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Rethinking the Mouse Trap
We bought a mouse trap. You’re supposed to put cheese in those things, but people don’t know that cheese is actually really bad for mice. Kind of in the same way you’re not supposed to feed bread to ducks, because the yeast consumes sugars in their stomachs, releasing an alcohol cloud that expands and causes an explosion. Just imagine walking up to a duck that had eaten bread earlier that day. Let’s just say your new nickname would be ‘Nubby’ or ‘Guy whose balls got blown off by an exploding duck.’
Anyhoo, cheese doesn’t have as dramatic an effect on mice as that, but it is very high in fat and can cause cardiovascular issues down the road. That’s why I prepared the below spice blend:
We’ve got a little SPG mix, onion powder, oregano, parsley, and crushed red pepper for a bit of heat. Not only does this pop way more on the tastebuds, it comes without the bloated waistline and crap backup that are major hallmarks of cheese.
This is also easier on the mousetrap, because the metal bar doesn’t have to fight through a thick layer of cheese fat to crush the rodent’s brain, and there won’t be any exploding residuals from the constipation when the deceased mouse……..voids, if you catch my drift.
Notes From The Cosmos
An LG Cosmos.
Sometimes I write little notes to myself.
And sometimes, when I want to write a little note to myself and there is no pen or paper around, I pull out my cellular telephone, a first generation LG Cosmos, and activate the “Notepad” feature.
For instance, on October 28th of last year, I recorded this: “Why aren’t there any funny tampon commercials.”
Here we are, over a year later, and I still have not witnessed a humorous feminine napkin advertisement, and I still don’t understand what tampons are actually for.
A Simple Request
I think my relationship is on the rocks.
I recently told this chick I’m seeing that it’s unacceptable for her to have dated anyone before me.
On every trip to her house since then, I can’t help but notice the lack of effort she’s put into obeying my command—travel through time, and change the past. One day, when she was in the restroom for a really really long time, I poked around a bit. An investigation of her internet search history came up with exactly zero schematics for a flux capacitor. The ‘Recently Watched’ category on her Netflix showed she hasn’t viewed Quantum Leap, Timecop, or the episode of Family Matters where Urkel invents a time machine. On the bookshelf, there was nothing even close to the subject of physics, let alone the theory of relativity, knowledge of which is essential to transcend linear time.
How I interpret this: she has not even thought about travelling back in time to change her relationship history in order to make me happy.
Next time I’m visiting, when she’s passing the laxative-laced Taco John’s meal I will have brought for her, I think I’ll use the alone time to inspect the shed and see what’s going on in there. From the outside, it doesn’t appear big enough to house a DeLorean, or even a circular metal pod that is thick enough to withstand the sparks and zaps that occur when space-time is warped, but we’ll see.
If the shed doesn’t turn up anything, the excavation of her yard then begins, in search of a large elliptical disc that she maybe recovered from aliens and is using to reverse engineer their technology in hopes of making the buttons and gears more useful for human hands.
If that doesn’t work, I don’t know.
Plasmapheresis—The Silent Savior
Image from http://www.inc.com
I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.
Take This Poll, It’s Easy
The book in front of me at this moment is titled Nothing In This Book Is True, But It’s Exactly How Things Are. It’s by Bob Frissell. Interesting guy.
So, what I have done is compiled a few of Mr. F’s claims, beliefs, opinions, whatever you would like to call them, and plugged them into the poll below. I have entered one of my own into the mix. Simply click on the one you think is mine.
Here’s What I Learned From My Centaur Research
I was watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this past weekend. As a herd of centaurs galloped across the screen, my gaze wandered down. The junction of horse and human occurs just above where the groin of the man would be and fuses into the area near the horse-half’s front shoulders.
I got confused. Where are the genitals on these things? Roving scientific interest—my desktop wallpaper is definitely not a picture of a centaur—anymore—filled a time slot I had open on Saturday afternoon. Do the mythical beast’s reproductive organs rest where they would on the anatomy of the human, or near the back, like a horse?
I had to take into account that the film is PG-13, so there was a chance that if any private areas were in fact located near the front, the filmmakers might have opted not to bump up to an R, or even NC-17 rating by having the turgid penis of a made-up animal flopping around on the big screen, thereby outlawing a sizeable chunk of the ticket-buying demographic from gaining access to theaters.
I took it to Googolplex. This website, authored by a German doctor, is the centaur equivalent of Gray’s Anatomy, and even brought up another interesting point—how does the spinal system work, being that the bodily fusion creates a 90-degree angle? I couldn’t be bothered with that, though—it wasn’t what I came for, and I feared I would be sucked further into an already dubious rabbit hole.
Then this came up:
Not only did I find the genitals, it looks as though we’ve been using the wrong phrase all this time—horses are hung like centaurs. This interpretation may prove unreliable, though. The issue of the spinal cord, for instance—it appears to curve into the lung cavity, and disappear, which would render the entire back half of this man-horse paralyzed. There may be better drawings out there, but please understand that while I do have the time to find a better one, I don’t want to. Googling centaur penis has more than likely already landed me on a ‘person of interest’ list somewhere, and next time I move I’m going to have to go around and tell all my new neighbors ‘hey, could you sign this thing saying that I told you I’m a pervert, blah blah blah, it’s just a formality, yada yada, I’ve changed my ways, bing bang boom.’
