Sorry, Christmas lovers, but it is. Some may call me a Grinch, or Scrooge, or say I’m lacking in some insubstantial quality known as “Christmas spirit.” What the hell is Christmas spirit? I have to put up with this shit, and on top of that I have to pretend to be happy? Christmas is a time of year for nauseating cheesiness, tacky decorations, and valium-powered fake smiles because there’s so much manufactured stress inherent in this “holiday.” Let’s start with that last item, shall we?
Why is it that we, as a society, have agreed that what we all need is a day near the end of the year where we must exchange mandatory gifts with everyone we know? And don’t tell me it’s because we’re celebrating the birth of Jesus, because that’s bullshit. But patience, we shall cross that bridge in time.
When I buy a gift, it’s a matter of seeing something someone I know would like, and me having a bit of extra cash on hand, no matter what the calendar might say. Isn’t that what this so-called Christmas spirit is all about, caring and goodwill and all that other Hallmark(TM) bullshit? Because that’s the one thing that I find to be absent at Christmastime. Everyone is so worked up over buying all these presents, and trying to make them somewhat meaningful, or at least not total ass, that by the time they open their now-empty wallets and look back on all the hours of hard work put in, they find themselves bitter and angry. “Here’s your present, now fuck off.” Nobody says that, because that’s not good Christmas cheer, but they’re all thinking it. There’s also a lot of pressure for everything to be perfect this time of year, because if it's not, then you’ve ruined Christmas. And nobody wants to ruin Christmas.
At this point, I am getting really sick of typing out “Christmas” so many times, so I’m going to Futurama this fucker (yes, I just used Futurama as a verb, and I make no apologies) and from now on refer to the holiday as Xmas. And for all you angry crybaby Xtians out there, that’s not some attack on Xtianity, I am not taking trying to take the “Christ” out of “Christmas,” that X is something your own people invented. It’s the sign of the cross, for X’s sake! Also, I lied just now, I am trying to take the Christ out of Christmas, just not right now by using a damn letter.
I guess now is a pretty good time to talk about the whole Jesus thing. Yeah, I know, more tedious religion stuff, but unfortunately it’s relevant. Just think of this as a quick does of medicine right in the middle. It’s something to separate my social rant where I come across like the guy in front of the liquor store shouting about how John Ashcroft is a Nazi alien from Neptune who needs to kidnap babies to power his rocket ship to get back home so they can brainwash us with sugarfree gum, and the last part where I’m going to make reference to snowman ejaculate. I’ll try to make the transition as quick and painless as possible.
Assuming the Bible is true, which it is not, Jesus was definitely not born in December. Why? Because he was visited by shepherds, and unless the flocks they were tending were frozen lamb chops, there would be no reason for them to be in their fields. Of course, the Bible also says that Jesus was born during the reign of Herod the Great and while Quirinius was the governor of Syria. So this would place Jesus’ birth sometime before the death of Herod in 4 BC, and after Quirinius took office in AD 7. So Jesus was obviously born in some alternate reality where negative 11 years is a viable measure of time.
Of course, none of this matters because Xmas was never about Jesus X to begin with (side note: Jesus X is a great name for a monster movie). Xmas was a pagan holiday, celebrated on or around the time of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. In pagan cultures, this is the day of the birth of the sun god, which in some ways Jesus was a sun god, but that’s a story for another post. The Romans called it Saturnia, after their sun god Saturn, and in Europe the druids honored their sun god Mithra with a feast called, I guarantee Xtians are sure to shit themselves over this, Yuletide. And what they did at this celebration will definitely sound familiar, they hung mistletoe, they brought pine trees into their houses, they lit candles and exchanged gifts. Though hey, at least there’s one less thing an atheist like me can lay at the feet of Christianity. At least those miserable bastards didn’t start Xmas.
So really all that’s left to complain about is the kitsch. Every year, once Thanksgiving is done, every single business in town goes out of their way to make sure not a single person can be able to forget that it’s fucking Xmas. Lights, streamers, little paper snowmen with eyes so bright you’d think they just shot a great big icy wad into the mouth of one of their snowbitches. And Xmas carols, god how I hate those. I’ve got nothing against the music for its own sake, but repeated everywhere ad nauseum they start to become personifications of tedium, and harbingers of madness.
And then there’s that big red fucker. No, not the Kool-Aid man, he hasn’t earned my hatred. At least not yet. No, I’m talking about Santa Claus, aka Kris Kringle, aka Father Christmas, aka Saint Nicholas. This magical immortal fat man who travels faster than the speed of sound to systematically break into every Xtian house in the world and render brutal judgment in the form of commercial goods. For many of us, Santa was the first lie we ever discovered, one perpetrated on us by otherwise loving parents. For this reason, whenever I see a giant inflatable Santa waving happily atop a car dealership: when I look into his crudely painted eyes all I see is betrayal. Now, those of you who want to jump on the anti-Santa bandwagon might point out the “it’s true on the Internet” fact that Santa Claus was invented by the Coca Cola Corporation. You guys are a part of the problem too, as Santa was a nineteenth century amalgamation of Dutch, German, and English characters based on a nebulous historical figure. Sorry assholes, I don’t need your lies to throw shit on Santa Claus.
