Sucker for Sunsets
Showing posts with label Megan Fox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Megan Fox. Show all posts

Friday, July 22, 2011

Global Warming Causes Piracy

If you could believe an outfit with the name “Woods Hole”.

A bunch of oceanographers up there in Massachusetts are in a tizzy over Carbon Dioxide in the salt water.

Like it can taste any worse.

These scientists published their worried study this month in the Journal of Fish and Fisheries. Care to guess whose side they come down on?

Nope.

Not fishies.

Mollusks and crustaceans. If you graduated 6th grade, you know these things are not fish. So, why not the Journal of Mollusks? Maybe, that journal was full up with dazzling photos of wet shells.

Still, lots of people like mollusks, but only because no one in the restaurant or Publix calls clams and oysters such an unattractive name. And Crustaceans sounds like some dead ethnic group who preceded the Romans. Who wants to eat one of them with drawn butter?

So, were those ancient Crustaceans wrecking piracy of the title? No, they are lobsters and crabs and lots of poor countries rely on them for their Gross Domestic Product and exports, too.

All of that carbon dioxide you exhaled during your workout and driving to the gym or overheating China’s economy? That’s somehow turning the oceans into some sort of acid that these poor creatures don’t like. The Mollusks, not the cranky diggers or the lobstermen chasing touristy swimmers from their pots.

The Woods Hole experts use Somalia as an example, however inappropriately. Somalia, they say has been over-fished—not over-not-fished— to scaly extinction and the fisherman with all those diesel driven boats and AK-47’s have to fill their holds and time with something. Hence, “Let’s go rob a Super Tanker.”

Sure, the poor guy who used to dig clams out of the mud flats with a stick may have two oars and boat. An ex-lobster fisherman may have an AK-47 to pot those tourists,, but chances are his boat goes put-put on a good day.

Of course, everybody feels bad about the pH of the ocean reaching Coke Zero levels and the disappearance of the pretty color coral. Who won’t miss the occasional crab legs or trip with Megan Fox to Red Lobster for Oysters Rockefeller?

They don't?

But, really, heavy breathing just thinking of Megan dooms some poor Malagasy kid to a life with a talon-scared shoulders and a patched aye?

Apparently, melting icebergs and coastlines farther underwater than Arizona and Nevada, those horror stories are no longer enough for the eighteen leftovers in the Al Gore crowd. How many more Prius can one liberal drive?

Still, aside from the economic collapse of Maine, what's the worst that can happen? The Mollusks from the vinegary surf simply evolve and adapt to land life, just like the rest of us had to.


Stop fretting about the planet and think. No more losing Mojito-time scraping barnacles from your yacht. They will dissolve away into the sea without you. Mostly, we upgrade from Clams Bruschetta at Olive Garden to Escargot en croute at pretty much any Bistro this side of PF Chang's. 


Let there be Pirates.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Panned Parenthood Saves A Couple Bil

The deal was struck!  The Bureaucracy was saved!  The Budget?  Not so much.

All American workers--aside from the shoe stink-dusters at the Senate gym--breathed a sigh of relief.  All Americans now work for the Federal Government in some guise and the Shutdown scared Whole Foods to death.  Who would buy cheese for $27.65 a pound?

Principled Republicans and Democrats...

Anyway, the politicians who keep us a couple Trillion ahead of a Four Trillion Dollar deficit came together for huge $39.5 Billion--yes, Billion, as in one Facebook share--cut in the non-gym Federal Budget.

But because of Principle...

Anyway, the only way to make the deal work was to finally fix Planned Parenthood.

No, Jesus!  Not that kind of "fix".  But, hmm,  hold that thought.

Planned Parenthood is the Bête Noir of Rightists everywhere, poor choice of racist French adjectives notwithstanding.  Most Republicans still think "Bete" is their second favorite century's top movie starlet or an exceptionally good gay-magnet concert performer.

Planned Parenthood advocates planning parenthood.  Instead of, like, using the driving beat of Bete's songs to time zygote-production the way the Pope and the Irish tried from before writing not in Latin to 1997 and ended up with floods of green beer and stumbling parades in every American city this side of Utah.

While the Deal that Statesmen... Sen. Not-Nancy Pelosi Reid and House Speaker John Boehner so honorably cut will barely prick the deficit, but it took the... "Planned" out of Parenthood.  The staffers, who were right up there with the House masseurs in payment security, are still working out the details, but it is pretty much like this:

Sen. Not-So and Speaker Johnny made a special joint announcement.  To a respectful playing of the anthem--borrowed from a film about a ship about as upside down and underwater as your average Fed-- "There Has to Be a Morning After", hauntingly performed by the Irish-French band RU2-486, the Congressional heroes declared that Planned Parenthood [correction] generously agreed to change its name to Parenthood: Home to the Spontaneous Generation [the crack about renaming it as "Fetuses In a Jar Associates", Speaker Johnny said, was "just my funny"], ship its birth control pills to China and turn its considerable marketing skills, instead, to running running gay sex clubs, handing out some FDA-approved "B", ah, hangover remedy and, most importantly, promoting Absinthe.

