishes. On a painted banner flying over the procession is a slogan written in playful, cursive script that reads, "If it bleeds, it leads!" Below the sign is an electronic counter reading "Now serving..." and the number '6529' in red LED lights.
A man in a bloodied chef's apron, carrying a massive cleaver, approaches one of the cages and speaks as he begins to fiddle with the lock. His voice is deep and gravelly:
"6529. I believe that's your number, Mr. Baquet."
"No it isn't! My number is 8981! See?!" The shape in the cage holds a tatty piece of paper against the bars. Written upon it are the digits '8981'.
"That says 6529. Now let's not make a scene, Mr. Baquet. The spit has been oiled the the coals are red hot."
"What? No! It says '8981', not '6529'! My ticket is 8981!"
"So you say. If we must, we will let The Readers decide."
The chef snatches the ticket from the caged man's hand and walks around the barbeque pit to a stainless steel-lined opening the wall; the pass-through window. He rings the service bell once and exchanges words with someone or something on the other side of the window.
Moments later, a waiter strides through the door, leading a couple and two small children. All four are wearing bibs depicting a generic newspaper front page. The bold, 60 pt headline reads LOREM IPSUM, and immediately below it is a greyscale photo of a locomotive that has erupted through the second storey wall of a building and is resting forlornly on its cow-catcher. To add insult to injury, a man in navy whites is trying to dip and kiss the distressed locomotive as confetti and ticker tape rains down. A smear of ketchup on the smallest child's bib gives the image a grisly overtone.
The chef joins the waiter and the family of diners and the six of them walk back to the cage. The two young children gleefully run to the cage, poke their fingers through the bars, and chatter to each other excitedly, while the chef addresses the adults.
"There seems to be some...controversy surrounding your entrée. I have called his number, but he protests that the number isn't his." The chef holds the ticket out for all of them, and points to the 'Now Serving...' counter. "As you can see, there are four numbers on the ticket, and the counter. Obviously, they are a match."
"But they aren't!" screams the man in the cage. And then, to the children prodding him, "I told you, I am not J. Jonah Jameson!"
The waiter scrutinizes both the ticket and the sign. "My apologies, but it appears that your entrée is correct. The numbers do not match. We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience. May I recommend a pundit instead? And of course, your pre-dinner drinks are compliments of the house."
"What do you think, Honey?" the man says to the woman. "The numbers don't match. I know you had your heart set on editor, but we've come all this way."
"Well, the numbers don't match, but let's not let that spoil our night out. I'm sure there's something else on the menu that will be just as good."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" The man in the cage is almost crying with relief.
Suddenly the children turn from the cage and stare at the adults, their faces almost feral with rage:
"BUT WE WANT TO EAT J JONAH JAMESON! WE PROMISED SPIDERMAN!"
"But children, the numbers don't match!" reassures the woman. The man looks slightly embarrassed.
"YES THEY DO! J JONAH JAMESON IS GOING TO BE OUR D DINNER DINNERSON!" the children scream.
The man and woman look to the waiter and chef with imploring eyes. "Now that I look more closely, it does seem that the numbers match after all," the woman says, while the man nods in agreement, his bib folding and unfolding, obscuring the photo, making it look as if the locomotive is extending and retracting a bell bottom moustache.
The waiter, beginning to worry that his other tables may need tending, crouches before the cage and addresses the man within. "It seems our guests have a robust Difference of Opinion."
"But they're wrong! They're wrong! It's not my number! Please, don't let them eat me!" pleads the caged man.
"The People have spoken. You are number 6529." He nods to the chef, and turns back to the couple.
"Again, I am so sorry for the inconvenience. I will take you back to your table, and leave the chef to prepare your meal. But while we have Chef's attention, did you want your entrées with baked potato or spring vegetables?"
"Oh, we'll have both sides, please."
A man in a bloodied chef's apron, carrying a massive cleaver, approaches one of the cages and speaks as he begins to fiddle with the lock. His voice is deep and gravelly:
"6529. I believe that's your number, Mr. Baquet."
"No it isn't! My number is 8981! See?!" The shape in the cage holds a tatty piece of paper against the bars. Written upon it are the digits '8981'.
"That says 6529. Now let's not make a scene, Mr. Baquet. The spit has been oiled the the coals are red hot."
"What? No! It says '8981', not '6529'! My ticket is 8981!"
"So you say. If we must, we will let The Readers decide."
