Logan's Running the Trees and Vaporizing The Kids!

1976 was an eventful year. It was full of funny looking quarters. some Steves started a little computer company in a garage. And Logan's Run missed out on the Oscar for Best Picture.

Despite this hella poster:

For those of you who have not been graced with such immersive historical cultural indoctrination, allow me to sum up the plot:

In the year 2274, the remnants of human civilization live in a sealed city, a utopia run by a computer that takes care of all aspects of their life. The citizens live a hedonistic life but, on their 30th birthday, they are vaporized as a seemingly necessary method of population control. The movie follows Logan 5, who instead of reporting to be vaporized, goes on the run with his companion Jessica 6. They are, of course, hunted by wards of the city sent to terminate them and basically a bunch of questionable 1970's sci-fi melodrama ensues.

Let it be known that I have for some time been constructing a working theory that all science fiction is actually just pre-comedy. Logan's Run is definitely a must see, if for it's style alone.

But Logan's Run is not really what I want to talk about. What I really want to talk about is trees. All the trees that are all around you. 99% of them did not exist 30 years ago. Outside of parks, conservation areas, and the occasional old neighborhood shade tree, all of which constitute a very, very small percentage of a percentage of a percentage of the actual total number of trees, it's actually not very easy to find a tree that is 30 or 40 years old anymore. Why is this? Trees should be able to live to be 150-200 years old.

Unless of course, someone is Logan's Running them. Yep. We are the evil computer in Logan's Run! Okay, to be fair, the computer wasn't actually evil. It was programmed by humans who had to make some hard choices at a difficult time. It has just simply outlived its necessity by the time the movie begins.

The irony is that we are in a difficult time and we are executing the trees which we should be allowing to live longer to help save ourselves! And since trees live approximately twice as long as humans, we are executing trees in their preteen to early teen equivalent years, not early maturity! We're not the computer in Logan's Run executing 30 year olds, we're thoughtless humans vaporizing tree kids! I kind of figure that by 30 years old or an early maturity equivalent, even the late bloomers have done enough bad things that they at least sort of kind of deserve it. At least a little bit. But kids?!? Those poor saps!

One of the real problems with talking about the subjects of environmentalism, over population, carrying capacity, or mass consumerism is that the battle lines were drawn long ago and everything has been polarized for a long time. It's difficult to have a sane, rational, thoughtful conversation about such things. Especially when you're in the midst of a bunch of arboreal child murderers! (And/or your own sanity might be in question.)

Which is why I have decided to put all my pre-chickens in a single woven vessel and from hither forth, I declare:

A War On Thoughtlessness!!!

and/or pledge support for carefully considered proper tree aging initiatives and 1970's sci-fi!

Tune in next week for:

Which is weirder:

humans, weird animals, or the god responsible?

Once, When things Were Otherwise

THE BIG REVEAL: The Greatest Magic Trick of All Time – How It Is Done

Back when I was still young enough to receive invites to such things, I used to look for a deck of cards shortly after arriving at a party. I would look in drawers – if someone asked, I would say I was looking for a bottle opener. If I found a deck of cards, I would discreetly pull them out and place them on a bookshelf or a table, somewhere in plain sight where they might be noticed. I would then promptly forget about them.

More times than not, someone would find them and a drunken card game of some kind or another would break out. As I usually made it a habit to move around quite a bit at parties, from room to room or inside to outside and back again, I would eventually discover the game and edge my way closer to observe the action, biding my time for a meaningful break in play.

Having found my moment, I would interject that I only knew one card trick, but it was The Greatest Magic Trick of All Time. I would sell it the best I could by launching into a fabricated story about the time I went to Vegas and ended up broke and sitting at a bar next to a frail old man who chatted me up, and how he told me story after story that could not possibly be true. I related how, he claimed he had hobnobbed with a who's who of Vegas showmen, politicians, gangsters, and street magicians. I told of how he knew many famous stars intimately, how he had been involved in some of the biggest capers in Vegas history with the most notorious individuals, and how he had performed for them all. I listened and bought us drinks as he regaled and entertained. As the evening dragged on, a well dressed younger gentlemen sat down on the other side of him and after a quick introduction - to this day I can't remember his name - the younger man quickly went to begging him for something. Clearly they knew each other from some previous meeting, but the bar was loud and the drinks had flowed, so I couldn't hear much and what I could hear I couldn't remember clearly. I explained how after what seemed like a long time of the old man firmly rejecting the younger man's pleas, he finally grew quiet and just stared into his glass for what seemed like an eternity. He looked at me and then at the younger man and then back at his drink and when he spoke, we were both at rapt attention, my curiosity piqued and the younger man's hopes building. "I am an old man now", he said when he spoke at last. "In my life I have performed thousands of tricks, some of them were even good."
"There are more magicians now than there have ever been," he directed his attention to the younger man, "But I can count on one hand the good ones."

"The good ones," he continued after a long sip from his drink, "always knew, or quickly figured out, how I did each trick...but there is one trick – the one you're asking for now – that after sixty years no one but me knows how it is done." I laid it on thick. I told them I had not noticed until now that the old man had drawn a small audience – the bartender, a couple of barflies that looked like they had been sitting on the same stools since the bar opened twenty years prior, and a card dealer on break. "I am an old man now. I will perform it one last time", he said with a grim nod.

