Well, the new Kim on the block is about to pop his first nuke. This will be the third test for the PAB* Dynasty over all. Of course, as an AP article today indicates, we won’t necessarily know whether they succeed because any seismic event emanating from the country might just be a perfectly choreographed simultaneous jump by all citizens.
News reports suggest that Kim is upset about the latest sanctions. While sanctions generally don’t succeed (see Iran), we have hit the DPRK leadership where they live by restricting the flow of commemorative NBA bobble-head dolls– preventing the new Dear Leader from finishing his collection. This has led to veiled threats that he might, “Stop lavishing on the world glorious views of national splendor and brilliance… or bust a nuke up in America’s grill.'”
We need a better class of dictatorial villain. North Korea’s one success has been in killing the new Red Dawn movie by providing such an improbable nemesis. (They almost killed James Bond in the same manner.) Don’t let them kill again.
* PAB = Pudgy Ass Bastard
If you like dark DPRK humor, their state news service is hilarious.
P.S. I had real trouble deciding on which caption to use for the photo. Please let me know which caption you prefer [write-ins enabled.]
How come we mastered the thermonuclear warhead decades before we did the ketchup bottle?
Building a nuke took:
– the greatest scientific minds Hungary ever produced (You scoff, but Hungary’s claim to fame is driving out more Nobel Laureates and top-rate scientific minds than most countries will ever hope to produce. [e.g. Teller, Szilard, Wigner, von Neumann, etc.] If they didn’t let jackwagons run their country, they’d probably rule the world by now.)
– $42 billion in current-year US dollars
– the Project Manager who built the Pentagon
– and a whopping two or three years (for the fission weapon)
Building a decent ketchup bottle shouldn’t have even required an Algonquin Round-table It could have been achieved by two morons sitting around at a barbecue.
Moron one says, “You knows what would be delightful, if this bottle was squeezable plastic, not glass.”
Moron two says, “Dude, you are so right, and what if they turned it upside-down so that all the ketchup stayed near the hole?”
Bob’s your uncle, the ketchup bottle is perfected.
Do you know what kind of Galactic douche-bags this makes humanity look like? It makes it seem like we don’t care about our condiments.
Oh, but we do. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen a man in Boise use no less than 42 packets of ketchup on his fries. I saw a rotund woman in Phoenix use half a jug of mustard on her hot dogs. I saw a canuck slather mayo on his burger (what is up with that, Canada.) From sea to that other sea, amid the prairie dogs, through the alligator-infested swamps, across those bruised mountains, I’ve seen a divinely inspired love of sauces throughout our great nation (and that ancillary nation to the north.)
No wonder aliens haven’t visited us; they probably haven’t received word across the light-years that we’ve mastered ketchup. Or maybe it’s the fact that we haven’t built a plastic fork whose tines could stick up to a sturdy gherkin. (But that outrage is for another day. Yes, manufacturers of disposable flatware, you too will taste my wrath.)
I’m troubled by the devolution of movie source material. As soon as there were movies, there was a desire to convert books into films. This worked great. While it wasn’t always easy to convey the depth of a 600 page novel in a 100 page screenplay, this gave even the least of us the ability to raise ourselves up to the status of pretentious douche-bag with the mantra –say it with me: “The book is always better than the movie.”
Running low on literary fodder, movie-makers decided to shift to making movies from comic books. This worked even better. You could convey the complexity of a comic in a movie, and you had an existing visual media for continuity. The major challenge was finding actresses with huge boobs who could deliver a spinning back-kick (enter Scarlet Johansson), and figuring out what to do about the crotch bulges (or lack thereof) of male superheroes in Spandex.
Pushing the limits, directors turned to video-games. This gave us such hits as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider and Doom. Okay, a video game may give us a nice action-packed romp of mayhem and carnage– albeit with dialogue like, “Suck on this!” (accompanying a grenade toss.) One can watch such a movie on basic cable on a Sunday afternoon while eating an entire pizza and still leave all of one’s mental faculties for contemplating such deep questions as whether this is the low point of one’s existence.