Library books containing the words "sex", "condom", "pregnancy" and "welfare" will be cleansed, in all generally empty suburban malls, with subsidized gasahol and tax-exempt cigarettes.  Henceforth, all TV characters will sleep in wool pajamas in  separate Twin Beds, if any of the latter can be found in Hollywood.

Bristol Palin buttons will be worn by all female tweens who seriously can not dance.

Sexually active post-tweens will be requried to marry or swear allegiance to Brigham Young.

Really, no more 3D Katy Perry or 1D Robert Pattinson posters.  Or Megan Fox.  Anything.

The list, as usual, is only limited by the imagination of Congress...

In an extremely brief Joint Congressional Session, the German-born Pope and the Luau-born TB0 and the now-available-for-weddings-and-bar-mitzvahs Glenn Beck will sign the Budget Deal together, hopefully before the Rapture wisks them, Sen. Harry and Speaker Johnny and all the kids away in the middle of...

Monday, June 21, 2010

Scaley Has Jon-Bob Spank Terror-Huggers

Antonin Scaley's black-robed possee dealt terrorist-huggers everywhere a major setback.

Ruling 6 good to 3 not-invited-next-time, the Court ruled that if you give a terrorist group advice or training, you are just as bad as they are.

Scaley's nominal Chief Justice, John Roberts ("Jon-Bob" to friends of this blog), was assigned to write down Scaleys' thoughts on the matter.

Justice Stephen Breyer ("the Ice Man", for obvious reasons), was allowed to disagree in public.  The Ice Man read his dissent aloud so FOX Spews would not lose the text completely.

TBO sent some minions to agree with Scaley's view, although it is not clear where he could find any.  Through them, TBO claimed that "material support", under the Be Unkind To Terrorists statute, meant pretty much anything.  TBO now has more power over Americans that Dick Cheney or The Alice of the Tea Party of Wonderland, Sarah Palin.

According to Jon-Bob, here's it works.  TBO scans the globe (Mars starts next term.  And ha ha).  He then points a finger at a bunch of Sihks, say, singing acapella to their favorite candidate on a Charleston, SC street corner.  That is enough to designate them as a terrorist group, even if TBO was just indicating that he liked the hue of the lead singer's raghe... turban.

Now that, the group is a designated terrorist group, they are off limits for any training or advice, because anything that helps the terrorists, ups their morale, makes them happy--or even less miserable--or better informed is now a waterboarding offence.

Examples Jo-Bob probably meant would be:

Showing a terrorist how to inflate his new Nike's on the subway;

Teaching a terrorist how to surrender;

Giving any New York cabbie directions to Yankee Stadium;

Paying any New York cabbie;

Adding terrorists to your nightly prayer list;

Putting a soaking wet towel on your head in 99 degree heat;

Suggesting, just in passing, that a terrorist consider making peace with infidels;

Broadcasting Sean Hannity (no, wait, it said "better informed");

Showing stills of any Megan Fox scene in which she wears a boostier in "Jonus Hex";

Showing stills of Megan and Brian Austin Green with BAG's face photoshopped out and replaced with that or your favorite blogger;

Explaining a Scaley Court decision;

Offering a terrorist five tiny pretzels on a three-hour USAirways flight that will connect through Philadelphia to anywhere useful;

Feel free to add ideas in comments below.  Do not worry, though, no terrorists read this blog, because it seems to be a big damned secret.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Solo Teen Sailor Has Screenwriter Hooked

Abby Sunderland has been rescued from the Indian Ocean, five months after she set off from Marina del Ray, CA.  The 16 year-old won't fulfill her ambition to become the youngest ever to solo the world in a really nice dingy, beating her brother's record of 17.  But you know she will get a lot farther than her stinky brother in Hollywood.

Loyal types have suggested Megan Fox as Abby, but other think Megan too old or too yesterday.  Taylor Momsen, Little J of  "Gossip Girl" is a natural, assuming she can swim one-tenth as well as she can act or sing.

For product placement purposes, the film will have Abby sail off from the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Ray. And because a screenwriter reports they have really good Kobe Burgers.  The Japanese not the Laker.