Perhaps the most damning evidence against that fat bastard comes from the utterly disgusting song, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. That song has absolutely no redeeming value whatsoever. Here’s this reindeer with a bright red nose, certainly unusual, though nothing to get upset over. Yet they treat him like he’s some sort of disgusting freak. Those are some racist fucking reindeer! And does Santa ever step in and put a stop to this bullshit? Oh no, he’s got more important things to do. Meanwhile Rudolph is ostracized and alone, sleeping every night with a shotgun in his mouth, just playing with the trigger. Then suddenly Santa needs him for something, and surprise, surprise, look who’s suddenly everyone’s best friend. The song says after that all the reindeer loved him, but do you really believe that? Of course not, this guy is Santa’s bitch. Sure, they’re gonna be all nice to him when the big man is watching, but the second he leaves, that reindeer is going to get the shit kicked out of him. Because Santa is a reindeer slaver and Rudolph is his Uncle Tom.
Finally, to bring this exposé of a sick, sick charade to a close, we have a vast catalog of holiday specials and movies. These things always have the same message, believe in a fat magical adjudicator, and you will be rewarded with magic powers and kickass laser beams. Well, that’s more or less the theme, anyway. Sometimes they have to convince some people to have more “Christmas spirit” or whatever because the gumdrop tree is dying or some dumb shit, or sometimes they have to raise some money to save the orphanage/hobbyhorse factory by convincing some old guy to have more of said Xmas spirit, but it’s all the same shit. Believe in the fat man, reap insane rewards. It’s twisted and manipulative, and it ensures that we’ll have plenty of psychological problems all the way down the road. And that, cats and kittens, is the true meaning of Christmas.
There will be no labels for this post, because I hate you. Merry Christmas, fuckers.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
On ‘Losing’ Faith
Pity. Ask any religious person what they feel for atheists, and in more, or sometimes even less words, this is the answer you will receive. That person has ‘lost’ their faith. They’re ‘struggling’ with their faith. They make it sound as if we’re toiling away in darkness, completely hopeless and alone. Well, I’ve got news, I’m not struggling at all.
After all, how can you struggle with something that was never really there? When you discover that the shadowy figure that has been intimidating you all these years is actually just a pile of paper bags, would you describe that moment as a struggle? I looked God in the eye and saw he was just a harmless puppy, and decided to no longer pay him any more mind: which worked for a while.
I’m a pretty upfront guy. If someone asks me a question, I’m going to honestly answer it to best of my ability, because that’s what we do in a society, we help each other and communicate. And because religion is such a huge part of most people’s lives, the topic of what you believe is going to come up. And when religious people find out you’re an atheist, they can’t seem to stop asking you questions.
Which is why I’m here, writing this blog post: because people keep bothering me about it and then getting increasingly upset at my answers, and this frustrates the Hell, Michigan out of me. Why does this keep happening? Because of the stereotype of the person who has ‘lost’ their faith. Because when the faithful find out about me, they are surprised that I am not the person they imagined, who sits alone at night, weeping and blubbering about ‘why couldn’t I just have been more faithful?’ That person does not exist outside of Sunday School indoctrination sessions. ‘Wait,’ you persons of faith out there may say, ‘That can’t possibly be true. I’ve heard first hand accounts of such things.’ I dare all of you to challenge that hand. Ask for specific details about this mysterious person, ask to meet them. Suddenly the hand will no doubt admit that it is not the first, but rather the second, or third hand, and that to arrange this would be terribly inexpedient and socially unacceptable. Go ahead, try it and come back, so that we’re all on the same page here.
So, a person of faith has just found out that you are a dirty heathen (side note: in the interest of correctness please encourage your religious friends to use this term in lieu of infidel or pagan, as we are not fooling around with some other god and we certainly aren’t polytheists) and you’ve just turned their world upside down by not being a sad sack of shit wallowing in some basement eating rat turds. First question: why did you abandon the faith you were raised in? There is absolutely no answer you can give that will satisfy them, and don’t bother stealing my paper bag analogy, because I know for a fact that doesn’t work. The reason for this is because this question is a trap in the sand. They don’t actually want to hear your view, they want to help you get back on the right path. They want you to raise some niggling concern, so they can say, ‘Pray about it,’ or ‘Just have faith.’ Even with all the bending over backwards they do to accommodate flawed logic, they can't see that neither of these is an adequate response to ‘Besides being incredibly unlikely, the concept of god is not the least bit useful to me.’
