A Night Before Christmas.

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the place,
The Resident Murloc was running a race.
The stockings weren't hung by the chimney with care,
For last minute panic caused her to despair.

"C'mon sweetie," I mentioned, "let's snuggle in bed."
"No time for that now, I'll sleep when I'm dead.
Now working, now toiling, now wrapping the presents,
All of this work is for you malcontents.

"I've decor to hang up and presents to wrap.
So help me with this or just shut your yap."
Her jaw was clenched firm, her eyes were quite glary,
Her nose blew out flame, the site was so scary.

I thought it might be beneficial to ease
Her stress levels so I gave her a tease.
"You're so cute when your anxious. Did you know your belly
Shakes when you fuss, like a bowl full of jelly?"

More fright'ning than grizzlies, her fury it came,
She cussed, and shouted, and called me such names.
I spoke not a word, but just turned and fled.
Knowing she'd give me something to dread.

Hot on my neck, I could feel her spit spatter.
I sprang under the bed to avoid the whole matter.
But I heard her exclaim, 'ere I dove out of sight,
"I'll get you, I promise, you'll die this dark night!"


Yeah, I'm no Clement Moore, but it's 3am. Gimme a break.

Because Gun Control...

...is on my "absolutely positively under no circumstances discuss this on Facebook" list, I'll link this article here (warning: it's long; 10k-ish words): http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2012/12/20/an-opinion-on-gun-control/

Also, I made this for you:

What Do You Make of the World?

In which I plow ahead, forcing myself to write a short story, not because I think it's good, or interesting, or even because I enjoy it, but because if I'm going to start something, then, gorammit, I'm going to finish it even if it kills me.

I’ll never forget my first day at the Academy.

“The world,” began Professor Sullivan, “is what you make of it.”

The elderly doctor leaned on the podium. It bobbed up and down as the anti-gravity thrusters adjusted to the meager weight of his wiry frame. His eyes swept over the attentive audience--my classmates and myself--drinking us in. And we were eager to be drunk on his words.

He turned to the screen behind him and, with a sweeping gesture of his hand, wiped a static image of the world into existence. The orb was crudely drawn, jagged lines cordoning off areas of flat-shaded blue and green.

“Centuries ago, this is how we saw the world: fixed and unchangeable. Mankind was the slave of relentless and ineffable powers, over which he had no control, or means to keep them at bay.”

He folded his arms behind his back and turned towards the image. The profile of his dimly lit face was overcome with concern. “Those were dark times.”

He waved his hand across the board once more and the image changed again. The jagged lines smoothed into curves and the flat hues blended into an infinity of shades.

“But in the midst of these dark ages,” the professor continued, “came some remarkable minds. Minds who were able to master the laws of nature. Minds that saw the malleability of the universe and thus opened themselves to a world of amazing new possibilities.”

He turned back to us, a glimmer in his eye and a mischievous grin on his face. “But even they were held back by their shackles to the old way of thinking: that there were some absolutes which mankind simply could not overcome.”

Behind him, the world expanded and contracted. Bulges formed and crept under the surface, as if some great mass was trying to burst forth.

“It was only at the turn of the last century that the wisest of the wise finally stumbled onto that great, liberating truth that freed humanity forever, to be the master of nature, instead of her slave.”

The world changed colors, from blue to red to violet, then shapes, from a sphere to a cube, to a flower. The light show grew in intensity and vibrancy, shining through the professor’s wispy-white hair, finally becoming a fiery explosion, a flaming wreath around his face, which was darkened by shadow. He was a terrifying sight to behold.

“Centuries of human progress were poured into discovering this truth. It represents the sum total achievement of all knowledge.”

He held out his hand and the flaming rose jumped into it, burning itself into ashes. The light vanished with the flames and the room was darkened, save for a single shaft shining through an open window behind us which illuminated his open hand. He stood motionless. The room was dead silent.

The ashes began to stir. They crawled around in a circle on his hand, moving faster and faster, until they became a tiny cyclone. From the midst of the whirlwind, a dove burst forth and flew over our heads. We gasped and turned to follow its path out of the window.

The professor spoke slowly and clearly. “The world is what you make of it.” He smiled and looked at the moment no different than any other kindly old gentleman. Once more, his eyes washed over us.

“Now it is up to you, the greatest minds of your generation, to use this truth. Make the world into something greater.”

Read the rest here.

# # #

For those of you keeping score at home, I started writing this story over two years ago, about the time I made this blog post. The story was originally called "Delusions of Reality" and was going to be about a boy at an academy who learned to "change the world" by make-believing it was something else, until he realized that it was all make-believe and nothing ever changed. I realized this was dumb and stupid and violated the cardinal rule of story-writing: the artist serves the muse, not the agenda. But, I still liked the conceit and the twist at the end, and reworked it.

Bonus points to those who get the references. Certain persons who did their theses on Fermat should get a few of them.

As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.

{phfr}

Because absolutely nothing else worth talking about has happened recently. Nope. Nosiree. Absolutely. Nothing.

{pretty}

{happy}

Play it, Sam.

 {funny}

Star on Cheek. Star on Chest's sidekick, perhaps?