The word spread like wildfire, I told my audience. I was swept up in the electric buzz of it all and within twenty minutes, I found myself one of a throng of maybe thirty people in a penthouse squeezing around the old man. I recognized a couple of famous magicians in the group – depending on my crowd I might tell them it was Doug Henning or David Copperfield, or perhaps even Penn & Teller. I would throw in at least one A-list movie star and maybe a couple of politicians. I told them that the old man performed the most ridiculous card trick that could ever possibly be done.

I would go on and explain that afterwards, everyone had to know how he did, but he would never tell. Even the prodding and pleading from a Hollywood A-lister couldn't get him to confess. I would tell how a few of us returned to the bar and eventually as the night ran into what must be the wee hours, after hours of drinks, it was just the old man and me. And he told me.

I would then ask my crowd if they would like me to perform it for them. Of course at this point they are dieing to see it. I told them the important thing is for me to never touch the deck of cards, to never be closer than I was at that point – I always tried to stay at least ten feet from the cards so there could be no question. I would ask them where they got the cards - they could always assure me that it was a deck I had no way of intervening with. The owner of the house would inspect the deck and confirm it was his, those who had been playing would confirm that they had been playing for an hour or however long and that the first time they had seen me was when I had just walked up. Others could confirm my whereabouts at the party at various times.

I told them if they weren't satisfied with this deck, that I was willing to wait while they went out and bought an unopened deck to use. I told them that I would at no point get within ten feet of the deck, twenty if they preferred. And finally I told them I would perform this trick one time only and I would not reveal how I did it.

Finally, when the deck had been shuffled to everyone's satisfaction, I would tell the crowd to select any one person to draw out a single card.

"Three of clubs" I would say after but a moment of contemplation.

Fifty-one times out of fifty-two, that trick is unsuccessful. I was just guessing after all. It takes plain old dumb luck for the trick to actually work.

But somewhere out there, there are a couple dozen people, maybe thirty, who I like to think, still wonder from time to time just how in the hell did he do that?

The Day The Night Went Dark.

Once upon a time, when the sun shined all day and night and the moon was never cold, a weasel and a badger argued over who should vacuum up all the squirrels.

"I think it should be the dogs," protested the weasel, "Who, but their mortal enemy should be the one to exterminate their species?"

"Ahhh, but the squirrel is not the only enemy of the dog. The dog has many enemies. Cats, rabbits…other dogs…" the badger trailed off in thought. "No" he said. "...It should be the cuttlefish."

"The what?!?" exclaimed the weasel.

"The cuttlefish. you know… cephalopods… sort of like squid but with really short stubby tentacles?"

"Oh" exclaimed the weasel.

The weasel, who was well warmed and ready to retort and deny, to exhort and back up his postulate with factual and reasonable knowledge, to argue based on sane and logical criteria sat there stunned with a look of contemplative brain suicide. The simple exclaimation had caused almost all of the gears in his brain to lockup. The workers who looked over that mental machinery had simply said "Christ!" and walked out of the building for a break. The building was quiet.

There is quiet. And there is QUIET. In a space filled with the cacophony of a perpetual clanking of heavy metal parts day after day after day, the noise becomes alive. It fills the space like an ambient being, like a heavy fog of some non-lethal but-just-thick-enough-to-strain-your-beathing gas. In the instant when it is suddenly removed, the silence is filled with the sound of things you would otherwise never notice. The sound of air flowing outside a window, the sound of a mouse scurrying across a rafter overhead, the sound of a drop of water from the leaky coffee maker.

In the back of the weasel's mind was the sound of a small manual typewriter still clicking away.

"Cuttlefish." the small machine typed on its own. "Cephalopod."
"Squirrel."

Clearly this was far too difficult a puzzle for a typewriter. "Whuzzbuhh..huh?" Said the weasel.

"This post should be about illumination, as in 'the day that people became intelligent'", said the writer of this post, abandoning it altogether.

The Inevitability of Time Travel: Part Zero

Future Me #273: Hello and welcome to the first and final edition of The Inevitability of Time Travel. I am Future Me #273 and I will be providing play by play for those who don't have the live video stream. We also have Future Me #452 who has a wealth of experience providing color commentary for us today. 452, welcome.

Future Me #452: Thanks 273. The weather's nice today, not cold like it was in the days before man altered the climate. Well, here they come... I think Present has something to say. Let's listen in...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Present Me: How did it come to this?

Past Me #12: You, my friend have been, solossinated.

Present Me: Solossinated?

Past Me #12: Yep. Solo-assassinated.

Present Me: I'm sure I'm going to regret this... What the bloody hell is solo-assassination?

Past Me #12: Solossination is sort of like suicide but instead of the present you killing the present you, it's when one of the future, past, or present you kills a different future, past, or present you (usually it's the present you getting the kabosh - which I can tell you makes all of the future you's very uncomfortable indeed). So, suicide is really just one of the more dull and unimaginative ways solossination can happen.

Present Me: Okay, there are so many reasons why everything you said is totally insane, but I'm going to go with the most obvious. I am not dead.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Future Me #273: Oh! 452, the interview has just been interrupted by a team of highly skilled Ranger Me's storming in and forcefeeding the Present Me ridiculous amounts of gluten filled donuts and... oh my! Present Me has just developed an alarming allergy to gluten!

Future Me #452: That's gotta hurt, 273. Gluten allergies are no laughing matter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Present Me: MMmmmmm, donuts.... scratch... scratch, scratch....       scratch, scratch, scratch... AAAAAHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeee!!!!!!!