Movies based on toys and board games are the low point of Hollywood’s existence. I thought they had learned their lesson from the movie version of Clue in the 80’s, but apparently not.
To show that I am nothing if not flexible, I will say that I’m willing to change my view if any of the studios are willing to develop my ideas such as:
Lincoln Logs: Zombie Slayer: A rogue ex-cop, Lincoln Logs, takes a break from drinking himself to death after his family is Zombified to lure zombies into poorly constructed cabins, toppling the cabins, he crushes the Zombies to undeath. Tagline: “Eat Log, Bitches.”
Chutes and Ladders: Into Darkness: Two naughty children find out what happens when one chutes right off the board — an express ride to hell, that’s what. In order to get out they have to learn to count to 100, but the devil is teaching them to count: 1, 7, brick, egg, 14, 6, toad, biscuit… They must warm Satan’s heart, and then develop the upper-body strength to climb a ladder out of hell. Tagline: “Numbers are Hard, Hell is Hotter.”
Lego Box: The Musical: A plucky red-headed stepchild is devastated when his siblings get all the Lego bricks, but he only gets the plastic tub they came in. However, through hard work and dedication, he becomes the lead percussionist for the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, leaving his horrid family behind. Working Tagline: “Eat Box, Bitches.”
It’s not bad enough that past generations herded all the Indians (feathers, not dots) onto the most inhospitable land imaginable. (No offense, Oklahoma, but the last time anyone said, “I wanna see Oklahoma,” they were talking about the musical, which means no one has said those words in twenty years.) Now Hollywood gives the only part for an Indian since Billy Jack to Johnny Depp.
In the 50’s no one batted an eyelash when the marauding scalper in their Spaghetti Western looked strikingly like the Italian waiter in the movie that followed. Hell, I thought the name Spaghetti Western came from the fact that all the Indians were really Italians. A vaguely foreign-ish looking actor might have been good enough for the early days of cinema, but aren’t we more sophisticated today? Back then every location that moviegoers saw, from Ancient Rome to 23rd century Mars, looked a lot like somewhere within 20 miles of Burbank. Today –through the miracle of airplanes and frequent flyer miles — many people have been out of their zip code, and film-makers have been forced to shoot on location all over the world. They can’t even pass off Budapest as Moscow any more. Yet, we still live in the age of the ambiguously ethnic actor / actress.
We live in the great melting pot, surely we can find an Indian to play Tanto or a Chinese person to play Mandarin. The latter case is particularly interesting because China is about eight months from buying Hollywood lock-stock- and-barrel. Perhaps we should break ourselves in by having a Chinese guy play a non-Kung fu master Chinese guy before we have to deal with the culture shock of watching Chen Dao Ming play George Washington –with English subtitles.
What is up with Tom Cruise having the starring role in a movie in which Ken Watanabe’s character is the title character? Why was Tom Cruise needed to tell the story of Saigo Takamori? If you said, “Because he’s such a better actor than Ken Watanabe,” then you will have been the first person ever in the world to utter words so ridiculously ridiculous. If you said, “Because Watanabe is difficult to understand because of his accent” to that I reply, have you heard Tom Cruise talk lately?
“KAATTIEE :)”
“All of psychiatry is bunk.”
“Oh, kattiee :(”
Yes it may be the Queen’s English, and I understand the words. Yet, I have no idea what that guy is talking about.
My dogs barking, having walked for hours, nearing the point of collapse, searching high and low for that mainstay of metropolitan rest, I spy a cast iron armrest around a corner, but inevitably find the last bench in the city to be occupied by a bronze bench-hog.
“Hey, George Hamilton, why don’t you move it along already.”
Nashville, TN
Okay, these are old people, but that bench is big enough for at least one more person. Skootch.
When they do leave enough room, they are busy having an intimate moment. Do know how awkward it feels to sit down to something like this?