Religion is a train that travels all day in a tiny little circle. You can get on at whatever point appeals to you most, but once you do, you’ve got to follow the path all the way around again, over and over. And that moment of doubt is a cow that’s wandered onto the tracks. Everything grinds to a halt for several minutes while it gets sorted out. For me, it was the moment I decided that the train was stupid, and I could really do with a nice walk. For those committed to the train, this just annoys the crap out of them. And for most of them, this is where they get devious.
At this point, their honor is on the line, because you’ve just dismissed their entire belief system, which is not something I take pleasure in, it’s just the truth. And if you’re like me you’ve got some pretty strong statements to support your position, so they’ve taken a defensive position. This is where you will hear all the same pathetic arguments over and over, time and time again. ‘So you don’t believe in an afterlife? Isn’t that sad? What’s the point of being good if there’s no god? Isn’t it better to be wrong than spend an eternity in hell? You know, Hitler and Stalin were atheists. Every culture on Earth has some sort of religion, don’t you think there’s something to that?’
When those shriveled old chestnuts fail to impress you, they break out the testimonials. Talking about how they believe because they’ve felt Jesus or some such thing. At this point both of you are just going through the motions. I don’t even know why they do this, some sort of sense of duty or something, maybe? It’s not particularly convincing. If I don’t like asparagus, you could have thirty people come in and gush for hours about how asparagus is the best thing since sexual intercourse, and afterward I wouldn’t be any less convinced. You’re just wasting my time.
Finally, we come to the end. ‘Well, it works for me.’ Finally a sentiment I can get behind. Except that in this case, it’s full of shit. If you actually believed that was a valid statement, we wouldn’t have had the last two thirds of this conversation. This is a point I always make clear pretty early on, that I don’t give a shit what you believe. Sure, I think it’s great when people become atheists, and I’m a bit more likely to take your opinions seriously if you are; but as long as you’re not a twattering gasbag, I don’t care.
So from now on, I think I am going to carry around business cards with the permalink URL for this post written on the back, so that this has to be the last time I have this conversation. I really am that sick of it.
And for all those who are just skimming this article, a quick recap of my key points in answer to the question of my ‘loss’ of faith:
After all, how can you struggle with something that was never really there? When you discover that the shadowy figure that has been intimidating you all these years is actually just a pile of paper bags, would you describe that moment as a struggle? I looked God in the eye and saw he was just a harmless puppy, and decided to no longer pay him any more mind: which worked for a while.
I’m a pretty upfront guy. If someone asks me a question, I’m going to honestly answer it to best of my ability, because that’s what we do in a society, we help each other and communicate. And because religion is such a huge part of most people’s lives, the topic of what you believe is going to come up. And when religious people find out you’re an atheist, they can’t seem to stop asking you questions.
Which is why I’m here, writing this blog post: because people keep bothering me about it and then getting increasingly upset at my answers, and this frustrates the Hell, Michigan out of me. Why does this keep happening? Because of the stereotype of the person who has ‘lost’ their faith. Because when the faithful find out about me, they are surprised that I am not the person they imagined, who sits alone at night, weeping and blubbering about ‘why couldn’t I just have been more faithful?’ That person does not exist outside of Sunday School indoctrination sessions. ‘Wait,’ you persons of faith out there may say, ‘That can’t possibly be true. I’ve heard first hand accounts of such things.’ I dare all of you to challenge that hand. Ask for specific details about this mysterious person, ask to meet them. Suddenly the hand will no doubt admit that it is not the first, but rather the second, or third hand, and that to arrange this would be terribly inexpedient and socially unacceptable. Go ahead, try it and come back, so that we’re all on the same page here.
So, a person of faith has just found out that you are a dirty heathen (side note: in the interest of correctness please encourage your religious friends to use this term in lieu of infidel or pagan, as we are not fooling around with some other god and we certainly aren’t polytheists) and you’ve just turned their world upside down by not being a sad sack of shit wallowing in some basement eating rat turds. First question: why did you abandon the faith you were raised in? There is absolutely no answer you can give that will satisfy them, and don’t bother stealing my paper bag analogy, because I know for a fact that doesn’t work. The reason for this is because this question is a trap in the sand. They don’t actually want to hear your view, they want to help you get back on the right path. They want you to raise some niggling concern, so they can say, ‘Pray about it,’ or ‘Just have faith.’ Even with all the bending over backwards they do to accommodate flawed logic, they can't see that neither of these is an adequate response to ‘Besides being incredibly unlikely, the concept of god is not the least bit useful to me.’
Religion is a train that travels all day in a tiny little circle. You can get on at whatever point appeals to you most, but once you do, you’ve got to follow the path all the way around again, over and over. And that moment of doubt is a cow that’s wandered onto the tracks. Everything grinds to a halt for several minutes while it gets sorted out. For me, it was the moment I decided that the train was stupid, and I could really do with a nice walk. For those committed to the train, this just annoys the crap out of them. And for most of them, this is where they get devious.