Past Me #12: You're still here? Dammit us! Those other we's just botched the solossination. Well good for me,  I live in the other direction. I'm outs y'all, gonna go do something stupid and fun. Good luck all you future suckas!!!

REQUIEM FOR A SCREAM or Adventures In Bigfoot Land: Innocent bystanders for lunch!

Bigfoot was ill-equipped to reconcile the emotional contradictions that roiled within him. As the living embodiment of the missing link, he felt that his belief in a singular all-powerful deity named Logan Smith, forbade him from entertaining the blasphemous ideas of science, evolution, and unhappiness. Deep down in his Logan-given soul, he was certain that his Logan-given brain actually knew they were true. He wanted to serve Logan Smith completely, but the world, truth, and reality kept getting in the way. This made him absolutely incandescent with rage. Why could he not follow his god, the one true god, Logan Smith of the river visit? He only wanted to bestow peace and love upon his fellow bigfoot, while eviscerating any bigfoots who questioned the word of Logan Smith, as had been scrawled into the bark of a 200 year old Eastern Black Walnut tree down by the river and recited to the Bigfoot Council by Jeeah, the bigfoot prophet, the only known bigfoot to have ever seen the elusive Logan Smith.

As he sat and thought in circles, he only became more and more enraged. In a short time, his rage consumed him and he threw off his camouflage, angrily stomped from the forest and raised an unholy terror on the Grubers, a pleasant family of five – Michael, a dentist; Brenda, head of the ECASD PTA; Jennifer, a popular cheerleader and class president; Chula, a budding artist with a boundless curiosity, and Skip a precocious 9 year old – visiting from Wisconsin and the only family in the Lake Wenatchee camp grounds that day.

Surprisingly, to those who monitor from such places that they can monitor such things, Skip Gruber would have been an important next step on the evolutionary ladder had he not been torn limb from limb and gobbled down in a fit of binge eating along with his family. Bigfoot always overate when he was angry. It was the only thing that seemed to calm him down. 

And so it was, Bigfoot returned to the forest and re-pledged his bigfoot soul at the base of a 200 year old Eastern Black Walnut, below the Words "Logan Smith was here" followed by some unintelligible scratches that might equally be a holy edict put there by a living, breathing deity or some accidental scratches put there by a badger last mating season.

Logan Smith paused as he examined a Honeycrisp apple in a Whole Foods on the western side of Portland, Oregon. He just never could seem to shake the dread that something he had done in the past had gone horribly wrong and would continue to go wrong until he figured out how to right it. A brief moment later, the wave of despair abated and he continued shopping. His mind wandered to work and the animated stop motion feature he was working on and he briefly wondered if there wasn't room for a bigfoot-type character in it.

The extended Gruber family grieved and worked through the traumatic way in which their beloved son and daughter, grandsons and grand daughters, brother and sister, nephews and nieces met their tragic end.

And those who monitor from such places that they can monitor such things, sighed, and longed for a better blog post.

The Non-Inevitability of Non-Time Travel: Part 76

Present Me #3: Ummm...

Present Me #6: Hey! That's exactly what I was thinking!

Present Me #22: Me too!

Present Me #13: Guys... I have been working on something I think you might be interested in.

Present Me #96: Is it a disciplined series of blog posts released in very a regimented way so as to keep the non-existent brain hippies distracted from infiltrating our existence and unknowingly tapping us as a secret agent?

Present Me #13: Yep.

Present Me #96: Is it working?

Present Me #3: Ummm...

Present Me #22: Uh-Oh.

Present Me #17: I have an even better idea.

Present Me #13: Really? Please share.

Present Me #17: Let's make our existence nonexistent and they'll never find us!

Present Me #3: Done.

Present Me #6: Done.

Present Me #22: Done.

Present Me #96: Done.

Present Me #13: Done.

The Inevetibility of Time Travel: Part Two

Present Me: Wait a second... Are you with the Brain Hippies?

Future Me #274: Not that I'm aware of. So, in other words: Yes, I'm one of their top level agents, so secret that they can't even let me know that I am. In fact, I am such a high level secret agent that they don't know either.

Present Me: I thought something smelled funny.

Future Me #274: Being this high level of an agent requires great intuition. Since neither I, nor my handlers have any idea that I'm an agent, it makes it difficult to tell what my assignments are.

Present Me: Hmmm, and since I'm talking to you and you're a future me, then time travel must be possible and therefore I must already be an agent! And it has always been a bit of a mystery why I haven't posted on this blog in 20 months... The Space Zombies must have kidnapped my brain!!!

Future Me #274: Hmmm... that would explain quite a bit I s'pose.

Present Me: ...but if I can deduce that now, then somehow I must have already rescued it. Good job me!

Future Me #274: I guess now the only question that remains is what did they do with your brain for the past 20 months?

Present Me: Tried to get it to work I suspect. Fortunately, I have been training to foil just such a plot for years!

The Inevitability of Time Travel: Part One

Future Me #274: I have returned to the present to discuss something that may seem very innocuous in the present but is very serious in the future.

Present Me: Soap bubbles?

Future Me #274: No. Soap bubbles were/have been/will be eradicated by 2042. I want to talk about space measles.

Future Me #93: Hey! I just found out I have space measles.

Future Me #274: Exactly! Nasty little boogers too. They kept me/us/we scratching for years until eventually Future me/us/we #127 died from them. Fortunately there's still time to save him/us/we.

Present Me: Wait. What are you saying? Are you telling me I die from measles?