Scumbag babby.

{real}

Couch occupied? Use the coffee table!

This is what I found after practicing Chopin's Polonaise in A. Apparently, it's a lullaby for toddlers.

Oh, joy, oh, mess!

And yet—somehow—life goes on (with all the frills).

On the Ability of Inanimate Objects to Fly when Sprinkled with Pixie Dust in Disney's Jake and the Neverland Pirates

Objection 1: It would seem that flora, fauna, and inanimate objects should not be able to fly when sprinkled with pixie dust, as the second component of the ability to fly is the requirement to "think happy thoughts". Since these things lack an intellect, they thus lack the ability to think of pleasurable things, and ergo cannot fly.

Objection 2: Moreover, the directionality and speed of inanimate objects, if they could fly, would be random and uncontrolled, since the flyer controls his path by thought. An un-thinking object would not fly in a directed or controlled manner, as portrayed in the children's tales.

Objection 3: Moreover, flying by means of pixie dust is akin to witchcraft and therefore not suitable for portrayal in children's tales.

To the contrary, surely it is written "For his own purposes he opens the storehouse and makes the rain clouds fly like vultures."

I answer that,

John C. Wright Gets to Say Who Is and Who Is Not Brilliant

I copied and pasted my previous post verbatim to the comments of Marc Barnes' hilarious article about Vegans for Meat Catholics for Choice President Jon O'Brien's piece on the Huffington Post which my previous post was an all-too-easy parody of (50 internets if you can diagram that sentence including this parenthetical remark). I checked back today to find that, not only had it been voted the top comment, but a hero of this blog had also commented on it!

Nobody Gets to Say Who Is and Who Is Not Vegan

Hugh Jass
President, Vegans for Meat

My organization, Vegans for Meat was the subject of a bizarre attack from the United States Vegan Council (USVC) this week.

Ms. Cary Ann Schmaltz, the director of media relations for the USVC, took to her blog in a pathetic attempt to discredit VFM as a legitimate voice for vegans in the United States. She expressed concern that "sleepy editors" or "inexperienced journalists" would be taken in by us, simply because we describe ourselves as vegans. She said that we are not vegans and we don't know veganism. Schmaltz is sadly wrong on both counts. Any cursory visit to VFM's website will give a reader the opportunity to learn more about vegan practices and healthy eating than would a visit to many other vegan websites. And as to my veganism, perhaps I'll send her copy of my last grocery store receipt, though I doubt she'd be appeased.

But this is not just about VFM. It's about Schmaltz presenting herself as the arbiter of who's a vegan. It's kind of like letting the Tea Party decide who's American, isn't it? Just like them, Schmaltz doesn't let the facts get in the way of her message. With her ham-fisted blog, Schmaltz insults the hundreds of groups and millions of vegans who choose to remain vegan while raising legitimate voices in support of eating meat.

Her appeal to guarding the "brand" of veganism is simply crass. Veganism is not Apple or Google, global corporations that zealously police the use of their brand, siccing corporate lawyers on anybody who dares use their name in vain. The USVC's brand control over individuals ends the minute a person begins eating. From that point forward, we have the right -- and the responsibility -- to speak as vegans on matters of health, including those that involve meat, eggs, and other animal products. Understandably, this makes Schmaltz and her bosses nervous because all too often, the leaders of the USVC haven't said or done the right thing on these issues.

We base our support for eating meat on the long-standing traditions within veganism. We are part of the great majority who believe that the teaching on the primacy of appetite means that every individual must follow his or her own taste buds -- and respect the rights of others to do the same. As vegans we take seriously our obligations to know and thoughtfully consider vegan practices. And in coming to our positions on eating meat, animal products and other issues we have done so, and continue to do so. We didn't make this up. We've got vegetarians, carnivores, omnivores and millions of vegans on our side.

As somebody intimately familiar with the ways of veganism, Ms. Cary Ann knows that nobody gets to say who is and who is not a vegan. Not the cooks, not the chefs, and not the food critics. One is a vegan after eating a vegetable. Period. She might have her own opinions about who is a healthy vegan or an unhealthy vegan, but her claims that we aren't vegans need some fact-checking.

The good ma'am may be jealous of the media attention we get. She may be upset at the quality of our arguments. She may find the statistics that we use disconcerting. I would, if I were her, as they show that the positions taken by the USVC have been resoundingly rejected by ordinary vegans. But it's interesting that she chose not to, or more likely couldn't, address the basis of our arguments. So she resorts to demonizing us. 

Ms. Cary Ann's rant was addressed to the new public editor at the New York Times, Maggie Sullen. It seems that she thinks that a senior editor at the Times will be intimidated into ignoring the legitimate and widely supported arguments of those who are not granted the USVC's blessing. We know that we speak for the majority of vegans. And we are happy to continue to forge our path, knowing that it is one that will be well-traveled by our fellow vegans for meat.

As to Ms. Sullen, and her many fine colleagues in the Fourth Estate, I am pretty sure they know that if they want the USVC's opinion on something, they can give Ms. Cary Ann a call. But when they want to know what vegans think, they know to call somebody else. VFM will always be happy to take that call.