The chef snatches the ticket from the caged man's hand and walks around the barbeque pit to a stainless steel-lined opening the wall; the pass-through window. He rings the service bell once and exchanges words with someone or something on the other side of the window.
Moments later, a waiter strides through the door, leading a couple and two small children. All four are wearing bibs depicting a generic newspaper front page. The bold, 60 pt headline reads LOREM IPSUM, and immediately below it is a greyscale photo of a locomotive that has erupted through the second storey wall of a building and is resting forlornly on its cow-catcher. To add insult to injury, a man in navy whites is trying to dip and kiss the distressed locomotive as confetti and ticker tape rains down. A smear of ketchup on the smallest child's bib gives the image a grisly overtone.
The chef joins the waiter and the family of diners and the six of them walk back to the cage. The two young children gleefully run to the cage, poke their fingers through the bars, and chatter to each other excitedly, while the chef addresses the adults.
"There seems to be some...controversy surrounding your entrée. I have called his number, but he protests that the number isn't his." The chef holds the ticket out for all of them, and points to the 'Now Serving...' counter. "As you can see, there are four numbers on the ticket, and the counter. Obviously, they are a match."
"But they aren't!" screams the man in the cage. And then, to the children prodding him, "I told you, I am not J. Jonah Jameson!"
The waiter scrutinizes both the ticket and the sign. "My apologies, but it appears that your entrée is correct. The numbers do not match. We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience. May I recommend a pundit instead? And of course, your pre-dinner drinks are compliments of the house."
"What do you think, Honey?" the man says to the woman. "The numbers don't match. I know you had your heart set on editor, but we've come all this way."
"Well, the numbers don't match, but let's not let that spoil our night out. I'm sure there's something else on the menu that will be just as good."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" The man in the cage is almost crying with relief.
Suddenly the children turn from the cage and stare at the adults, their faces almost feral with rage:
"BUT WE WANT TO EAT J JONAH JAMESON! WE PROMISED SPIDERMAN!"
"But children, the numbers don't match!" reassures the woman. The man looks slightly embarrassed.
"YES THEY DO! J JONAH JAMESON IS GOING TO BE OUR D DINNER DINNERSON!" the children scream.
The man and woman look to the waiter and chef with imploring eyes. "Now that I look more closely, it does seem that the numbers match after all," the woman says, while the man nods in agreement, his bib folding and unfolding, obscuring the photo, making it look as if the locomotive is extending and retracting a bell bottom moustache.
The waiter, beginning to worry that his other tables may need tending, crouches before the cage and addresses the man within. "It seems our guests have a robust Difference of Opinion."
"But they're wrong! They're wrong! It's not my number! Please, don't let them eat me!" pleads the caged man.
"The People have spoken. You are number 6529." He nods to the chef, and turns back to the couple.
"Again, I am so sorry for the inconvenience. I will take you back to your table, and leave the chef to prepare your meal. But while we have Chef's attention, did you want your entrées with baked potato or spring vegetables?"
"Oh, we'll have both sides, please."
Saturday, March 03, 2018
The Student Union Store at the University of Google
"Hi, and welcome to 'Tell Everybody, Why Don't You?' How may I help you expose your deepest, darkest, most precious secrets to the greatest number of libertarian males aged 19–34 who have access to both the internet and their parents' collection of 70s vinyl?"
"I'm looking to start a secret society to infiltrate all upper echelons of governments world-wide, and I'm not sure where to start."
"Well, you've come to the right place, my friend. I can definitely get you on your way. But first I hope you don't mind answering a few questions. Is your conspiracy to be ethnicity- or alien-controlled?"
"Alien."
"Greys or Lizard People?"
"Blancmange."
"Classic. Now, what about your people on the ground? Are they to take the form of a service club, an Ivy-league fraternity, or a cable news network?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I can only help ensure your conspiracy is as widely and broadly known as possible. You'll still need to provide the conspirators. Personally, I'd recommend against the fraternity with an alien-based conspiracy—even conspiracy theorists find the idea of aliens traveling the vastness of space to chug from beer bongs and carry eggs between their butt-cheeks a little far-fetched."
"Oh, right. Um, service club?"
"Good choice. Here are your strange hats. Now, what about symbology? Are you partial to antiquities, geometry, or prog rock album covers?"
"I don't know."
"Well, do you want your conspiracy to look ancient, Middle Eastern, or undiscoverable until the advent of acid and amp feedback?"