Future Me #93: Guys, I don't feel so good.

Future Me #274: Space Measles, yes. But if we hurry you/us/we can avoid them.

Present Me: Okay, what do I need to do?

Future Me #274: First, avoid space. 97% of all space measles hang out there waiting for cosmonauts, monkeys in capsules and Richard Branson and it is VERY contagious.

Future Me #93: Achoo!!!

Future Me #274: Second, since we all know from Einstein's genius calculations that space and time are really one and the same also avoid all time.

Future Me #93: Cough!!! Cough!!!

Present Me: So, wait a minute. You said 97%. What about the other 3%?

Future Me #274: Oh don't worry about that. The other 3% is only found in rare artifacts like computer keyboards, common drinking water and toothpaste. Besides, it has been/will be discovered that steady and consistent blogging is an effective space measle deterrent.

Future Me #93: We're all gonna die aren't we?

Present Me: Yep.

Cow Monster #45

Once upon a time, there was a little moonster (a moonster is a monster of the cow variety). Anyway, this moonster's name was Edweirdo and Edweirdo was stupid. He was so stupid in fact that he thought he was a regular ordinary cow and not a strange monster sort of cow. This was clearly not true, as all of the ordinary cows were usually busy eating grass while Edweirdo was usually biting octopus eyes. So one fine Tuesday, Edweirdo was hanging out in the barn chewing on a caterpillar when suddenly three magic goats appeared in the loft above him.
"I am the goat of Christmas Past" said the first goat and he showed Edweirdo visions of a cow on a date with Godzilla.
"I am the goat of Christmas Future" said the second goat and he showed him visions of Edweirdo on a date with a butterfly.
"I am the goat of past participles" said the third goat and he brought him a song already sung and placed it at his feet.
Edweirdo let go of the catterpillar he was chewing on and gobbled up all three goats and took a nap.

The Prophecies of Nostrildomas

from Book VII, Quatrain 32:

"And lo, on the 5th day of the 33rd year
After nasal decongestants,
There came forth the one nostrilled man
And his message was death."

I Nose The Future

"The Future is snot what you think." - Nostrildamus

I just watched Transcendent Man. It did sound a bit nasally, but this is a must see for anyone with a DNA (ol)FACTORY and/or thought boogers. I give it four and a half out of five snot rockets (five, if I get to live forever).

Please tune in next week for:

Me-Brothers & Time Jumping Us-Aliens In:
IS THIS ALL JUST AN ELABORATE HOAX OR DID MY GHOST'S TWIN BROTHER REALLY TRAVEL BACK IN TIME TO HAUNT MY SINUSES?

Mapping The Trajectory of Human Evolution

Considerable and complex intellectual inquiries have been made. Innumerable scientific studies have been performed. These studies have yielded many surprising facts about the future. The following is a list of some of these findings:

In the future…

Humans will colonize space and travel far from stars. As they do, they will completely lose skin pigmentation.

In the inky blackness of space, humans will develop large eyes in order to maintain keen vision.

In the weightlessness of space, humans' bodies will become small and frail while their brains will continue to increase as their technological prowess continues to expand.

In the vast emptiness of space, humans will become more and more nostalgic about earth, longing to just pop in and see it one more time. Interestingly, they will focus on visiting clusters of small compact dwellings which are similar to their sparse interstellar crafts. (fig. 1)

With these facts confirmed it has been possible to map the probable progression of human evolution. (fig. 2)

Dick Van Dyke Saved By Porpoises

According to WENN News, Dick Van Dyke has claimed he was saved by a pod of porpoises when, after falling asleep on his surfboard, he awoke to discover he could not see land. 

"I started paddling with the swells and I started seeing fins swimming around me and I thought, 'I'm dead!'", he said. "They turned out to be porpoises [and] they pushed me all the way to shore. I'm not kidding."

The WENN report did not specify when this event took place.

In a related incident, my dog was saved by a unicorn when the same thing happened to her.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/8124734/Dick-Van-Dyke-saved-by-porpoises.html

Requiem For The One True Color

Bigfoot felt obligated to believe in evolution as he was generally considered the living embodiment of the missing link, or rather he would be considered the living embodiment of the missing link if anyone could ever find him. Bigfoot was very lost. He had been so certain that the giant footprints he had left with such care would have led someone to him by now, but here he was in the forest all alone and very lost. In fact, if it wasn't for the abundance of nice smoky mushrooms he had found, Bigfoot was certain he would have starved to death by now. The truth is, he had never really considered himself much of a woodsman. He much preferred to sit down at the bookstore with a fascinating new book on quantum physics or have friends over for a Jeopardy! party. But as things stood, Bigfoot was forced to accept that he was going to have to deal with being lost in the woods for a while longer.

It was quickly becoming late afternoon and he really hated late afternoons. It was the time when shadows lurched like thin sickly specters across the leaf litter looking for short squat pockets of darkness to dance hideous waltzes with. Bigfoot sat down on a log and wondered if there was a God. He knew there wasn't and that we were all spontaneously created out of nothingness, but he was so lost and so in need of divine help that just for a moment he doubted himself. With his head bowed and his hope leaking out in the same way tomato juice leaks out of a tomato when it hits a wall, Bigfoot prayed. He prayed that God would send him a rescuer, someone to lead him out of this dark wood and back to civilization.