At this point, their honor is on the line, because you’ve just dismissed their entire belief system, which is not something I take pleasure in, it’s just the truth. And if you’re like me you’ve got some pretty strong statements to support your position, so they’ve taken a defensive position. This is where you will hear all the same pathetic arguments over and over, time and time again. ‘So you don’t believe in an afterlife? Isn’t that sad? What’s the point of being good if there’s no god? Isn’t it better to be wrong than spend an eternity in hell? You know, Hitler and Stalin were atheists. Every culture on Earth has some sort of religion, don’t you think there’s something to that?’
When those shriveled old chestnuts fail to impress you, they break out the testimonials. Talking about how they believe because they’ve felt Jesus or some such thing. At this point both of you are just going through the motions. I don’t even know why they do this, some sort of sense of duty or something, maybe? It’s not particularly convincing. If I don’t like asparagus, you could have thirty people come in and gush for hours about how asparagus is the best thing since sexual intercourse, and afterward I wouldn’t be any less convinced. You’re just wasting my time.
Finally, we come to the end. ‘Well, it works for me.’ Finally a sentiment I can get behind. Except that in this case, it’s full of shit. If you actually believed that was a valid statement, we wouldn’t have had the last two thirds of this conversation. This is a point I always make clear pretty early on, that I don’t give a shit what you believe. Sure, I think it’s great when people become atheists, and I’m a bit more likely to take your opinions seriously if you are; but as long as you’re not a twattering gasbag, I don’t care.
So from now on, I think I am going to carry around business cards with the permalink URL for this post written on the back, so that this has to be the last time I have this conversation. I really am that sick of it.
And for all those who are just skimming this article, a quick recap of my key points in answer to the question of my ‘loss’ of faith:
- I don’t believe in any god because there is need in this universe for a god.
- I have already seen, and rejected as weak every logical argument for the existence of god there is out there; and even if you think you’ve got a new one, it has been said before.
- Your own faith is not going to persuade me.
- You are free to believe what you like, so long as you afford me the same privilege. I will not think any less of you as long as you also respect me.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
A Mini-Play Not About Al Gore
NATHANIEL
Say Brian, have you heard the latest news?
BRIAN
I am unsure as to which news you are referring.
NATHANIEL
It seems that 99% of all homicides are, in fact, committed by rabbits. They’ve got to be stopped, Brian, we’ve got to bring an end to the killing.
BRIAN
That seems like a dubious claim, Nathaniel.
NATHANIEL
Ah, but I’m afraid it is true. Why there could be rabbits in your house RIGHT NOW, killing your children.
BRIAN
Perchance do you have any evidence to back up this claim?
NATHANIEL
Of course I do. Do you honestly think I’d say something like that without evidence?
BRIAN
…
NATHANIEL
…
BRIAN
Well?
NATHANIEL
Fine, since you’re so insistent. It was in a recent scientific paper.
BRIAN
By whom?
NATHANIEL
A well respected scientist.
BRIAN
Which one?
NATHANIEL
Look, I can’t be expected to keep track of everything and cite every little thing I say. I’m not Superman.
BRIAN
Well, you do seem to be trying to save the world from deadly bunny rabbits.
NATHANIEL
Oh, so it’s like that, is it? This whole thing is just a joke to you?
BRIAN
Owing to the nature of your claim, it is somewhat amusing.
NATHANIEL
Well, if you’re so clever and bright, why don’t you back it up? Prove that I’m wrong.
BRIAN
Are you serious?
NATHANIEL
I certainly am, Brian. If you can’t just admit that you are wrong, then come up with something to prove your claim.
BRIAN
You mean my claim that the overwhelming majority of homicide cases aren’t perpetrated by rabbits? Shouldn’t you be the one to prove your case, since yours is more extraordinary, and appears to be transparently made up on the spot?
NATHANIEL
Ah, but I’ve already proven my claim, haven’t I?
BRIAN
No.
NATHANIEL
I knew it, you can’t disprove my point, and you’re simply attacking me because you can’t admit defeat.
BRIAN
This is growing tiresome. Why don’t we just solve this debate by going down to the police station and asking to see their statistics?
NATHANIEL
Oh please, you honestly trust their statistics?
BRIAN
Well, yes. Why wouldn’t I?
NATHANIEL
Well, there are a number of homicides that go unreported, or unsolved. Also the police don’t process rabbits, only humans.
BRIAN
What percentage of homicides go unsolved?
NATHANIEL
Oh, I would say… about 99%.
BRIAN
Even if that were true, which it is not, then how do you conclude that the murderers are all rabbits?
NATHANIEL
Look Brian, no accurate rabbit census has ever been taken, and we already know these things procreate like, well, like bunnies. If we’re not careful, we could soon be up to our eyeballs in duplicitous, murdering long ears.