The most important part, finding that screenwriter, has been taken care of.  Part of the script is actually already written, especially for Morgan Freeman as the Captain of the Quantas Airbus A330 search plane.  An excerpt was stolen minutes ago.

Ext. Plane flying low over the Indian Ocean.  DAY


Int.  Cockpit  DAY
Three men cram the cockpit, desperately searching for the tiny sailboat...


          SCATTY (off screen)
The fuel lines!  They're ruptured!  One more minute, Captain, and the engines will stop!


          DR. BANES
Bad time of year to scuttle anything but an American-made Boeing in the damned Indian Ocean, Jim.


          FIRST OFFICER SPACK
A330's are not designed well for such a rough Ocean, Captain.


          SCATTY (off screen)
Did I say a minute?  I meant ten seconds!  Ago!


          CAPTAIN (in God's voice, American-Australian Accent)
Restart engines.


Engines, ignoring their severed fuel lines roar into action.


          CAPTAIN (same voice, More American Accent now)
Find me that little girl.  Before the French do.

Now, Abby, aside from formatting, is a rewrite even necessary?

Monday, May 17, 2010

Drill Babies(tm) to Get Twice the Brains

BP's Drill Babies (tm) need to evolve.  And fast.

The Gulf-Tar-based dolls are popular enough, especially on Alabama beaches, but, they are, as of now, yesterday's news cycle. Even The Alice and The Tea Party of Wonderland, whose early promotion of the dolls made them a must, have moved on.

The Oil Toy business moves faster than a diesel-powered Loop Current.

The developer of the Drill Babies line, had set to work immediately to diversify the line and to adapt to political pressure in the market.

The first addition was a Drill Baby Inaction Figure, complete with three-piece suit, a miniture Congressional Committee Hot Seat and functioning sweat glands.  The early prototype could only move one arm, but could point its index finger in three directions.  Now, both arms can move through the full 360 degrees needed.  A well-dressed adjunct is the near perfect replica of The Alice, only really, really tan.  The Alice figure's head swivels automatically away from other Drill Babies and in the direction of a truckload of assault rifle (being included as of yesterday).

The second is dressed like a deep sea fisherman and has a scale model of a 100 ton sea box (the model weighs less than one ton). The sea box can be attached to a fishing line and dropped in a swimming pool (sold separately) with no effect on anything.  But the resulting super cool thud can be heard in DrillBabyDrill headquarters (also sold separately) or at the Republican National Committee (sorry, already sold).

An additional accessory kit allows the fisherman Drill Baby to lower a true-to-scale, remote controlled Iranian Space Worm, equiped with a little rubber stopper in its mouth (whereever that may be).  The Tar Baby's Space Worm will snake through the very deep end and attempt jam the plug into any pool's filter or your ear, if you happen to be doing laps at the time.

The number one sold-separately accessory is a full set of 100 scale 55-gallon drums of Drill Baby Chemical Dispersant and Surface-Only Body Wash.  The directions make it clear that the dispersent should only be used in a pool your children do not frequent, like your asshole neighbor's. Clever marketing has made use of a Drill Baby without the dispersant completely unrealistic.  It's like a Transformer bot without a Megan Fox t-shirted doll to tuck under a crushed toy helicopter.  Or a pillow.

Real debate has centered on a third proposed Drill Baby line, targeted at young girls with strong stomachs.  The farsighted inventor designed the initial Drill Baby with room for a playful additions.  But, now, you can buy your child an extra Drill Baby head, arm or toe to add on.  (But, seriously, get the complete set of extras. Evolution moves quickly, too.)

It is easy--and, really, inevitable--for Drill Babies to "grow" their extra parts. But it is recommended that addition be made only after dunking the Drill Baby at least once in a salt water-heavy oil mix made with the Drill Baby Dispersant (using the free cruet). Without the use of the mix to modify the Drill Babies genome, the new parts won't stick very well.

A word of caution:  The grateful designer made The Alice-inspired add-on Drill Baby head unusually dense. So, what's new?  Well, that means it will likely fall off and stick for years to the kitchen floor. Or get itself scarfed up as your dog's last meal.

Friday, May 14, 2010

The Alice Story Headed to Silver Screen?

A pretty accurate fictionalized film of Sarah Palin's journey from Alaska and Arizona to the top spot in The Tea Party of Wonderland?  You betcha.

Blog favorite, Megan Fox is attached to play the lead, The Alice, as a slightly shorter (in centimeters),  much smarter dresser (in square centimeters), more literate (in tattooed words) version of the real fictional character.

(This blog is too humble to reveal who wrote the original 23-word screenplay, even while the sequel "Drill Babies BP Cavalcade of 2010" is stuck, really stuck, on page two.)