"Ooh, that's a tough choice."
"Well, alien service clubs are pretty flexible. We can do up a media package that incorporates a little of all three. Anyway, I think I've got all I need for now. It'll take me a day or so to work up an estimate. I'll contact you via crop circles in a farm outside of Framlingham when it's done. If you like what you see, simply build a sacrificial ziggurat in Belize, and we'll get started."
"Sounds great. Hey, listen: I'm a bit short, so when do you think I can start to see some returns?"
"Oh, I anticipate that within three months you'll be blamed for everything from the taste of aspartame to storms in Africa."
"The Enya song?"
"That too."
"Okay, but I meant in terms of money. When does that start flowing our way?"
"Money? What does that have to do with anything?"
"What? Money is the reason for having a cabal! Money and power! Otherwise, what's the point?!"
"I'm afraid you've been fed some bad information. The point of a secret global cabal is to convince as many conspiracy theorists as possible that they've discovered a secret global cabal. And putting eyeball pyramids on bills; 'cause that's just funny. As for operational funds; you're already planning to infiltrate governments, so you'll be covered. It's called corruption in the developing world, and lobbying in the developed."
"Damn. I really had my eye on something more sinister."
"When you become a government official, you could always find an industry that's working well and not killing people, and then deregulate it."
"Phooey. That stinks."
"West Virginia already has a governor, but you're thinking in the right direction. Now, if there's nothing else I can help you with right now, please excuse me. A high-ranking official is expected to die within twenty to twenty-five years, and I need to forecast that via carefully placed hedges in a neighbourhood park in Rotterdam."
"Which official?"
"Wait twenty to twenty-five years, and you tell me."
"I'm looking to start a secret society to infiltrate all upper echelons of governments world-wide, and I'm not sure where to start."
"Well, you've come to the right place, my friend. I can definitely get you on your way. But first I hope you don't mind answering a few questions. Is your conspiracy to be ethnicity- or alien-controlled?"
"Alien."
"Greys or Lizard People?"
"Blancmange."
"Classic. Now, what about your people on the ground? Are they to take the form of a service club, an Ivy-league fraternity, or a cable news network?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I can only help ensure your conspiracy is as widely and broadly known as possible. You'll still need to provide the conspirators. Personally, I'd recommend against the fraternity with an alien-based conspiracy—even conspiracy theorists find the idea of aliens traveling the vastness of space to chug from beer bongs and carry eggs between their butt-cheeks a little far-fetched."
"Oh, right. Um, service club?"
"Good choice. Here are your strange hats. Now, what about symbology? Are you partial to antiquities, geometry, or prog rock album covers?"
"I don't know."
"Well, do you want your conspiracy to look ancient, Middle Eastern, or undiscoverable until the advent of acid and amp feedback?"
"Ooh, that's a tough choice."
"Well, alien service clubs are pretty flexible. We can do up a media package that incorporates a little of all three. Anyway, I think I've got all I need for now. It'll take me a day or so to work up an estimate. I'll contact you via crop circles in a farm outside of Framlingham when it's done. If you like what you see, simply build a sacrificial ziggurat in Belize, and we'll get started."
"Sounds great. Hey, listen: I'm a bit short, so when do you think I can start to see some returns?"
"Oh, I anticipate that within three months you'll be blamed for everything from the taste of aspartame to storms in Africa."
"The Enya song?"
"That too."
"Okay, but I meant in terms of money. When does that start flowing our way?"
"Money? What does that have to do with anything?"
"What? Money is the reason for having a cabal! Money and power! Otherwise, what's the point?!"
"I'm afraid you've been fed some bad information. The point of a secret global cabal is to convince as many conspiracy theorists as possible that they've discovered a secret global cabal. And putting eyeball pyramids on bills; 'cause that's just funny. As for operational funds; you're already planning to infiltrate governments, so you'll be covered. It's called corruption in the developing world, and lobbying in the developed."
"Damn. I really had my eye on something more sinister."
"When you become a government official, you could always find an industry that's working well and not killing people, and then deregulate it."
"Phooey. That stinks."
"West Virginia already has a governor, but you're thinking in the right direction. Now, if there's nothing else I can help you with right now, please excuse me. A high-ranking official is expected to die within twenty to twenty-five years, and I need to forecast that via carefully placed hedges in a neighbourhood park in Rotterdam."
"Which official?"
"Wait twenty to twenty-five years, and you tell me."
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