After a few moments he raised his head and was surprised to see before him a trinity of beings. The large hulking shape of the Loch Ness monster dominated his sight, but not lost completely were also Santa Clause and the most magical creature he had ever seen - a beautiful white unicorn which snorted and pounded its hoof in front of him in a way that was both graceful and regal. He blinked and for just a second questioned the wisdom of eating all those mushrooms earlier. But he had to admit, these creatures certainly seemed to be real and as long as that's how they seemed, then he would have to proceed on the premise that they were.

So Bigfoot snarled with an animalistic rage and lunged at the Loch Ness monster. With a single bite, he ripped out the whole length of her twenty foot throat and in the same motion turned and smashed in the unicorn's skull. Santa Clause tried to run, but Bigfoot quickly decapitated and ate him.

As he sat in the gooey entrails slowly chewing on bits of tasty flesh, he thought about God and paused for a moment to say a blessing for this tasty meal.

an interesting thing

go here and do this: http://www.thewildernessdowntown.com/

you will like it.

And Now For The CROSS-examination...

My alter ego, Bigfoot, has taken exception to yesterday's post. He posits that his highly evolved brain has spotted something fishy in my example from yesterday and would like a chance to speak. Unfortunately, he cannot, so I will speak on his behalf:

With a world as wond'rous as ours, how can it be that there is not a god? Look at the trees which sprout up through barren earth where before there was nothing, look at the sea, vast and full of life, for god's sake look at the sky! How can there be no creator painting such a beautiful sky with an unquestioned masterstroke? There must be a god! A god who has created all things. Well... except of course for evolution. He didn't invent that. Evolution does not exist on Flat Earth. Just ask Bigfoot. He'll tell you.

I hold that the following truths are self-evident...

If you don't believe in evolution yet, then you are from the same late-to-the party, huckle-brained, obdurate backward strain as those who refused to believe the Earth was round long after Magellan sailed around it. I don't care if you're a righteous zealot walking in the glory of the light and are certain evolution is a work of God, or if you're a non-believing, morally blind, soulless cad who thinks evolution is a spontaneously generated mechanism for self-preservation. I don't care if you fall somewhere in between and your thoughts on what evolution is revolve primarily around bigfoot and Lee Majors. So long as you can look rationally at an overwhelming mountain of evidence and divine an obvious conclusion, then you are at least not the mental dead-waste infecting my television.

Leave comments and perhaps you can change my mind. Perhaps my ideas will evolve. But then again, probably not.

All hail the new flat earth.

How To Post A Blog; 10 Words:

Ah, much better!

How To Make A Blog Post In Ten Words Or Less

Oops.

there is no time

The Word Is Flying Machine Brings The Word

The Imaginasium's Reasearch and Development Department has created a new flying machine to help facilitate our expansion into other markets. Test flights confirm that we will now be able to deliver meaningful commentary several houses down.

A Rare True Post: Suicide Ant Terrorists

http://news.discovery.com/animals/photo-shows-suicide-bomber-ant-self-detonating.html

NEXT WEEK IS WORK PLACE SAFETY WEEK

As new management has come in and has been reviewing existing policies, it has become a priority to re-evaluate work place safety. Because the previous 79% first week fatality rate was a bit on the high side, next Monday will kick off the First Annual How Not To Get Yourself Killed While Blogging For The imaginasium Week (H.N.T.G.Y.K.W.B.F.T.I.W.). Among H.N.T.G.Y.K.W.B.F.T.I.W.'s activities are scheduled talks from a host of professional livers. Monday will highlight two of the previous dangers that were responsible for three deaths and twelve maimings at The Imaginasium last week alone. Driving in the Office and Exploding Cars. To help remind workers about this issue, this sign has been posted in trouble areas:

Beware The Monkey Terrorists

Former Staff Writer Harry Orrington shares his reaction to news that the Taliban may be training monkey soldiers.  http://news.discovery.com/animals/taliban-training-monkey-terrorists.html

Tri-Pupiled Marker Wash Terrorizes NYC; 14 Hospitalized, 3 Still Missing

NYC was rocked today by the rampage of an out of control giant marker wash. "I was just doodling on a fast food napkin when I accidentally spilled some ketchup on it and it just started growing" said Hugh Manzuno, the artist responsible. Fourteen people remain hospitalized with two in critical condition. Darryl Ichtbrain, one of the patients in critical condition was able to make a statement before being rushed into the emergency room. "I didn't really think it was all that good" he said. "I mean I'm no expert, but it just looked like a messy kid drawing to me." When asked if he was aware of whether it had been captured or not, he silently slipped into a coma.

According to the New York Transit Authority, three people remained unaccounted for and the giant marker wash remains at large. Authorities are asking all residents of lower Manhattan to stay indoors and are reaching out to any eraser factories in the area to call the NYPD immediately.

And Now For Some of That Great Quality Blogging...

NEW POPULATION CONTROL DEVICE INSTALLED FOR TEST RUN AT BUENA VISTA PARK, SAN FRANCISCO
AP - SAN FRANCISCO, CA

Ecologist Dr. Robert Killkenny, professor emeritus of South Georgia University, has invented a device that he thinks can save the world from overpopulation. "We have already exceeded the carrying capacity of the Earth" he noted, adding "If we do not act now, the future will be very grim for human kind."

Envisioned one night while preparing dinner, Dr. Killkenny hopes that after a successful test run, he will be able to sell his device to cities and towns all over the world.