BRIAN
You just completely changed the subject, and now you’ve moved on to meaningless fear mongering.
NATHANIEL
According to my calculations, in ten years, the rabbit density in New Mexico will increase to 13 rabbits for every square foot. Imagine a giant fuzzy blanket of cottony tails, whiskers, and HORROR.
BRIAN
Are you even listening to me anymore?
NATHANIEL
I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation, and I’m going to use it to spread awareness of this issue around the entire world.
BRIAN
Yeah, guess not.
NATHANIEL
Then, hopefully with a little luck, I’ll win an Oscar for it somehow, and I’ll be able to have people who disagree with me kil--
BRIAN
Well, good luck with your mental breakdown there, I’m going to go get some lunch.
NATHANIEL
And then no one will ever be able to call me “Mr. Poopypants” again! For I will be a respected humanitarian! BWAHAHAHAHA!
Epilogue: Two minutes later, Nathaniel blew out his O-ring and his trousers sadly perished of an extreme case of butt poisoning.
ADDENDUM
Say Brian, have you heard the latest news?
BRIAN
I am unsure as to which news you are referring.
NATHANIEL
It seems that 99% of all homicides are, in fact, committed by rabbits. They’ve got to be stopped, Brian, we’ve got to bring an end to the killing.
BRIAN
That seems like a dubious claim, Nathaniel.
NATHANIEL
Ah, but I’m afraid it is true. Why there could be rabbits in your house RIGHT NOW, killing your children.
BRIAN
Perchance do you have any evidence to back up this claim?
NATHANIEL
Of course I do. Do you honestly think I’d say something like that without evidence?
BRIAN
…
NATHANIEL
…
BRIAN
Well?
NATHANIEL
Fine, since you’re so insistent. It was in a recent scientific paper.
BRIAN
By whom?
NATHANIEL
A well respected scientist.
BRIAN
Which one?
NATHANIEL
Look, I can’t be expected to keep track of everything and cite every little thing I say. I’m not Superman.
BRIAN
Well, you do seem to be trying to save the world from deadly bunny rabbits.
NATHANIEL
Oh, so it’s like that, is it? This whole thing is just a joke to you?
BRIAN
Owing to the nature of your claim, it is somewhat amusing.
NATHANIEL
Well, if you’re so clever and bright, why don’t you back it up? Prove that I’m wrong.
BRIAN
Are you serious?
NATHANIEL
I certainly am, Brian. If you can’t just admit that you are wrong, then come up with something to prove your claim.
BRIAN
You mean my claim that the overwhelming majority of homicide cases aren’t perpetrated by rabbits? Shouldn’t you be the one to prove your case, since yours is more extraordinary, and appears to be transparently made up on the spot?
NATHANIEL
Ah, but I’ve already proven my claim, haven’t I?
BRIAN
No.
NATHANIEL
I knew it, you can’t disprove my point, and you’re simply attacking me because you can’t admit defeat.
BRIAN
This is growing tiresome. Why don’t we just solve this debate by going down to the police station and asking to see their statistics?
NATHANIEL
Oh please, you honestly trust their statistics?
BRIAN
Well, yes. Why wouldn’t I?
NATHANIEL
Well, there are a number of homicides that go unreported, or unsolved. Also the police don’t process rabbits, only humans.
BRIAN
What percentage of homicides go unsolved?
NATHANIEL
Oh, I would say… about 99%.
BRIAN
Even if that were true, which it is not, then how do you conclude that the murderers are all rabbits?
NATHANIEL
Look Brian, no accurate rabbit census has ever been taken, and we already know these things procreate like, well, like bunnies. If we’re not careful, we could soon be up to our eyeballs in duplicitous, murdering long ears.
BRIAN
You just completely changed the subject, and now you’ve moved on to meaningless fear mongering.
NATHANIEL
According to my calculations, in ten years, the rabbit density in New Mexico will increase to 13 rabbits for every square foot. Imagine a giant fuzzy blanket of cottony tails, whiskers, and HORROR.
BRIAN
Are you even listening to me anymore?
NATHANIEL
I’ve prepared a PowerPoint presentation, and I’m going to use it to spread awareness of this issue around the entire world.
BRIAN
Yeah, guess not.
NATHANIEL
Then, hopefully with a little luck, I’ll win an Oscar for it somehow, and I’ll be able to have people who disagree with me kil--
BRIAN
Well, good luck with your mental breakdown there, I’m going to go get some lunch.
NATHANIEL
And then no one will ever be able to call me “Mr. Poopypants” again! For I will be a respected humanitarian! BWAHAHAHAHA!
Epilogue: Two minutes later, Nathaniel blew out his O-ring and his trousers sadly perished of an extreme case of butt poisoning.