Lindsay One-Name had originally been tagged as The Alice, but her rigorous, nightclub-and-alley-centric training for her Linda Lovelace vehicle seemed to have her slurring her screen-test line readings.

Ms Fox snagged the choice role on the strength of her work in "Jennifer's Body", in which she played a similar character, and her running body in "Transformers Two.

The challenge for Ms. Fox is to play The Alice beginning in her youth, as the perky point-guard nicknamed "the Barbie-cuda", through her triumph as Miss Gnome (Wasilla being way too hard to pronounce with a sexy giggle), to her stint the cheer captian for a snow-mobiling Dude sponsored by BP.  Ms. Fox is fascinated with playing The Alice as a donkey-skinning, ultra-farsighted politician, but is mostly “thrilled to get to run for Vice President with that old beer salesman guy from Panama Mr. Obama beat.”

It is a true American tale of the transformation of a short, small free-country girl to an indomitable presence towering over the nation's political landscape like the Colossus Helios did the island of Rhodes.  Before it fell over.

The A-list role has its perks.  “It is fun flying in private jets, eating at six-star restaurants and staying in penthouse suites,” actress Fox said.  “But I miss Olive Garden and I sneak out for a few bread sticks sometimes.  You really need a napkin with all the garlic.  I bring one from the hotel.”

“I won't be getting those after a couple weeks. Not the napkins.  I still get them.  But it's not like the Car-Bot shoot, where they made me gain ten pounds for running in the t-shrit.  That was bread sticks 24-7.  The Beef was cool--I called him that 'cause it's French--Anyway, Shia?  He'd kiss me anyway"

So hard to believe.  What a trooper, Shia.

"But this time I have to lose thirteen pounds, can you believe it?  Anyone can kiss me now."



"It's because The Alice gets pregnant.”

As the later scenes of the script are being finalized, Ms. Fox, now in gloves, is being fitted for her million dollar Vice Presidential campaign wardrobe.

As for the titleating climax, Sarah Palin's coronation as The Alice, Ms. Fox will, in spite of a the off-the-shoulders pinafore-only costume, “try to play it at least as as realistically as Meg Ryan.”

Casting the fanciful Tea Party of Wonderland characters, each wearing identical 19th Century Libertarian hats and speaking identical lines?  Well, that is a chore Ms. Fox is happy to leave to the producers.  “I do like animals and I even dated a teabagger.  But I know that hatting, it can make your brain swiss-cheesey.  Which may explain the Tea...”  When a PR assistant interrupted Ms. Fox with a handy breadstick and napkin.

Sarah Palin had demanded final script approval, but yielded when reminded that she had to finish her newspaper first.

The film, in full 2-D, is expected to be released in May 2012.

Just in time.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Study: Pets Listen Better than Husbands

According to the study, a full one third of all women think pets listen better.

Including a crayfish.

But do you really need a post on this one?

Of course, pets listen better than husbands.  First, of all, they have much better hearing, picking out the sliding sound that a cat food can makes coming off the shelf and what lawn mower?  Men can only pick out the sound a six-pack makes landing on the counter and in the middle of the first quarter.

Mostly, though, it is the questions directed to the recipient:  And worse, the answers expected.  Do women expect their pets to answer in complete phrases?  A wag of the tail seems acceptable for any dog; a snout wrinkle for a pig; a blank look for a cat.

Husbands, over time, have experimented with complex gestures, like palms and shoulders up; pleasant expressions like a smile; or single word all-purpose responses, like "fine", all with limited success.

Does a turtle have to worry that "beautiful" will be rejoined with "As beautiful as that little Megan at the Olive Garden?"  Turtles can seem to take their time to answer, as well.  Husbands have, maybe, a nano-second.

Sample questions from the study:

Pet:  Do you want to go pooh-pooh?
Husband:  This black pump or... this black pump?

Pet:  Do you like flaky salmon?
Husband:  So, do you like cold Tuna Helper?

Pet:  Do you love mama?
Husband:  Will you still love me when I can't wear five inch heels?

Pets:  Do you like "Gossip Girl", too?
Husband:  Why, exactly, do you like "Gossip Girl"?

Pet:  Isn't Daddy an asshole for forgetting his anniverary?
Husband:  You can't remember one lousy day a year, you asshole?

Pet:  Sit on mama's lap?
Husband:  And where was that lap during Happy Hour?

Pet:  I know you won't say anything to Daddy, right?
Husband:  Why can't you talk to me?

Pet:  Do you want to go outside?
Husband:  Do you want to sleep in the driveway?

So.  Reverse the questions and see how much that damned pet listens.

And are they sure it was only 33%?