It's almost painful how little I had to change. Arguably this version makes more sense.

Best. Prayer. Ever.

Came across this today on a comment on Catholic Memes:

Oremus.
Benedic, Domine, creaturam istam cerevisiae, quam ex adipe frumenti producere dignatus es: ut sit remedium salutare humano generi, et praesta per invocationem nominis tui sancti; ut, quicumque ex ea biberint, sanitatem corpus et animae tutelam percipiant. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.

Which means, in the vernacular:

Bless, + O Lord, this creature beer, which thou hast deigned to produce from the fat of grain: that it may be a salutary remedy to the human race, and grant through the invocation of thy holy name; that, whoever shall drink it, may gain health in body and peace in soul. Through Christ our Lord.

 Amen, and bottoms up!

The Baby Cycle

Based upon the Murloc's suggestion that we should have another baby so we can use up the leftover box of newborn-sized diapers. Plagiarized from XKCD #140: Delicious.

Forensics

I totally feel like a detective! Wanna know why? Well, shut up I'm gonna tell you anyways.

So I was on the Ford website—because I've got a great offer from a really honest-looking gypsy on two slightly-used but sturdy little boys and was looking for a good way to blow the cash— and was checking out the 360º view of the 2013 Mustang (officially the hottest Mustang ever). This went from ogling the car to noticing the details in the background of the picture (the black guy's hand moves onto the table for one shot) to noticing all the other discernible cars in the background are Fords (an Expedition, an Escape, and an older Mustang, plus a couple pick-ups, and what could be a Taurus). Finally, I began wondering "where was this picture taken?"

Hmmm... this sounds like a problem for Forensic Investigation Man!

The derpier cousin of "doesn't-understand-the-world-around-him man".

The Hunger Games

Well, I might as well turn this blog into an archive of my comments on other sites. I recently (as in, five minutes ago) commented on a Video Game/Entertainment website's forums about the Hunger Games and thought I could expand on what I had said a bit more here. I write, after all, not for your benefit, but because it's cathartic for me; it helps me develop my thoughts into something tangible and releases the roiling pressure of the ideas imprisoned in my head.

So, the question posed on the forum was "what did you think of The Hunger Games?" The emotion bubbling under the surface of my thoughts since I caught it on Blu-ray, like, the day after release (thanks, Netflix!) was that I hated the movie. Not because it was bad, but because, I realized, it was true. Every bit of it was true. In fact, I nominate The Hunger Games as Exhibit B for the argument that something can be, in every sense, counter-factual and at the same time be, in every sense, entirely true.

So how was it a true story?

Archiving

This post is mainly an archive for myself, in case I ever remember that one thing I wrote (remember that one thing?) and I want to reference back to it, but I can't find it in my archives because Blogger's search is so awful and oh, that's right, I didn't write it on my blog but in the comments of another blog and oh gosh, I have no idea which blog it was and have no idea how to find it and am I really going to have to search the entire internet for it hey this is boring let's play WoW.

DEAR FUTURE SELF: YOU DIDN'T WRITE THAT COMMENT HERE. IT WAS ON BAD CATHOLIC. (Bad Catholic, of course, being the blog of Marc Barnes, that Alma Mater-attending kid whose wit and wisdom I want to have when I grow up, and who is described by this blog's other favorite writer as "wise beyond his 18 years upon this earth.")

Anywho, since I'm archiving this in a public place, I might as well let you in on the joke so you can follow along.

Marc recently wrote a piece against the heretic Christina Pesoli (whose last name is at the very bottom of the last name uncanny valley), who wrote at HuffPo about why she was hoping for a schism. In the comments, one well-intentioned but clueless commentor wrote the following:

I wonder if you have ever had a moment to sit back and think about exactly what it would feel like to be a woman in the Catholic church. Like a man, you have two vocational options: marriage or service (or single life, but that never feels like a real choice). Let's follow your life path if you choose marriage: you hope to find someone who believes the same things you do, but for goodness sake you better attract him in a holy way! Feminine but not slutty. Sexy but modest. Pretty, but don't try so hard ok? Then when you find him, despite whatever place you are in your own career, you have to immediately start making babies. I mean, you don't HAVE to, but shouldn't a good wife "take care" of her husband? Then here you are, five years later with 3 children and suddenly you can't work anymore and your whole life is consumed with diapers and other peoples laundry and you better LIKE IT BECAUSE IT'S YOUR VOCATION. So you spend your entire adulthood taking care of other people, not once getting a chance to follow one of your own passions or interests, coupled with a constant guilt for being so selfish as to even have a personal passion, that you must not be very good at the Catholic thing. Over and over. Oh woman please, stop complaining, WE "VALUE" YOU so you better deal with all the ****, literal and figurative. Isn't being a woman fun? Doesn't motherhood fulfill you totally? 

Or you could opt to go the other direction and skip the babies to serve the poor as a nun. Then, when you have spent 60 years of your life serving the poor, suddenly the Vatican, the leaders of the Church you love so much, start accusing you of not loving Jesus enough because you are "ignoring" something you thought best to stay out of, it seemed like other people were taking care of it. 