MESSAGE FROM THE SOURSOP

Dear Readers,

I'm sure both of you have been nervous and anxiety ridden about all of the recent calamity - the incineration of most of the previous writing staff, the desperate search to fill various staff positions, and the explosion of the recent backwards time bomb (not to worry as it has already un-exploded and the clock is now ticking harmlessly up). I can now say with complete confidence that The Imaginasium has entered a new phase of stability and quality. There will be no more cavalier chandelier swinging or flippant poo flinging and I have unequivocally ended all banana masochism. No more monkey business. From this day forward, this blog will be run with a steadfast professionalism and journalistic competence that is deserving of the highest respect.

I am sure that one, if not both, of you are at least a little bit curious about me and my background. So please allow me to take this opportunity to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Trjnh Thj Qui and I am a soursop from Northern Vietnam. I grew up quickly in a time of unrest and worked as political activist in my village until I was almost ripe. I saw the rise of a militant left wing extremist group called The Pickers and became an unwilling victim. I was smuggled out of the country on the back of a displaced yak shortly after watching my entire family be brutally sliced from our tree. I began writing reports of what I had witnessed from the field, trying to get the message out about The Pickers and the genocide that was happening there, but my words fell on deaf ears. I eventually crossed Asia to Prague and on to the States where I achieved refugee status and was able to enroll in Carnegie Mellon University the following year. I took my BS in Ethics, History, and Public Policy before moving on to Yale for my Doctorate. After graduating magna cum laude I took a job as a writing consultant for The Soursopian (http://thesoursopian.blogspot.com/). After taking that job as far as I feel I can, I am looking forward to what I can accomplish here at The Imaginasium as the soursopitarian struggle continues.

With Hope,
Dr. Trjnh Thj Qui

BREAKING NEWS: All Remaining Staff Have Been Canned, Single Soursop Hired...

In a highly unexpected maneuver to improve quality of content at The Imaginasium, the Resources Manager has fired all staff including himself and hired a single soursop to perform all duties. More to come.

WANTED: Non-Human Resources Coordinator

There are a million schools of thought, but very few jobs of thought. We have another opening! We're looking to fill  the dangerous, but exciting position of Non-Human Resources Coordinator. Willing applicants will be subjected to dangerous thoughts, creative new ideas, and occasionally slathering fangs. Anyone with a lot of patience, animal training experience, or a lot of body armor is encouraged to apply. Please email resume and/or a video of you involved in an animal attack to: derelictbrain@gmail.com

WANTED: Full Time Writer/Ultimate Frisbee Champion

We here at the Imaginasium are sad to announce that our current writing team has been devastated by the Simian Brain Flu and are not likely to recover. They are not likely to recover because The Imaginasium, being a leader in worker safety, has taken the precautionary measure of having the entire writing staff incinerated. Among those incinerated was the much loved Momo, our Lead Writer and Ultimate Frisbee Champion. Let us all bow our heads for a moment of silence. The good news is: We have openings!!! If you've ever wanted to be a writer or are just a really smart dog who would like to tackle the challenge of learning to type, please send your resume, a head shot, and $3 to The Imaginasium at: derelictbrain@gmail.com. The job is like crime. It doesn't pay, but what a fun way to spend the night!

The Imaginasium Has Hired A New Brain!!!

The Imaginasium is proud to announce the hiring of a new brain! From looks alone, it is clear that we have stepped up a level or two! We feel that this new brain is better equipped to hurl us into a less grim future than our previous brain, which in fact has turned out to be a very ordinary Sunmaid raisin. So, here's to new ideas and unwritten tomorrows! Please, help us in welcoming the new brain in the comments section and enjoy the improved blog!

The Imaginasium Is Looking For A Part Time Brain

The Brain will primarily be responsible for coming up with creative blog posts that will work in complete congruence with our plans to expand readership to include a third reader at some future date. The Brain will also be responsible for regulating everyone's bathroom breaks, deciding what to have for lunch, and which compromising pictures of the staff to post on the internet. Benefits include: one 15 minute break every 20 minutes, endless caffeine supply, and complete control over daily production. Applicant should have giant head full of funny and intelligent thoughts as well as all shots (including rabies, typhoid, consumption, etc.). Send resume and head shot to: derelictbrain@gmail.com

The Imaginasium Is Looking For A Full Time Writer/Ultimate Frisbee Champion

Applicant must be clever, witty, funny, and able to work on the cheap. Ability to suffer daily beatings is a plus. Must be good with childish adults, biting puppy dogs, and internetical doohickeys. All applicants must submit a resume to derelictbrain@gmail.com and be willing to wear a leash. All submissions will be ill considered, laughed at, and most likely thrown away. The winning applicant will be announced in short order with great fanfare and/or minimal effort.

Linda Carter Is Not Aging So Well

The Problem With Consistency and This Blog Post

Okay, so I want to be a writer. Conventional wisdom would seem to dictate that I should write something - and I suppose this is sort of where I take exception to normality - but I think the past two days have really underscored the problem with conventional thought. I mean those were some sucky blog posts. And yes, I do accept that I might subconsciously be trying to push my readers (there are now two!) away, but I think I have to also accept responsibility for the lack of quality I'm slinging into the electronic ether too. It's a clear fact that my readers aren't likely to have any literary taste or good judgement. But it is also clear that my imagination has grown dull over the years and there has been nothing truly clever and original spewing forth from my internet-addled brain in quite some time. So, just like always it comes down to quantity versus quality. Welcome to quantity.


postscript: I intend to submerge my brain in a vat of either hydrochloric acid or banana pudding before the next post to see if that helps.

postpostscript: never abbreviate the word "postscript", you automaton!