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Supreme Court: A Cross is Almost Pagan

At the Supreme Court, that's what Tony ("That's-Why-The-Other-Guy's-Scaley") Kennedy basically wrote in his majority opinion.  The cross in question is in Middle of Nowhere, California, erected as part of a memorial to WWI's fallen.

The VFW put it up ages ago, when the US was still a Christian country. At the time, everyone knew what it meant and loved it, not that they ever saw the thing, it being in the Mojave Desert. You had as much chance of seeing that cross as a Wampanoag does a thousand wind turbines off Nantucket on a foggy day.

The cross is only a little taller than Megan Fox who you would miss completely if she were wearing flats...  Okay.  The cross is not even as high as, even if as inert as, Nichole Kidman's forehead.

The problem lay in its desert home being on public land, that is, land owned by The Government.  Now, had the land been owned by Arizona, we would not be talking about it at all, that state being beyond constitutional enforcement.

Some atheist federal judges from WhereElseButt, California, perhaps projecting their own guilt, said that, in the late, late afternoon, when the sun is low, you can make out a shadow that looks like Jesus' big toe way low down on the the cross.

(Oh, don't go planning a pilgrimage already! It's poetic license.)

The upshot is that the judges ordered the cross covered with Chinese Drywall, because no will use the boatloads of it sitting in Long Beach and, come on, like it can hurt Jesus.

It fell to the few remaining Christians in California to come up with a scheme to molify the judges.  The goverment would sell the hillock with the cross impaled on it to a non-government, maybe one of those free-speech loving corporation Justice Tony loves so much.  The rogue circuit judges were not fooled one bit and did everything but nail up the drywall themselves.

The Christians looked at the Supreme Court of the United States and liked their chances at 5 to 4.  A lot.

Justice Tony, perhaps with Scaley's whispering, figured it out.  The cross wasn't about Christianity at all.  The cross was Latin, the Roman culture before Sophia Loren.  This was the culture that crucified malcontents for kicks thirty  years before Christmas Day went wholesale; the culture that put Spartacus, Tony Curtis and so many of their slave army up on crosses they had to use Velcro.

The cross is an ancient, way-pre-Christian symbol evoking all the thousands of miniture pre-Christian crosses planted across Europe where Ameican soldiers were buried in presumably Latin ceremonies after de-empiring the Germans.  Those small Latin crosses were only used to define the uncountable rows and photograph really well.  Nobody's religion, or lack thereof, was involved.

And besides, Tony (the Justice not the Curtis) says, the cross would be someone's private property before anyone actually saw Jesus' shadowy if sacred big toe and built a church around it.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

We've Got The Second Craziest Guy

You thought Pat Robertson had retired the title of Craziest Guy on Earth.  Maybe, so, but the competition has been reopened.  Bring Pat's jersey down from the rafters of God Memorial Soccer Bowl.  There's a new nut in town.

Fortunately, not your town.  This time.

As we all know, Pat Robertson has insightfully blamed practically every natural disaster since he matriculated kindergarten on gays and girls behaving badly.  Hurricanes regularly punish Orlando for Disney's parades.  Haiti's recent earthquake resulted from the Haitians contract with the devil to have voodoo and sunshine in place of Christian souls.  Thankfully, the Rev's been too busy compiling lists of punishees what with all the earthquakes God has unleashed pretty much anywhere a tectonic plate is attached to a Toyota with a mind of its own.  9/11 was brought upon us by any woman who has a mind of her own.

Well, Pat, take a back seat in that Toyota.  The BBC says you've got company.

Iranian Cleric Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi ("Hojo" to his friends on this blog) lectured his flock in Tehran on April 16th that earthquakes are generally caused by women. Young women, girls.  The ones who show their... hair on their foreheads; the ones with clothes that have actual tailoring; the ones with hemlines hiked up above their insteps.

Allah ("God", to Pat's friends on this blog) is watching these young women like they were on "Gossip Girl".  It is not known specifically what Allah thinks of Serena and Blair's headbands, but it can't be good:  There is an awful lot of beautiful hair and matching extensions showing.  It is one thing for infidels in New York to wear provocative headgear, as Allah can barely cast a disapproving eye for all the bouncing tresses, but in Tehran?  That means scarves at least the size of a Megan Fox skirt.

In Hojo's Tehran, less is more virtuous.  The less a woman shows Allah, the better Allah likes it and there is a lot for him to like in Iran these days.  Which is great, piety is next to... (back from Wiki) ... actually is godliness.