Beijing, China
Oh, I still do it, mind you. Every mother wants more for her son than to be a bus driver. But the place for that talk is at home.
Here’s the worst though, the bench hog who leaves room, but dresses really creepy and puts his arm over the backrest.
Budapest, Hungary
“Yes, yes, come and snuggle up to ole Death.”
Tallinn, Estonia
Here, this guy gives you a little room, but look at the hostile body language: arms crossed, head and torso twisted slightly away. He acts like you’re a filthy, syphilitic leper just for contemplating sitting next to him.
“What makes you so much better than me, Mr. Anton Hansen Tammsaare?… Oh, the fact that they put a statue of you up for eternity in a prominent public park… Touché, well-played, Tammsaare, well-played.”
I’ll save the topic of all the bronze nudists for another occasion. Yes, we get it that you have an awesome tan and metallic abs, but no one wants to see Wee-Willy-Winky while they’re eating their sub sandwich.
Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college. –Kurt Vonnegut
Write without pay until somebody offers pay. If nobody offers within three years, the candidate may look upon this circumstance with the most implicit confidence as the sign that sawing wood is what he was intended for. –Mark Twain
The faster you blurt, the more swiftly you write, the more honest you are. –Ray Bradbury
Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. –Elmore Leonard
The first draft of anything is shit.—Ernest Hemingway.
Omit needless words. –William Strunk
The only rule for writing I have is to leave it while I’m still hot… –William Faulkner
Whoever wants to tell a story of a sainted grandmother, unless you can find some old love letters, and get a new grandfather? –Robert Penn Warren
When you write the thing through once, you find out what the end is. Then you can go back to the first chapter and put in a lot of those foreshadowings. –Flannery O’Connor
As far as I’m concerned the entire reason for becoming a writer is not having to get up in the morning. –Neil Gaiman
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (H2G2) follows an earthling, Arthur Dent, as he is introduced to galactic hitchhiking by a Betegeusian named Ford Prefect. This duo joins the other sole-remaining human and the Galactic president aboard a stolen ship. Along with a chronically depressed robot, the group gets to the bottom of life’s grandest questions.
I just finished re-reading this book. I wouldn’t have figured there was any reason to review a 34-year-old book. To my knowledge, there isn’t another movie in the works. Surely, everyone who is likely to read it already has, right? Young people like new stuff, and if you’re… let’s say… youthfulness-challenged and haven’t gotten around to it then it’s probably not your cup of tea (which, sad so say, means you are likely devoid of a sense of humor.)
Then I saw a “best in 2012” list by genre, and H2G2 was on it. Yes, I realize that “best-seller” lists are a euphemism for “most-printed” and are not a perfect indicator. Of course, when I went to look for said list, I was unable to re-discover it. It may have been the “top 20 books used to prop up the corner of a coffee table” for all I can prove. However, in looking for the list, I did find H2G2 on a lot of other lists including best-selling books of all time and most popular sci-fi of all time.
In short, read this book.
I don’t want to give a lot of spoilers, but here are just a few of the things H2G2 will do for you:
-It tells you the answer to life, the universe, and everything. (Now everything else will be anti-climactic and thus stress-free.)
-You’ll never look at a mouse the same way.
-It tells you what you need in order to hitchhike through the Milky Way (Spoiler alert: a towel.)
What more could one want from a book? (If you say vampires or zombies, I’ll choke you through your USB port.)
The poetry of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England was thought to have been completely lost when the Earth was demolished to make way for an interstellar expressway. However, a scrap was found adrift in space. Scientists believe the sheer awfulness of the poem may have made it impervious to incineration, which is to say that the rays of the Vogon demolition beams refused to land upon the piece.
Your Love
Your love, it warms me
like a midsummer’s flatulence.
I reel like a sorority girl in her
first instance of crapulence
I’m cocooned in an embrace
that reeks of tepid tapioca.
Tapioca, all lumps and fangs
fangs so very, very… very pointy.