So I’ll just believe what this drawing says.
My Body Has Acheived Homeostasis
Efficiency. That’s what life is all about. Eliminate unnecessary movements in order to dedicate more time to what really matters. There’s a reason you don’t put a couch in front of the door, because it would take longer to climb over it.
Recently, I efficiency-ized my internal world. My body, that is. And it worked. I don’t know how, but I did it. Had I been more scientific-minded at the outset, I would have recorded everything—diet, exercise, sleep schedule. But none of that matters, because my body is now a harmonious, self-sustaining institution.
Need proof? I haven’t produced bodily waste in over five days. Imagine that. Everything I’ve consumed over nearly a week has been 100% used up. My digestive system is equivalent to a Native American hunter after a buffalo kill. Nothing gets thrown out.
I’ve become a walking lithium-ion battery.
Think about how much time you spend expunging waste from your body. I don’t have that problem anymore. What a reverberating relief! I’m selling my toilet, and never looking back.
Have fun pooping, idiots!
The Ash-Sucking Umbrella Device That Will Save Earth
This person I know recently informed me it wanted to move as far away from Wyoming as it could within the next 10-20 years. The reason? The supervolcano that rests beneath Yellowstone Park.
If that thing blows, the ash blocks out the sun and we all die. Supposedly.
Of course, paranoia causes irrational fears.
We’ll be just fine, I said, because it’s an easy problem to prevent. Behold, the Ash-Sucking Umbrella Device:
From the diagram, you can see that the contraption is composed in a tapering pine-tree shape, with big ash-sucking umbrella things on the bottom to catch the initial blast. As you go up, there are smaller vacuums to catch what the bottom ones missed.
The option of another design also arose, which was basically the same shape, only upside down: with the large suckers on top, and smallest on bottom, in order to fit in with the above design like a jigsaw puzzle. However, my mathematics informed me something like that would be far too top heavy, and much more difficult to construct.
Further calculations only bolstered the fact that the big-on-bottom-littler-on-top schematic, utilized in large volume around the caldera of the potential extinction event, would catch enough ash to save the human race.
To cover the middle, we simply send up drones, which I have not yet sketched up, that look like manatee-sized Dustbusters.
Once all the ash has been contained, we then look to our final device, a reverse volcano:
This serves one purpose, which is to simply dispose of all that ash by shooting it back down where it came from.
Now we can all sit back and actually look forward to when Yellowstone erupts*.
*One side note, even if this somehow doesn’t work, I will have already become rich for inventing all of these devices, so I will end up as some post-apocalyptic prince-tycoon, and be able to live wherever the ‘privileged’ people end up.
Peter Watts – Starfish
This is the story of mentally disturbed people living on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, tending to a geothermal station. Their bodies have been altered, enabling them to withstand the pressure of the briny deep. Like any good story, things get all messed up—one lady loses her marbles, some guy dies, a pedophile goes off to live among the fish, a couple people have sex, and some sort of sentient gel starts running the show.
And one lady even appears to have Google Glass already(this book was published in 1999).
At first, I wanted to give this book a “Five Star(fish)” rating, but that was lame.
In lieu of a number or object based rating system, I’ll say this—Starfish is a good book.
Beards Ignite Primordial Lust In Women, Whether They Care To Admit It Or Not
Anthropology lesson: At the dawn of humanity, all men had beards. If a man couldn’t grow one, he was clubbed over the head with a mammoth femur, defecated on, and tossed off a cliff. By a guy with a beard. Why such harsh vibes toward the bald-faces? The reasons:
1) In those days, due to the life expectancy of early humans, an 18-year-old was considered to be a seasoned old man. Here in the present, he would be equivalent to any run-of-the-mill septuagenarian, in terms of longevity. Yet, unlike any run-of-the-mill septuagenarian of today, these “wise old” 18-year-olds were very capable of getting their breed on. Any man that didn’t have a beard by age 18 was believed to be possessed by impotent demons. As mis amigos Mexicanos would say, they were no bueno para chaka-chaka.
2) It’s natural for beards to grow. From the wisdom of the Taoists:
“Let everything be allowed to do what it naturally does, so that its nature will be satisfied.”
And if your face doesn’t naturally grow hair, its nature will be dominated and destroyed by someone whose face has the nature of beard-growing, because it is natural for humans to mock, hate, torture, and ridicule things that are bizarre and weird to them.
And so the thesis goes—women have deeply-ingrained sensory receptors that tell them to be wildly attracted to men with beards, because that is the natural way of evolution, the ultimate symbol of fecundity and virility. As you walk the path, women will tell you that too much facial hair is quote “nast” and that you “have peanut butter sauce in your beard.” Valid points? Of course. This doesn’t mean that the most remote regions of their mammalian subconscious mind aren’t whirring, wheeling, and enveloped with images of beards dancing circles around their heads.
The Philosophunculist 