ADDENDUM
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
A Non-Review of Bioshock
This is supposed to be a review of the guaranteed-to-be-a-cult-classic Xbox 360/PC game, Bioshock. The problem is, I don’t really know what to say about the game. The first 75 percent of the game is epic, grand, and enthralling, and then all at once it all falls away and becomes a standard shooter with a boring and mud puddle-shallow revenge driven storyline. To get an idea of how egregious this is, imagine if you will that towards the end of Citizen Kane, after learning of the life and trials of Charles Foster Kane, our intrepid reporter returned to his home where he was ambushed by the movie’s eponymous subject, and beaten within an inch of his life. Finally, Kane reveals that some years previous, the reporter had run over his beloved dog “Fruffers,” and the billionaire newspaper magnate faked his death in order to carry out his revenge. Now imagine that he produces a shotgun, kills the man, and then has to shoot his way out of the apartment complex, blowing away hundreds of faceless thugs. Would you still call that a good movie? Keep in mind though, that up to this point this new version contains every single captivating scene from the original, save for the crucial “Rosebud” reveal.
I was going to use an analogy here comparing the game to having sex, and just before the climax you stop and go home. But that’s not really what it’s like. A better analogy is just as things are getting good, you remember that you have a whole bunch of math homework you have to do. You still come, but it’s cheapened somewhat by the fact that now you have to spend the rest of the night doing equations.
Okay, so what the fuck am I talking about? Well, to get specific, I’ll need to provide a quick synopsis of the game. Take care, beyond this point, there be spoilers.
You start out the story on a plane, speaking a single line of insignificant voiceover. This stands out as odd, because these will be the last words you will ever hear your character speak. The plane soon crashes, and you find yourself swimming to a curious lighthouse in the middle of the sea. Inside is a conspicuous bathysphere, which you climb into without hesitation and throw the switch. Why in the name of Ayn Rand you would do this, is an interesting question, and a matter for later on. Immediately you plunge beneath the sea, the sphere darkens, and a projector suddenly springs to life. Across a dusty screen flicker images of propaganda as a charismatic and confident voice fills you with his ideals. The screen suddenly shrinks away to reveal his underwater utopia, the city of “Rapture.” And it’s beautiful. It’s sort of an underwater New York meets Chicago, with three times the vertical height, with whales and giant squid roaming between the tube-connected high-rises. You can’t help but feel a sense of awe at this impressive feat of artistry and design, and as you approach your destination, the game teases you with advertisements, saying things like “free samples of telekinesis.”
As soon as you enter the docking station, however, everything changes. Inside, the city is literally falling apart, and there is trash and debris strewn everywhere. Worse yet, the only inhabitants you see are horribly mutilated punks, who wander the city, violently assaulting anyone they encounter. Your only contact in this dank hellhole is a charming fellow with an difficult to place accent named “Atlas.” He enlists you in helping his family escape the city. Without even a second thought, you agree and start collecting weapons, and powering yourself up with “plasmids,” solutions which alter your DNA giving you fantastic powers. As you proceed, you start to find tape recorders, lots and lots of tape recorders. Apparently the citizens of Rapture were encouraged to keep audio diaries and then leave them all scattered about. Through these recordings, you begin to learn of the city, and how it came to be first divided by class warfare, and then utterly destroyed by plasmids. You also learn of the little girls, transformed into monsters by the substance that allows the transformations, called “ADAM,” who are trained to gather and recycle the precious gene-altering substance from the recently deceased. You quickly learn from experience of the nigh-unstoppable killing machines whose sole purpose it is to guard them.
By the time you reach Atlas’ family, the Charles Foster Kane type you heard back in the bathysphere, Andrew Ryan, has begun to notice your presence in his city, and is now actively trying to kill you. He responds to your escape attempt by blowing up your escape submarine, killing Atlas’ wife and child in the process. Heartbroken, Atlas charges you with a mission of vengeance, asking you, “would you kindly kill Andrew Ryan?”
By this point, and along the path toward Ryan, you begin to notice strange things. As this is a video game, death is impossible, because that would permanently ruin your ability to progress in the game. However, this game actually handles death with something that exists within the world of the game. If you die, you are instantly transported to a Vita-Chamber, a sort of glass resurrection tube. From here, you can, step out of the tube, and everything will be as it was, except you are not alive. It is not a retry, as your actions, have not been reversed, it is an honest resurrection. But sooner or later, you’re going to begin wondering why the Vita-Chamber only works on you. The answer is revealed to you first subtly through tape recordings, then explicitly once you reach Ryan. You are Ryan’s son.
You were conceived illegitimately, and your prostitute mother sold your fetus to researchers, probably so that she could score more ADAM, and your genes were altered to resist the poisonous effect that junk had on so many. You were also conditioned to someday return to Rapture, to kill Andrew Ryan. Atlas’ quirky catchphrase of, “would you kindly?” is revealed to be a codeword which forces you to follow the request without question. As a result, you have no choice but to watch as you brutally kill an old man, who wants nothing more than to save your freedom. Atlas is then revealed to be Ryan’s rival, the man who started the black market that eventually destroyed Rapture, the smuggler Fontaine. Turns out his family, as well as his endearing accent, were fake, and just the tools of deception he employed to use you to take out Ryan.