[INTERPRETIVE INTERLUDE: Herein the reader is encouraged to recreate their own impression of the first two stanzas through a capella interpretive dance…
Well, that should be quite enough, shouldn’t it? You got a bit carried away, I should say.]
Your squarish face squishes in my Winnebago memories
I’m a steel town girl on a Wednesday night that is so dim, dimmish, darkid.
Fluffernutter is like butter but jaundiced by mallowy goodness
Spreading it on pickled herring makes a treat that smells like feet
– a quart of milk
– lima beans
– three frozen pizzas
– hemorrhoid crème (not the mint kind this time)
And brings out the wicked amour of one who is without more, sans more.
But I need more; I must have… something, something [you get the drift.]
In summary, you are the wind above my wings.
[Dear estate of Douglas Adams, Please do not sue me. I am so very, very… very poor. That goes for the estates of Bette Midler and Hall and Oates as well… (Oh, you say those people are alive? Really?)]
A duck walks into the dōjō for his first session.He’s awkward and seems to be getting everything wrong.
The Sensei calls out, “Duck!”
The duck snaps to attention and says, “Yes, Sensei” — boot to the head.
Maai often gets boiled down to “distancing.” Understanding distancing is simple, understanding maai is challenging. First, maai understood in three dimensions is maai misunderstood. The fourth dimension, time, is critical. Second, maai is always interactive. Rules of thumb will only get one so far because the peculiarities of the opponent matters. Third, the interval between recognition and response that occurs in the mind is as important as the physical distance.
It behooves the martial artist to see the maai existing in exchanges outside the dōjō. Thinking of maai solely in terms of kenjutsu, for example, can encourage one to focus on the physical distance. The distance gap is what we can see, and that is what is most easily analyzed. However, another area in which maai is critical is joke telling, and in jokes one has to optimize for intangibles –timing and audience response to the joke. Not that this should be an intellectual exercise (that slows everything down); I presume it’s intuitive for people with the skill.
A joke has a two-part anatomy: 1.) a set up that is straight, plausible, and –perhaps even– factual; 2.) a punch line that must turn expectations on their head with punch. The interval between parts 1 and 2 separates masterful joke tellers from horrible ones. If one runs the punchline into the setup, one risks the joke falling flat. If the recipient doesn’t recognize the transition they may start thinking about what was said (ugh –analysis is the nemesis of humor.) However, if one pauses too long, one risks the recipient anticipating the ending. Some jokes are easier to tell than others. The one that opened this post is easily anticipated. Recognition of the dual-use of “duck” happens quickly.
For a more user-friendly joke consider the one that a scholarly survey suggested was the world’s funniest joke:
A woman gets onto a bus with an infant. The driver vomits in his mouth a little and says, “Lord, that is the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.”
The woman is appalled and speechless. She scowls, pays the fare, and proceeds to the rear of the bus.
Sitting down, she says to the woman next to her, “I’m outraged; I can’t believe how insulting the bus driver was.”
The woman says, “Well go give him a piece of your mind. Don’t worry. I’ll hold your monkey.”
The elaborate set up makes it difficult to anticipate the ending, and the twist between kindness and cruelty is readily apparent. (“Monkey” is very visual.) The punchline is really a punchword, the very last word.
Other jokes have more balance between set up and punchline, and that increases anticipation risk.
I was in the bookstore the other day and I asked the clerk for the self-help section.
She said that if she told me it would defeat the purpose.
Here one starts getting clues much earlier.
Other joke concepts are so well-known they invite anticipation.
Blonds all want to be like Vanna White, they yearn to know the… alphabet.
As for rushing the punch line, consider the joke:
I’m thoroughly familiar with 25 letters of the alphabet. I don’t know “Y.”
While in writing the joke is clear, this is the type of joke that can easily be missed and fall flat. It’s not just because it’s not exactly hilarious, but because the recipient may have to reconstruct the joke or, worse yet, have it explained to them –both of which are death.
The other thing that one must recognize is that there are always specific exceptions that work. “Interrupting cow” is the perfect example of a rushed punchword that works.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 