Yesterday's Post Was Stupid

We here at The Imaginasium would like to issue a retraction. Yesterday's post was inaccurate, misleading and just plain stupid. Hookworms, spaghetti and Lex Luthor have absolutely nothing to do with each other and our insinuations otherwise are pretty ridiculous... What's that, Tim? ...really?! ...from eating spaghetti?...

WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO BRING YOU THE FOLLOWING BREAKING NEWS STORY: Only moments ago Lex Luthor was rushed to Metropolis Hospital. Early reports indicate that he has, I repeat HAS, contracted hookworms. ..I am hearing now that the police are searching  for a plate of... what's that Jim? ...a plate of contaminated spaghetti? Yes. Okay. I repeat, the police are searching for a plate of contaminated spaghetti. Anyone who may have any information related to the whereabouts of this spaghetti are urged to contact the Metropolis Police Department as soon as possible... okay, well, that seems to be about it from here... Back to you in the studio, Bob...

Dr. STRANGELUCK or How I Learned To Love My Allergies

I have severe allergies. Hay fever and the like. I once even took a test to prove it. Unfortunately, the internet was only just beginning it's invasion and domination of the human race when I took the test and instead of being subjected to mouse clicks and webMD, I was sublimated to the archaic black magic that passed as medicine back in the 80's. The first step was to draw a 20 x 5 grid in my left arm with an ink pen. The second step was to stab my arm 20 times with needles filled with things that people are commonly allegric to. After about 15 minutes, they brought a measuring device that was essentially a piece of metal with different sized holes in it. They then placed a hole that was about an inch in diameter over the places where I had been injected to see if the massively swelling area was of adequate size. If it was, they declared "Well look at that! You're allergic to tree sperm." If it wasn't, they stabbed me again with a larger quantity of whatever they wanted me to be allergic to, waited 15 minutes and measured again. After 53 shots, they were able to determine that I'm only mildly allergic to cats, but everything else makes me spew snot like one seriously pissed off slime volcano. Where I live it is primarily maple tree ejaculation that aggravates me the most. So for about two weeks each year I have the choice of either being completely miserable and unable to function or taking medicine that requires a background check and says in small type on the back of the box that they may be slowly killing some of my better organs. Quality of life over quantity though, right?

Anyway, none of this is what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is hookworms. Hookworms? Yes, hookworms. Small nasty little critters that burrow into your skin and set up shop eating your innards. The reason I want to talk about hookworms is that we recently acquired the cutest little puppy dog and she happened to have a bad infestation of spaghetti noodles. I know that she had a bad infestation of spaghetti noodles because after giving her medicine, I watched her poop them out. But after several days of treatment, we were confident  she was cured. Unfortunately, it is not uncommon for them to get reinfected (apparently spaghetti noodles are persistent little buggers). We are not certain she has hookworms. Could be other types of worms, but I want to talk about hookworms. Why do I want to talk about hookworms? Because in reading about them I learned that they're great for allergies. Come again? Hookworms are great for allergies! That's right, apparently people who are infested with hookworms do not experience extreme allergies or allergy attacks. The speculation is that what causes allergy attacks and extreme allergies is that the immune system is too strong and is just sitting around with nothing to do, so when tree sperm or some other allergen gets lodged up one's nostrils, the immune system, like any good mall cop, responds with a heavy measure of extreme brutality and indescriminate tasering. The hookworms apparently create a bunch of proteins, which act like roving bands of hoodlums and therefore keep the mall cops occupied and unable to over-respond to such insignificant albeit demeaning situations such as tree sperm up the nostrils.

So, in short, I learned today that I am superman, Lex Luthor is tree sperm, and hookworms are kryptonite. Woohoo! I can fly!

Interview With Myself PART ONE: Long Live The Brain-Hippies And Other Useless Brain Squirts

Q & A: Who Am I To Question Myself?

by Darryl Ichtbrain

ME: So who are you, really?

MYSELF: I'm just your regular misoverstood soccer-loving, thought-artist who is quietly leading a life as a double agent secretly working for the brain-hippies.

ME: The brain-hippies?

MYSELF: Yes, the brain-hippies. They're a group of hyper-intelligent idealists who believe in peace, love, and community who grow their brains down past their waists... or, well they would grow their brains down past their waists if they were still alive.

ME: The brain-hippies are dead?

MYSELF: Yes, they realized that ignorance is bliss and reluctantly had to kill themselves.

ME: I see. You have really gained notoriety with your blog, The Imaginasium. It appears that you now have one regular follower where just a few months ago, you had none. How can you explain this explosive 100% growth?

MYSELF: Well, if I told you I saw it coming, that would be a lie. I've consistently had an inconsistent blog for over 10 years now, although it has changed names and venues several times, particularly when anyone has begun to read it. But I think that's mostly just because I'm a responsible blogger and have always been concerned about how it could potentially negatively affect people if they actually ever read it. But now ya know, I'm getting older and I don't really care about other people, so I think that's probably had a profound affect on my readership. Or maybe it's because of the refined content.

ME: Okay, so what exactly is the content? What is it that you're trying to say? And what's with all the cat stuff?

MYSELF: Well, writing for me is... I mean, well, how should I say this? ...I have never encountered writer's block or anything remotely approaching it, so the sporadic nature of the posts that... wait, that's not quite right, let me try again... actually, I suffer from writer's diarrhea. It's sort of the opposite of writer's block, a never ending eruptive cascade of words and ideas and concepts and themes spewing from my brain at a rate far greater than I could actually ever record them on to paper... hahaha! excuse me for sounding so quaint... at a rate far greater than I could actually ever record them on to digital media.