This blog has faced Iranian issues before, such as space turtle mail  and misuse of both space and worms.   It has also consistently taken up the cause of women, pointing out that women in politics need their hands securely held and should not move about the planet without that help; that women, even at the executive level, are still made to push envelopes, presumably with their unheld noses; and women, especially, young women should be treated with great respect as Uterine Holding Devices.

It is best, then, that this blog stick to Serena, Blair and Megan, while leaving the topic of Iranian women to an expert like Hojo, himself.

As to women causing earthquakes?  You know that part already.  Forget all that shifting tectonic plates stuff, an earthquake is really just the earth moving.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Welcome to the New Hell

It is official.  Really official. It doesn't get any more official.

Your Tweets will remain available forever.  Eventually, everyone with an independent study in Smiley Faces or Texting in Dyslexia (actually Dyslexia in Texting) will be able to read everything you ever Tweeted and will judge the whole of your existence accordingly.  They may Tweet about it, although Tweets will probably seem awfully long to those future scholars.

Tweets?  No way.  They're, well, dumb.  Compared to erudite, well-comma'ed blogs.  No one wants to archive a passing impulse, more like gas than thought, reduced to short bursts of grammar mangling.  Right?

The Library of Congress of Congress does.

And you thought those guys still wore powdered wigs twenty-four-seven and simply kept only the quill-pen-on-parchment-or-worse-vellum stuff from getting too dusty to read.  Like something Jefferson wrote praising the Parisians' efficient, and repeated, use of the guillotine to enforce term limits.  At most, otherwise, the LoC archived maybe a Lincoln speech written on an envelope.  Or Myspace pages. 

Nope.  The LoC plans to store everything on Twitter, including... well, "everything" means everything.  It inked a deal with Twitter to gobble up everything you impulsively put in a Tweet, like your enthusiastic endorsement of something Sarah Palin said to Katy Couric; your voting for George III, twice; your agreeing with Scaley, also twice; or your quasi-linguistic slavering over of Megan Fox's... eyes, way more than twice.

All that stuff you assumed would be washed away by the daily tsunami of Tweets, it isn't going under.  It won't even be damp or smeared.  Go ahead, delete it or set fire to your laptop.  That electronic bit of drivel will still be there, even if there is only one (not bloody likely), for all who just don't get your sense of humor to read.  To coldly evaluate.  For all eternity.

It is a harrowing, but undeniable truth.  Sartre was wrong:  Hell isn't other people.

Hell, my tweeting friend, is you.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

What's A Proton's Turning Radius?

Switzerland?  Very close.

NYT's Dennis Overbye pretty much lays it out in his April 2, 2010 article and it's big.

Generally, protons sit in the middle of a molecule and, relatively, don't go all that fast.  As most of you should know by now, going slow gives you a good chance to complete that U- or K-turn you need to make when you passed up the Starbuck's.  If you are going 60 miles an hour (in a 25 mph zone), you are not going to get that latte this morning and will be asleep at your desk by noon.

Anyway, most protons pose little turning trouble.  The protons lazing around in your bottled water are actually ripping through the universe at speeds your Lamborghini can't even imagine.  The Earth whips around the sun at 760 mph, faster than a Boeing 777, if one ever flies more than 760 feet.  Its solar system gets near to 500,000 mph just in the Milky Way.  Forget about how fast the Milky Way or its cluster are going.

Not only does the protons go that fast, so do you on your couch and your DSL's pet turtle.

All of those speed are nothing compared to select protons under Switzerland.  The Large Hadron Collider--a name leaving unresolved whether the Hadron or Collider is large--which is buried around Geneva, has been repaired from what was probably a wayward black hole and is back in action big time.  Whatever is the large part, it is seventeen miles around, like a tunneled beltway around that city by the lake. 

The point of the LHC is to accelerate protons to speeds that would make Einstein cut back on lattes.  Once the protons are up near the speed of an image of Megan Fox heading toward your amazed eyes, the protons are to hit each other head on.  The kaboom generates heat, back holes and lots of really little particles that the scientists have sitting around to record for a decade or two,  It will be like a nano-sized Big Bang.  It could start a whole new universe, but one so small you wouldn't realize it had ended up on the bottom of your sandal.

But, to the point:  If you see one of these super-fast protons coming you way, remember:  It can't suddenly turn away.  That'll be up to you.  Despite the world's biggest refrigerator-magnets tugging at it, an LHC proton has a turning radius of 2.7 miles! 

Of course, there are probably are three Starbucks within that radius, but that's worse than a Camry on crackahol.  Trust me, you don't want to collide with either one.

So, what to do?

You can't avoid the Camry; they are everywhere.  But the LHC proton will stay safely in Switzerland, just like money used to, unless, of course, it escapes into France for a couple days, after which it could go anywhere and more annoyed than when it entered.  And if it creates a black hole, it would take hours to suck in that Camry, the turtle and your couch with you on it, giving you time to pray for the first time in...