Let's say you are a smart Catholic woman and you think the Church should do something differently. The minute you open your mouth you will be labeled a radical feminist and ridiculed from your brothers and sisters in Christ. 

The Vatican called those who challenged the practice of indulgences in the Middle Ages heretics. We have come to understand.. they were probably right. What good is our 2000 year tradition if we don't learn and grow? Not all traditions are good, (like the problem of reassigning abusive priests and covering up their crimes), so stop drawing on "tradition" and stop name calling the minute someone says, "maybe we need to rethink birth control." 

I go to mass because that's where I meet Jesus. It takes a lot of mental energy to forget about people like you and the woman fearing Vatican leadership, and remember that the Sacrament is what it's all about. No matter how much you **** me off. The one, holy, Catholic and Apostolic church is the Church that brings people closer to Christ. Even women.

Korean Drummer Sighting

Remember this guy? He's been spotted again!

What Have We Forgotten?

Because I'm on a stats kick, it seems.

Inspired by XKCD 1093: "When will we forget"

Percent of Americans who aren’t old enough to remember	Event
10%	Last year
11%	Trying to say “Eyjafjallajökull”
12%	Michael Jackson
14%	The Bush Presidency
15%	The first iPhone
16%	The planet Pluto
18%	Bl. John Paul the Great
19%	The Superbowl wardrobe malfunction
20%	A time before Facebook
22%	The Beltway Sniper

Wikipedia Fact of the Day

In mediaeval England a licence to crenellate (or licence to fortify) granted the holder permission to fortify their property. Such licences were granted by the king, and by the rulers of the counties palatine within their jurisdictions, i.e. by the Bishops of Durham, the Earls of Chester, and after 1351 by the Dukes of Lancaster.

Full article.

"License to Crenellate" is the name of my Mannheim Steamroller cover band*.

*For those not in the know, "X is the name of my Y cover band" has officially replaced Dave Barry's "[blank] would be an excellent name for a rock band" on the internet.

Jane Austen...

...is apparently a lot more interesting than I was led to believe.

And the Winner Is... (Addendum)

Someone stole my idea! And turned it into a cool infographic!

(But forgot to do an athlete comparison.)

On Chicken Sandwiches

Remember this cartoon from the George Tiller shooting?

(There were many just like it. A quick Google search turns up plenty in the same vein.)

And remember this from last week?



(This is just one example among many, but the entire Chick-Fil-A protest could be submitted as an example.)

So I wonder how many leftists will blame this morning's FRC shooting on the gay activists' "hate-filled rhetoric". Or condemn anti-bullying advocate Dan Savage for his hate-filled bullying.

At least some prominent activists have condemned the shooting.

* * *

I think what worries me most about the backlash against a restaurateur for holding the same position Barack Obama did six months ago is that I can't recall a time in my life where the devil has overplayed his hand.

This level of hate normally has a way of backfiring. To whit, it's hard to defend the side of civilization in the fray of the same sex "marriage" debate without eliciting comparisons to Westboro Baptist, or being told you hate gays. I think it's because, due to WBC's hate, the pro-sanity movement (of which WBC is assuredly not a part) has been smeared. The only argument gay activists know against gay marriage is the "God hates gays" one. Therefore, if you stand for honor and decency, you must hate gays. WBC has become the new Godwin's Law.

(Aside, my pet conspiracy theory is that WBC is entirely funded by a gay rights organization.)

So, I would expect, what with the blatant display of hate and bigotry shown by many gay rights activists (including three politicians promising to ban Chick-Fil-As from their towns), that it would undermine their movement in much the same way as WBC does ours.

I would expect.

But that brings me to my previous point: I've never seen the devil overplay his hand so seriously and blatantly. Which leads me to believe he knows something I don't. I can't imagine that the invisible hand moving the chess pieces has given up board position over a fast food restaurant. As a being of pure intellect, he's very intelligent. I fear that he's merely sacrificed a pawn here but hasn't ceded any ground.

And the Winner Is...

...Grenada? Who'd have thought?

Let's assume human talent for any given skill follows a statistical distribution (like a bell curve). So any random sample of a significant number of people would follow that distribution. Let's further assume that human talent is equally distributed across the planet. If it really was completely equal, then the people from one nation would form a random sample, and the distribution of talent within that country should conform to that same distribution as the world population. With me so far?

So, the point of the Olympics, it seems, is to incite nationalism and unhealthy pride, and cause condescension towards people with different skin color, language, or social customs inspire warm fuzzy feelings among all members of the human race by demonstrating how people from our country are obviously so much better than you because we won more medals and that mean's we're a superior race and you should be bred out of existence the athletic talent, courage, determination, and perseverance of people from every nation.

This brings up the topic of who "won" the Olympics. Typically, this is figured by gold medal count (since no one cares about silver or bronze). This year, the US "won" the Olympics by bringing home the most gold medals (46), compared with second-place China (38). But is this really the best indicator of "winning"? If skill was distributed equally across the globe, then you would expect those nations with more people to have more athletes at the top of the bell curve, and therefore more gold medals. So really, there's nothing unexpected about the top two gold medal winners also being the third and first most populous countries. This would even happen if, on average, Americans and Chinese fell below the curve on athletic talent.