For example, what if I wrote a story about a people with a government that had become so bureaucratically useless that 99.9% of the population had a government job and did virtually nothing while the other 0.1% did everything which consisted of a lot of chopping down trees and building things for the other 99.9%. What if somehow, the 0.1% were so tired of doing everything that they were able to get a resolution passed that they would hitherto farm out all of the administration of the government to trees and strangely the trees did a much better job of managing things than the people ever did! But now with so much free time on their hands, the 99.9% of the people had to learn how to actually do something, so the 0.1% taught them how to cut down trees and by the end of the week the 99.9% had toppled the new government! Oh wait, what was the question again?

ME: Your blog. Could you explain what exactly it's about and is there any significant meaning to the cat stuff?

MYSELF: Oh yeah, sure. It's mostly about avoidance, I think. It started mainly with avoiding work by blogging, but it really just took off from there. It's sort of like the truth is a lie and I was absolutely dying  to somehow tell the truth... as well as one can with words anyway. Like, anything you can say or label anyone or anything with, it's never the whole truth. There is always something different between that label and what is being labeled. It's like in Plato's Theory of Forms, there is no circle in reality. You can imagine a circle in your head and the abstract idea is perfect, true, but in reality you can only get really close to that truth. And honestly, it's only a false perception to think that you're close because if you were ever to actually turn out a circle on a lathe, whether it's aluminum or titanium or any other material, if you were to look at it on a molecular level it would be jagged and uneven and not a circle at all. So you can call it a circle, but it's not true. Nothing you can say about anything is actually true. So when I sit down to say things that are true, to write in my blog about something meaningful, it's important to say everything that's a lie and hope the reader figures out what's left. But that would be impossible right? So I just try to say all the other lies that no one else is saying. Only, I keep seeing these cats and they really do seem to be cats? So could cats really be cats? I don't think so, but you never really know. And it seems awfully important to find out.

ME: Wow, that sounds pretty deep. Are you sure your readers are getting your blog on that level?

MYSELF: Well, I have been very encouraged by the lack of comments my one regular reader has been leaving. And also, I don't think it's necessary that they get it in any real kind of way because that would just be another lie. It's better if they get it in as vague and true a way as possible. If I think about it, I suppose it is always going to be flawed to some degree, but I hold out hope that there is someone out there with whom I will never have a conversation with - because that would taint the truth - that gets it and that this blog in some devious subversive non-communicative way reaches out and crosses paths with that person's equally devious and subversive anti-communiqué and that a narcoleptic bird caught in the crossfire will suddenly fall out of the sky at that intersection and land at my feet and confirm my suspicions.

ME: So it almost sounds like your blog is some sort of secret message written in some impossible to understand subversive dialect meant for someone at some unknown location with whom you've never met before and never will and will almost certainly not only not have any direct communication with, but also no indirect dialogue of any kind and if you and he can steer completely clear of each other throughout all time and space, that the ripples of each of your existences will flow outwardly until they somehow don't intersect and at that non-intersection a bird with a sleep disorder will somehow come forward and confirm for you that you are correct?

MYSELF: Yes, exactly.

ME: You mentioned earlier that you were "quietly leading a life as a double agent secretly working for the brain-hippies". Does what you were saying just now have anything to do with that? And if you're a secret double agent working for the brain-hippies, does that mean it is they whom you are double crossing?

MYSELF: Yes. I suppose it's okay to say this now since they're all dead... In fact, I'm not sure if I mentioned this earlier, but their actually extra-dead. COBHEG (the Council of Brain-Hippie Elder Ghosts) realized that "ignorance is bliss" is not an entirely true statement and that "non-existence is bliss" is much more accurate, so they found a wormhole, went back in time and did what they had to do to ensure that they never even existed to begin with. And that's really the reason why I chose to double cross them. In their current state of non-existent bliss, I knew they wouldn't mind.

ME: So if you're double crossing the non-existent brain-hippies, who is it you're really working for?

MYSELF: Well, I can never be sure, but I have begun to suspect it might be Humans Who Know, an organization so secret that not even their members are aware that they're members, much less that they are currently carrying out a myriad of nasty plots that somehow must be thwarted whether we ever learn what they are or not.

ME: Okay, well that's the end of part one. I'd like to thank Myself and for now, goodbye from The Imaginasium.



Please tune in next week for: Interview With Myself PART TWO: The Secret Lives of Cats

When Typographers Go Bad: PART ONE

How To Not Say Anything To A Cat: PART THREE

How I Know I'm Important: PART ONE

The farther things get from me, the smaller they get.

Fun on a Plane: PART ONE

Clever Advertising: PART ONE

For How Long Will My People Be Persecuted?

M.I.A, Born Free from ROMAIN-GAVRAS on Vimeo.

How To Talk To Your Cat: PART TWO

How To Talk To Your Human: PART ONE

How To Talk To Your Cat: PART ONE

How To Not Say Anything To A Cat: PART ONE

On Alien Beings and Their Malevolent Plans For Us

Thanks to one of our stealthy undercover agents we here at The Imaginasium were able to smuggle out this
footage of what appears to be an advance reconnaissance unit of alien drones doing some training exercises,
which our sources assure us are for the purposes of human head kicking and learning to walk.