No.  "Oh Sh_t!" is not praying.  But it is quick, so you can start with that.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Oh. And Joan Crawford Was Right.

This Blog rarely takes on anything controversial unless it has a solution.  The Proximania(tm) post, with its trademarked solution to the Israel-Palestinian problem, is a recent example.

So, abortion.

This admittedly old topic breached its meddling head during the healthcare debate.  Pro-abortion types wanted abortion funding included in the law, while the anti-abortion types didn't' want abortion defined as healthcare at all.  The bill past after some last minute abortion deal was made a couple Democrats happy enough to put the bill over the top.

But you know, the healthcare-abortion thing is not over.

First of all, take a breath.  (You'll need it.  This is a longish, if essential, post.)

The healthcare bill was really an insurance bill.  We are still stuck with health care firmly in the trustworthy and efficient hands of big financial services companies who dabble in health insurance, mega-profit making non-profits with licensed blue crucifixes on their chests and the governments mascaraing as insurance companies.  The term reform has never been put to such effective comic use.

Assuming that health care in the country is all about insurance, why do we mention abortion at all?  Just because we can?  Probably.

My health insurance, when I had some, did not cover any number of procedures, like curing crows' feet with botox or zapping cancer using nano-sized black holes.  We were approaching the time when obstetrics itself will no longer be covered, because lawyers made it too expensive to underwrite for any sane insurance company, let alone the ones we have in this country. 

So, how doe we solve this problem?

When the Constitution and its johnny-come-lately Bill of Rights were ratified, fetuses had few, if any, rights.  They could not vote in elections; own property on their own, including people; serve in the armed forces (Don't Ask Don't Tell being totally unnecessary in such cases); drive cars, which we didn't have anyway; take jobs away from illegal aliens; or much of anything.  Women didn't really have any more rights than that, except that they counted five fifths when it came to counting for gerrymandering purposes.  And men were the ones who said how many rights women and fetuses had, or, let's face it, didn't have.

Not much guidance there, as Scaley and his Goths would tell you.

If women had been child-bearing men, instead of just women, this would be easy.  No man would allow any government anywhere near his Privates, or at least wouldn't tell.  And no real man would vote to allow governmental interference in something that important.  But women, like it or not NOW, are not men.  And men have said that child-bearing is so important to running a country and raising a decent army that society's men should decide how to run child-bearing, since they have done so well at country-running.  (Child-rearing is being handled adequately these days if you don't cotton to evolution.)

After the Civil War (or The Glorious if Aborted War of Liberation, depending on where you are from), men passed a Constitutional amendment giving equal protection of the laws to...  "Any Person".  So who's a person?  Slaves, for sure, not that it mattered for decades; women, mostly, not that it mattered for decades; cows, dogs, cats, horses, fish, no; really smart dolphins, maybe.  Really rich Corporations, yes, and it matters.  Fetuses?  Hmm.  It doesn't say.

The Supreme Court, when it used to actually think about such things, pulled a Solomon and figuratively split the fetus into three parts.  One part had more rights than a woman, one had fewer and the final part had about the same as a woman, meaning men could dictate the handling of the bodies of both. 

Pretty fair, you'd say, but why do female-sexed fetuses get to have more rights than female-sexed human beings?  Don't get all up in a logical tizzy.  All will be settled in the end.

So, there were still those, then and now, who were horrified at this fetus tri-sectioning.  We are morally offended when a dog or cat is sectioned and served in a Chinese restaurant.  These folks seemed to think that the fetus from the instant God, personally, spliced a couple cells together, had way more rights than the woman around it.  Section the women, instead! they cried.  Cooler heads prevailed and women largely got to remain in one piece, except for the uterus, which men can reach for society's purposes.

What a mess.  Especially if you are a woman, fetus or a mass of pre-existing conditions in need of health insurance coverage this week.

The solution is to follow Scaley to his logical conclusion.  For the all-male Founders, women and fetuses really had no rights to begin with and neither should be considered as real a "person" as a corporation, say, except for counting heads, in whomever located, for the census.  So, the government gets the women.

Well, that's just not a good idea.  That's like herding cats across the Yellow River.  The government doesn't really need all of the women.  No, I don't mean 35% of them, from puberty to 40 and especially Megan Fox.  Just section out the uterus and ship it to a big government complex, like Fort Knox or the CDC, since it so vital.  Do the sectioning of the women a day or two after birth when you have control of the whole body.  Surely, men are smart enough now to figure out how to use the damned things, if they have a few million decent sized beakers in which to hold them.