With this in mind, let's take a look at the gold medal winnings. The Olympics web site has a chart of all medaling nations and how many medals each one won, comparing that with Wikipedia's list of countries by population allows us to calculate how many medals were won per 100 million residents of each country. This way, we can figure out which countries really did earn more medals than would be expected for equal talent distribution.

Sorted this way, we find the real winners of the Olympics:

Against Breakfast Grains

I have so many tabs open right now.

Thank God for the Brights. Every time I find myself at the top of the cliff of doubt, staring down into the dark and murky abyss, contemplating how much fun it might be to jump off and fly through the air, and listening intently to the voice that incessantly whispers into my ear, "go ahead; it won't hurt," all I need to do is read from a Bright. It is as if a bony and gnarled claw reaches up from the abyss in an attempt to grab me... but flails so wildly and inaccurately that it ends up knocking me back several feet from the abyss, and the force of landing so hard on my ass knocks me from my stupor and cleanses the voice from my ears. Their complete and utter misunderstanding of all things religious never elicits anything more than an eyeroll from me, and always serves to remind me of why it is I actually believe.

The strawmen erected in their arguments are always so laughably inept attempts to characterize the Church. It is as if I am kneeling at the glorious altar, adorned in gold and precious gems, sitting atop of which is the King of Glory to whom every knee must bend, of those in heaven and on earth and under the earth, when a Bright comes up behind me and taps me upon the shoulder. "What a stupid and ugly god you worship," he says. I look up at him, incredulously. He points and says, "why it's nothing more than a heap of feces and straw." I look at where he is pointing and notice that he has his back to the throne, and is looking off into the distance behind me, at what is indeed an ugly and stupid altar that he's erected from nothing more than fecal matter and straw. The Bright crosses his arms, a smug look of self-satisfaction on his face. Of course, it's impossible to get him to actually turn around. "No thanks, I can see your idiotic god just fine from here," he'll say confidently. The only thing you can really say in response is "yes, it is idiotic. Don't back away from it so fast you trip on my kneeler and land on your ass." (Which has happened at least a few times.)

The indispensable Archbishop Fulton Sheen summed it up so perfectly: "There are not more than 100 people in the world who truly hate the Catholic Church, but there are millions who hate what they perceive to be the Catholic Church. Which is, of course, quite a different thing."

Fr. Robert Barron, in one of his Catholicism series documentaries, commented that he actually agrees with a lot of atheists. They'll complain about how stupid it is to worship a "magical sky-fairy", to which Fr. Barron says "yeah, I agree." Or they complain about the sky-bully who arbitrarily condemns people to hell fire for breaking nonsensical rules. "I agree," says Fr. Barron. It seems to me that the majority of the arguments against Catholicism, against the Church, and against God that I hear (at least on the Internet, which isn't exactly known for intellectual thoroughness) are little more than strawmen.

All this is a very roundabout way of bringing me to a recently-posted "The Oatmeal" comic. Now, I'm a bit of a fan of The Oatmeal, so whereas I'd normally just ignore this type of slight, I though, in the interest of fanboyishness, to respond. It also helps that his comic is a collection of all the "best" arguments against religion (so I can rebut them all in one place), and actually is still kinda funny.

Blog Update

Considering a new look for this blog.

Click here to check it out and tell me what you think.

The Official Rankings

Updated for 2012

1. Anthropomorphic Superheroes
2. Anthropomorphic Old Guy, Boyscout, and Dog
3. Anthropomorphic Monsters
4. Anthropomorphic Robots
5. Anthropomorphic Rats
6. Anthropomorphic Scotsmen
7. Anthropomorphic Cars
8. Anthropomorphic Toys (third time)
9. Anthropomorphic Fish
10. Anthropomorphic Bugs
11. Anthropomorphic Toys (again)
12. Anthropomorphic Toys
13. Anthropomorphic Cars (again)

Random facts (courtesy Wikipedia).

• The lowest-grossing (worldwide) Pixar film was their first, Toy Story, at $361 million. It was made on a budget of $30 million. The highest-grossing is Toy Story 3, at over $1 billion
• Cars 2 is the only Pixar film not to have been nominated for any Academy awards.
• Six of their thirteen feature-length films have won Best Animated Feature. Two more were nominated but did not win.
• Here's a picture of me with the co-director of Brave, taken at San Diego Comic-con 2007:

Note stylish hat. Another reason to wear one.

Schola Concert

Well for those of you not privileged enough to live in shouting distance of my wonderful voice, I recorded our concert and uploaded it to YouTube. Here it is for your viewing pleasure.



So far, no one has said I sounded terrible, so that's a plus.

Also, audio quality is terrible. Any suggestions for a cheap, good audio solution for a large, empty space?

Well, Yeah

Wherein a Slate writer laments that if women start treating their unborn like children, then y'know, we might (*gasp*) start treating them like humans in other ways.