Now, up to this point, this sounds pretty great, right? Well, this is the point where the story takes a nose-dive. Obviously it isn’t over, as you clearly need to deal with Fontaine now. The stage has been set, Fontaine’s plan has succeeded, and now he should be poised to take over Rapture, right? The only problem is that he doesn’t. Instead, he spends the rest of the game taunting you, and just generally being a dick over the radio. Doesn’t this guy have stuff to do? Plus, as he’s talking to you over the radio, he doesn’t really reveal any new details. You never really get to see why he used this plan in the first place, or why he’d even want to take over Rapture after he’d basically turned it into a cesspool where only survivors were crack heads all hopped up on superpower juice.
So you shoot a bunch of guys, and you no longer really care about the setting. In fact, it hardly seems like you’re underwater anymore. After killing who knows how many crack heads, you finally reach Fontaine, who has pumped himself so full of ADAM that he’s a giant glowing steel monster. There is absolutely no explanation for why he did this, in fact there’s no indication up to this point that he’d been indulging in ADAM. After a pathetically easy boss fight there’s a cutscene which I swear is only about 45 seconds long, where you return to the surface with the little girls you’ve saved, it’s shown that you raised them as surrogate daughters, and then you’re returned to the title screen. No credit crawl, not even a fade to black, just “Bioshock: Press Start.” That’s all you get for beating the game.
You learn nothing new about Fontaine, and nothing new about the city, from the moment you kill Andrew Ryan onward. There are still tape recorders everywhere, but they only tell you where you can find the next macguffin to bring you closer to the final fight.
This is not a review of Bioshock. I say this because even having expended this many words about the game, I still don’t know what to think of it. Bioshock invited me over for a party, and it was a kickass party, until for some unknown reason we all started taking turns humping the radiator. If I had to score it, I would give the first part a perfect score, and the second part a score of “a porcupine fisting a cream pie.”
So now I’m going to retire to the garage and finish construction on my Big Daddy suit, so I can finally finish the game properly. See you on the evening news.
ADDENDUM:
I was going to use an analogy here comparing the game to having sex, and just before the climax you stop and go home. But that’s not really what it’s like. A better analogy is just as things are getting good, you remember that you have a whole bunch of math homework you have to do. You still come, but it’s cheapened somewhat by the fact that now you have to spend the rest of the night doing equations.
Okay, so what the fuck am I talking about? Well, to get specific, I’ll need to provide a quick synopsis of the game. Take care, beyond this point, there be spoilers.
You start out the story on a plane, speaking a single line of insignificant voiceover. This stands out as odd, because these will be the last words you will ever hear your character speak. The plane soon crashes, and you find yourself swimming to a curious lighthouse in the middle of the sea. Inside is a conspicuous bathysphere, which you climb into without hesitation and throw the switch. Why in the name of Ayn Rand you would do this, is an interesting question, and a matter for later on. Immediately you plunge beneath the sea, the sphere darkens, and a projector suddenly springs to life. Across a dusty screen flicker images of propaganda as a charismatic and confident voice fills you with his ideals. The screen suddenly shrinks away to reveal his underwater utopia, the city of “Rapture.” And it’s beautiful. It’s sort of an underwater New York meets Chicago, with three times the vertical height, with whales and giant squid roaming between the tube-connected high-rises. You can’t help but feel a sense of awe at this impressive feat of artistry and design, and as you approach your destination, the game teases you with advertisements, saying things like “free samples of telekinesis.”
As soon as you enter the docking station, however, everything changes. Inside, the city is literally falling apart, and there is trash and debris strewn everywhere. Worse yet, the only inhabitants you see are horribly mutilated punks, who wander the city, violently assaulting anyone they encounter. Your only contact in this dank hellhole is a charming fellow with an difficult to place accent named “Atlas.” He enlists you in helping his family escape the city. Without even a second thought, you agree and start collecting weapons, and powering yourself up with “plasmids,” solutions which alter your DNA giving you fantastic powers. As you proceed, you start to find tape recorders, lots and lots of tape recorders. Apparently the citizens of Rapture were encouraged to keep audio diaries and then leave them all scattered about. Through these recordings, you begin to learn of the city, and how it came to be first divided by class warfare, and then utterly destroyed by plasmids. You also learn of the little girls, transformed into monsters by the substance that allows the transformations, called “ADAM,” who are trained to gather and recycle the precious gene-altering substance from the recently deceased. You quickly learn from experience of the nigh-unstoppable killing machines whose sole purpose it is to guard them.