But maybe not.  If the beakers don't work, just take the whole body, declare it a Uterine Holding Device, UPS it to Fort Knox, or, better yet, Blue Cross or United or Aetna since they can run things twice as well as any government.  That's good:  We get to privatize the whole operation.  Once, the Uterine Holding Devices (UHD's) arrive at the Insurance Company Uterus Storage and Utilization Faculty, they can be stored there until they are needed by the government for fetus fabrication. 

Mind you, the UHD's will be fed really well--corn meal would be an excellent choice except it goes into gasahol, so soybean is next best--and clothed in plaid skirts and white blouses from re-tasked Victoria Secret.  (Presumably, silk negligees, rope and accessories will carry seriously diminished profit margins.)  The UHD's will be supplied with mental soothing via Lifetime and "Twilight" movies.  Luckily, they need never worry about the fate of printed books or evolution.

What if the governmental conception leads to a life-threatening pregnancy?  Oh, hell, there are plenty more UHD's where that one came from. We're not China, after all.

No system is perfect and some of these UHD may escape.  To be safe ban those metal hangers, as Joan Crawford so presciently demanded years before she even ran Pepsi.  We are banning the more harmful incandescent light bulbs, so hangers should be no big deal.

(And, guys, pray every night that UHD's don't start thinking and voting for themselves.)

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Blog Commenting and Criticism: A Guide

It is easy to criticize a blog.  It is best to do so inside your own damned head.

Comment all you want, assuming you can figure out how to do it without selling your virtual soul to Google (I haven't, figured it out, that is).  Praise is always good and questions show you are thinking about the substance, if any, of a particular post.  Many blogs ask questions, some over and over, and you should feel free to answer.  Unless the question is something like "Huh?"

Don't bring up extraneous issues, like facts or pronouncements of FOX News.  Such items will confuse the blogger and make the next post seem completely opaque or like one from last month.

Many readers criticize a blogger because they envy the blogger's writing skill and, rarely, philosophical agility.  But mostly, they are really jealous of the blogger's courage to express the shallowest and meanest of thoughts for dozens to read.  Such critics are probably only able to occasionally express their own rude snappishness at the living room LCD when Serena makes yet another bad boyfriend choice on "Gossip Girl" (she drives me... viewers nuts with that stuff).

At heart, Bloggers don't like criticism all that much and know where you live and what car you keep in your parking space or garage, especially if it is always there, like a Toyota, maybe.  On the other hand, most bloggers no long have recognizable physical forms and only exist in that layer of the Cloud known as the Blogosphere.  Or an unnamed Caribbean Island.  So maybe, you are pretty safe after all.

Still, do not openly criticize bloggers in comments unless your corporate-free-speaking employer orders you to.  Criticism might have a chilling effect on the diversity of opinions that is (or are, in England) the key element of the Blogosphere.   No two bloggers have the same opinions or read the same British tabloid.  Moreover, each blogger has his, her or its own stylistic choices, focusing, naturally, on commas and parenthetical asides. 

And, if you try it for a couple weeks, you 'll find blogging is not as easy or rewarding as it looked.  After slaving for an hour on your occasionally daily post, you'd expect to get the best table at the nearby Red Lobster, but there really isn't one.  That pile of nano-dollars you earn when your sisters click on Google Adsense ads, in which they have no earthly interest, won't quite buy you a bread stick at Olive Garden.  Celebrities you selflessly promote remain aloof.  Does Oprah so much as call?  Do you get even a brief text "hi' from any tub-hawking. bare-kneed starlet you might have mentioned a couple times?

So, comment, sure.  Even be anonymous, if you want.  Go right ahead.  But, whatever you do, don't expect a civil answer.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Super Bowl Ads: Shallower is Better

The best of the 2010 Super Bowl ads?

Cell phone, Megan Fox, really small tub.

Second?  Dave, Oprah, Leno, awkwardly small couch.

I have endeavored since I started this blog to hide my fixation on Megan Fox.  You may note that my profile lists me as male.  End of secret.  Neither am I usually obsessive about freckles (that Anna Freil thing notwithstanding).

More to the point, Megan has battled gamely space-worm-sized robot cars and toasters and has gotten quite dirty in the process; hence, the tub.  I have no doubt that "Transformers 3: The Droids Devour Olive Garden" will center around Megan, and that lame guy she's usually with, taking on a line of transforming cell phones with cameras.  Everything about the ad almost fits.

Taken all together, then, the Megan Fox ad was the best one. Because it worked.  It is still working, trust me.

I'm headed out to Home Depot right now to get that nifty European-style tub she was pitching.  And fifteen gallons of ice water.