Key quote:

[I]t got us thinking about how the more we treat fetuses like people—including them in our family photo shoots, tagging them on our Facebook walls, giving them their own Twitter accounts—the harder it will be to deny that they are people when the next, say, personhood amendment comes up, with legislators and activists arguing that “the unborn child” inside a pregnant woman’s womb should have the same rights as the living among us.

Laundry

With no apologies to XKCD.

Bell and Whistle Contest

Turn up your volume and play the following video. You may not pause it. You may not look away. You may not turn down the volume. You may not switch windows. You may blink no more than once per ten seconds.

If you are not comatose, Cthulhu-level insane, or dead from a brain aneurysm by the time the video ends, then you will have won. But was it all worth it? Was it?

Probably not.

* * *

Recipe for fun. Get a cheap cell phone. Make this the ring tone. "Lose" your cell phone in a crowded, public, and somewhat quiet place (such as a church or library), with the volume set as high as possible. Call it repeatedly.

Please Stay Tuned for an Important Announcement!

This Smart-Looking Guy has an Important Announcement!

I have an Important Announcement!

Thank you, Smart-Looking Guy! And now we return you to—

I wasn't done.

What's that?

 I said I wasn't done. I still have an Important Announcement!

So THAT'S What They're Saying!

Put down the coffee.

Miscellany

♫Catching up is hard to do.♫

First up, Cosplay.

First up in the Cosplay category is the costume The Murloc wore to Wondercon (motto: unlike other conventions, we are affordable and available!)

For this costume, The Murloc custom-made her own corset. Of this, I approve.

Recognize the character? Imaginary bag of marshmallows if you do.

No? Here, I'll post a picture of the actual character.

Still nothing?

Fertile Women are Sexier

And that's a fact.

"Why women who are not on hormonal contraceptives are objectively far more attractive than those who are."

It's Super Effective!

Mixing memes, here.

The Day After

Some short fiction for the season. Emphasis on short.

"Tombs were opened, and the bodies of many saints who had fallen asleep were raised. And coming forth from their tombs after his resurrection, they entered the holy city and appeared to many." (Matthew 27:52-53)

Star Pirate Space Wars of the Old Republic

Let me share some screenshots of one of my Star Wars: The Old Republic characters:

Here stands Captain Jacc Flynt in front of his XS stock light freighter which, unfortunately, the game does not allow you to name Redemptrix. He is a smuggler by trade. (Both the first name "Jack" and last name "Flint" were taken. I don't know if by the same person, but that would be kinda cool.)

Here is Captain Jacc Flynt on the bridge of his ship, surveying a map of the galaxy. Perhaps he is trying to plot a route between Ceres and Callisto in less than 12 parsecs. Come to think of it, plotting a route from Ceres to Callisto that would be more than 12 parsecs would be quite the feat indeed. (Ok, so you start at Ceres, head towards Callisto. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Then just before you get there, veer of course, head to Vega, and come back.)

Here is Captain Jacc Flynt talking with his companion who is, unfortunately, not named Yosef Lwanga. He is, however, the hired muscle and handy with a gun.

Captain Jacc Flynt looks over the shoulder of his crew mate who, come to think of it, doesn't really look like Regina Burke. Miss Burke has blue eyes, not merely lots of blue eye shadow.

At some point, apparently, Captain Jacc Flynt froze someone in carbonite. Tim Sikorsky, perhaps? Seems awfully cold of him (yuk yuk yuk).

Apparently, Captain Jacc Flynt now has a droid. He purposely removed the three laws programming so he could tell it to kill people.

Piano Stuff

I recorded these about a year ago, then promptly forgot about them.

Whether playing Nethack on the console violates one's self-imposed Lenten penance of not playing video games?

Objection 1. Nethack is based on elements common to all video games, such as goals, objectives, obstacles, and strategy, and is therefore a game.

Objection 2. Nethack requires electronic video, therefore it is a video game.

Objection 3. Nethack is entertaining, which is the essential attribute of video games.

On the contrary, it is written in Sacred Scripture "But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil." (Matthew 5:37)

I argue that purpose of a Lenten sacrifice of avoiding video games is a form of self-mortification, like other voluntary Lenten sacrifices, and is intended to accomplish two primary goals:

First, to focus one's mind away from material distractions and on Christ, who is at the center of the meaning of existence: like certain forms of Buddhist meditation practiced in monasteries in the East, where monks spend half their lives weaving elaborate rugs, only to spend the second half unweaving them, Nethack helps its practitioners release themselves from the bonds of materialism by teaching detachment from your work, since you could die at any time, lose all your stuff, and have to start over with nothing. Furthermore, the practitioner's perceived need for expensive goods such as 650-watt power supplies and 448-core video cards is entirely obviated.

Second, to allow time for meditation on the Sacred things: to this end, Nethack offers many opportunities for reflection on elements of Christ's life. The prolonged toil against forces of evil, descent into the lower levels of the game-world, inevitable death and rebirth, and eventual ascension and achievement of immortality are all clear metaphors for Christ's passion, death, resurrection, and Ascension into Heaven, winning for all mankind the opportunity for eternal life with the Father.

Thus we can see that Nethack is not a video game at all, but a prayerful and penitential form of meditation, and does not violate a Lenten sacrifice of video games.

Reply to Objection 1: The Lenten penance did not specify avoidance of achieving goals, working towards objectives, overcoming obstacles, or employing stratagems specifically. These are merely elements common to all video games, as well as real life. Avoiding all, or even any, of these actions would prohibit activities clearly not intended to be given up as sacrifice such as working at a job, paying bills, crossing the street, etc.

Reply to Objection 2: Board and card games require the brain to process visual information to be played, and some of these feature electronic elements such as Uno Attack and Monopoly City Edition, yet are clearly not considered to be video games. Therefore not all electronic games that are played visually are video games. Furthermore, Nethack lacks the visual elements assumed to be present in video games such as animated graphics. No one has ever described Zork was a video game. Visually, it entirely consists of letters, numbers and assorted other cryptic characters. Practicing Nethack is more like learning Greek or Russian than playing a game.

Reply to objection 3: Nethack is not entertaining.

Wikipedia Fact of the Day

"Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo" is a valid English sentence.  Here's a diagram:

You're welcome.

Mobility

Crawling? Not yet. Mobile? Most definitely.

Why I Hate Smart People

With no apologies to Hyperbole and a Half.

Contrary to what you might have heard, I am not a smart person. In fact, I might be considered exactly the opposite of smart. That is (for you people like me) dumb. If you've ever heard me saying something smart, I was probably just quoting something I once heard some Smart Person say.

The Wrong Side

“This project is moving forward. It’s going to happen. At this point, there’s nothing you or I can do to stop it.”

Marcus Marcellus regarded the pronouncement from the rotund man on the other side of the faux-mahogany desk with bemusement. He hid his smile, and thought of all the times he’d heard something similar.

His conversational partner, William Porter, took a long draught from the black cigar in his mouth and blew smoke from his nose like a dragon warming up to breathe flame at an unsuspecting knight. A dragon that had perhaps become slothful and old sitting atop his hoard of gold.

“I don’t mean to stop it,” Marcellus replied. “I only want to suggest that a solution may be reached that serves both my clients and yours.”

This time, it was Porter’s turn for bemusement. His lips curled and he let out a sort of coughing laugh, with little pockets of smoke escaping between the chortles.

Porter turned his chair and made a sweeping gesture towards the picture window behind him. Marcellus could see the crescent of the planet Cephas--its sun, Vega, illuminating it from behind.

“If your clients are served by getting off my clients’ planet, then yes, I agree.”

Marcellus ignored the snipe and pulled a packet from his briefcase, setting it on the desk. “We can offer to pay, not all at once, but the settlers are willing to enter into a deal to repay--with interest--over the next seventy-five years.”

Porter did his dragon impression again, blowing smoke from his nose without even looking at the packet. “Mister Marcellus, terraforming is a very expensive proposition, one that requires a significant up-front investment. My clients can’t wait a lifetime for repayment, and I seriously doubt the squatters will still be around in three-quarters of a century. I certainly won’t be. You’ll probably be long gone, too.”

Again, Marcellus hid his smile.

“I’m afraid your colonists will either need to pay now, or move.”

“Off their own land?”

“Yes, off their own land. The Interstellar Court has ruled, and upheld their ruling in multiple cases, that those who benefit from terraforming must pay fair compensation. Those who refuse can be evicted. Surely you know this.”

Marcellus looked down at his shoes. He had only one more gamble, and it was a long shot. “Then I can make one more offer,” he said.

“Yes? What is it?”

“They would like to invite you for dinner.”

Porter guffawed. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. Then maybe you’ll see these people as just that--people. They’re honest. They’re hard-workers. They don’t deserve to be treated like cattle.”

The guffaw changed into a full belly-laugh when he realized that Marcellus was serious. Marcellus wasn’t sure how much of his plea Porter heard through the howling. Eventually, the larger man calmed down, removed his spectacles, and wiped his eyes, glistening with the tears of laughter.

“I thank you for the joke, Mister Marcellus, but I decline the pathetic offer. I must say I find the idea of dinner with these peasants revolting. What are they? Polaks? Latins? Israelis? Christians and Jews, the lot of them. No, Mister Marcellus, I’ve had my fill of their type. The leeches of society. The beggars. Those who demand help from others while producing nothing of value themselves.”

“I’m sorry you see them that way. If you could just spend some time with them as I have, it might change your mind.”

Like flipping a switch, Porter turned from mirthful to serious. “I doubt it. Tell the gypsies and robbers who hired you to pay their dues or leave.”

Marcellus nodded and reached for his briefcase. “Then I thank you for your time, Mister Porter,” he said, turning for the passageway to the shuttle back down to the planet.

“And Mister Marcellus,” Porter called out.

Marcellus turned back.

“A word of advice: you should give up working pro bono for those lowlifes. I think you’ll find your idealism quickly puts you on the wrong side of history.”

Read the rest here.

As always, constructive criticism welcome.

I Checked Snopes

...and this is not a hoax.



There is actually, in fact, a movie being made, based on this game:



And it is, in fact, being advertising as based on a game made by the same toy company that made Transformers.

No joke.

And Liam Neeson was somehow press-ganged into being in it.

And someone, somewhere, decided to invest millions of dollars in this movie.

The official site is here, if you don't believe me.

I wonder how anyone was able to keep a straight face at any point during the entire pitching, writing, and filming process.

And if no one at any point utters the line "you sank my battleship," I will be sorely disappointed.

I'm Still so S-M-R-T.

Me, 8/5/2010:

Take food for example. "Hungry? Why wait?" The Snicker's slogan perfectly summarizes this philosophy. I want what I want now. But wait! There are consequences to our actions! If we eat whatever we want whenever we want, we'll get fat. It should come as absolutely no surprise that the nation's biggest health risk is obesity and the most frequently performed medical procedure is abortion. Those are related. Of course, we want to forestall those consequences, but we don't want to work at it. The gym is hard work, as is chastity. We prefer our consequence alleviations in pill form. Introducing birth control pills and diet pills. Those, too, are related.

Me, 4/16/2011:

Consider the phrases: "I intentionally ate the entire cheesecake and accidentally gained weight." "I intentionally jumped off the roof and accidentally fell to the ground." "I intentionally had sex and accidentally got pregnant." The first two make the speaker sound like an idiot, but the third one, for some reason, is how people actually think.

Mike Flynn, 2/13/2012:

The parallel with digestive rights is instructive. Both are the result of a collision between the desire to indulge an appetite (sexual or gustatory) without getting fat. The notion that one ought to be able to eat whatever one likes without gaining weight is generally perceived as a failure of the intellect and no one supposes that the government ought to mandate health insurance coverage to include emetics, so as to enable bulemia.

SMRT.

You made it!

Congratulations! You can click on a link! Good for you!

(Suggestions on color/fonts welcome. Also, commenting is currently set to not allow anonymous posts, so you'll need an account of some sort. This can be changed if enough people leave comments asking me to (*snigger snort*))

Hope

Oh, what a world I'm leaving you, Damien.

He sits on my lap as I read him his bedtime story. He snorts and snuffs with the rhinoceros, ruffs with the little dogs, and quacks with the duck. To him, the world is so simple. Cows moo, sheep baa. The only confusion is whether pigs say oink or "la, la, la". He doesn't read the news headlines. How could he possibly understand how much the world is opposed to him? Why would I even want him to know?

We finish the book, and I turn out the light. I get out the rosary blessed by Blessed John Paul the Great (he will get upset if I don't), he makes the sign of the cross with it (always sure to kiss the crucifix), and we pray. I pray the sorrowful mysteries tonight. It seems it's always the night for the sorrowful mysteries. They fit my mood of late, as I really don't see much to take joy in.

One wonders where our country turned so very wrong. Why did we decide to abandon our foundational principles in favor of sexual licentiousness? I remember when I was a kid, hearing boomers apologize for how they had messed up the world, and telling me that the burden would be on my generation to fix it.

It looks like I'll have to pass that burden on to you.

We're about half way through the second mystery, when in the faint blue glow of the nightlight, I see an impish smile cross his face. He leans in close and rubs his forehead on my chin, giving himself a beard rub. I indulge him and he bursts into giggles. This isn't helping calm him down, or settle him for bed, but I can't help it. His laughter is so infectious.

After a few more surprise beard rubs and laughing fits, I manage to calm him down and continue with our prayers. I suppose I wouldn't be so uneasy if the haters would just leave me and mine alone. Just let me raise my sons in peace. But this whole kerfuffle over Women's Health™ is really just the beginning, and really not even a beginning, but a next step. Government will keep on pushing, keep on taking rights and limiting liberties, so long as they can get away with it. And it's not really even over Women's Health™ to begin with. This is about pushing the Church out of public life.

It's not the first time the Catholic schools in this country have come under attack. Only, back then, it was the WASPs who were concerned that all those lowlife Irish immigrants were indoctrinating their children in un-American thinking. Now, it's those backwards, homophobic, misogynistic Catholics who are against Progress™. The Catholic schools, ever a tool of the Church, must be walled off, their influence minimized.

To paraphrase a good king in a moment of hopelessness, what can one man do against such reckless hatred? How are we few to raise our children to know, love, and serve God, when the forces of the god-king and the weight of the world oppose us so?

All I want is for you to know Love.

We finish our Rosary, and I throw a Memorare—my in-case-of-emergency-break-glass prayer—on the end. I put the rosary away, and look back down. His eyes are half open, and his blinks are getting longer, his head becoming heavier and heavier against my chest.

But they can never get us here. This is Our Place. This is Ecclesia Domestica. Some boundaries transcend the power of temporal rulers. Some bonds cannot be broken by earthly force. "Christ is the head of this house. The unseen guest at every meal. The silent listener to every conversation." No HHS mandate can change that.

Damien's breathing slows, and soon he's full-on snoring. Now that he's asleep, I could put him in his crib, and go back out to whatever faces me beyond these four walls. But I don't. I just rest my chin on his head, and hold him close. And I realize it doesn't matter what happens. Even if the worst case of extreme conspiracy nuts came true, and a Soviet-style dictatorship descended on this country, nothing could take this moment from us.

Nothing can make me stop loving you.

(1000th post!)