By the time you reach Atlas’ family, the Charles Foster Kane type you heard back in the bathysphere, Andrew Ryan, has begun to notice your presence in his city, and is now actively trying to kill you. He responds to your escape attempt by blowing up your escape submarine, killing Atlas’ wife and child in the process. Heartbroken, Atlas charges you with a mission of vengeance, asking you, “would you kindly kill Andrew Ryan?”
By this point, and along the path toward Ryan, you begin to notice strange things. As this is a video game, death is impossible, because that would permanently ruin your ability to progress in the game. However, this game actually handles death with something that exists within the world of the game. If you die, you are instantly transported to a Vita-Chamber, a sort of glass resurrection tube. From here, you can, step out of the tube, and everything will be as it was, except you are not alive. It is not a retry, as your actions, have not been reversed, it is an honest resurrection. But sooner or later, you’re going to begin wondering why the Vita-Chamber only works on you. The answer is revealed to you first subtly through tape recordings, then explicitly once you reach Ryan. You are Ryan’s son.
You were conceived illegitimately, and your prostitute mother sold your fetus to researchers, probably so that she could score more ADAM, and your genes were altered to resist the poisonous effect that junk had on so many. You were also conditioned to someday return to Rapture, to kill Andrew Ryan. Atlas’ quirky catchphrase of, “would you kindly?” is revealed to be a codeword which forces you to follow the request without question. As a result, you have no choice but to watch as you brutally kill an old man, who wants nothing more than to save your freedom. Atlas is then revealed to be Ryan’s rival, the man who started the black market that eventually destroyed Rapture, the smuggler Fontaine. Turns out his family, as well as his endearing accent, were fake, and just the tools of deception he employed to use you to take out Ryan.
Now, up to this point, this sounds pretty great, right? Well, this is the point where the story takes a nose-dive. Obviously it isn’t over, as you clearly need to deal with Fontaine now. The stage has been set, Fontaine’s plan has succeeded, and now he should be poised to take over Rapture, right? The only problem is that he doesn’t. Instead, he spends the rest of the game taunting you, and just generally being a dick over the radio. Doesn’t this guy have stuff to do? Plus, as he’s talking to you over the radio, he doesn’t really reveal any new details. You never really get to see why he used this plan in the first place, or why he’d even want to take over Rapture after he’d basically turned it into a cesspool where only survivors were crack heads all hopped up on superpower juice.
So you shoot a bunch of guys, and you no longer really care about the setting. In fact, it hardly seems like you’re underwater anymore. After killing who knows how many crack heads, you finally reach Fontaine, who has pumped himself so full of ADAM that he’s a giant glowing steel monster. There is absolutely no explanation for why he did this, in fact there’s no indication up to this point that he’d been indulging in ADAM. After a pathetically easy boss fight there’s a cutscene which I swear is only about 45 seconds long, where you return to the surface with the little girls you’ve saved, it’s shown that you raised them as surrogate daughters, and then you’re returned to the title screen. No credit crawl, not even a fade to black, just “Bioshock: Press Start.” That’s all you get for beating the game.
You learn nothing new about Fontaine, and nothing new about the city, from the moment you kill Andrew Ryan onward. There are still tape recorders everywhere, but they only tell you where you can find the next macguffin to bring you closer to the final fight.
This is not a review of Bioshock. I say this because even having expended this many words about the game, I still don’t know what to think of it. Bioshock invited me over for a party, and it was a kickass party, until for some unknown reason we all started taking turns humping the radiator. If I had to score it, I would give the first part a perfect score, and the second part a score of “a porcupine fisting a cream pie.”
So now I’m going to retire to the garage and finish construction on my Big Daddy suit, so I can finally finish the game properly. See you on the evening news.
ADDENDUM:
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My PAX 2007 Report
The Marching of the Cunts
Six thousand by six thousand stood they,
The stalwart cunts,
Weaponless and exposed, they marched on
And sixty thousand by sixty thousand, did they face
Of men, both terrible and strong.
And quickly were they trodden upon.
Those brave cunts, those brave cunts!
The bards would someday sing.
Those cunts, which stood against the dawn.
And as they were slaughtered, they stood braver still
No queef nor complaint did they utter.
They stood upon that hillside slaughterground,
Like floppy pink pillars of stone.
For theirs is not to reason why,
Theirs is but to do and die.
O cunts, O stalwart cunts.
ADDENDUM:
Six thousand by six thousand stood they,
The stalwart cunts,
Weaponless and exposed, they marched on
And sixty thousand by sixty thousand, did they face
Of men, both terrible and strong.
And quickly were they trodden upon.
Those brave cunts, those brave cunts!
The bards would someday sing.
Those cunts, which stood against the dawn.
And as they were slaughtered, they stood braver still
No queef nor complaint did they utter.
They stood upon that hillside slaughterground,
Like floppy pink pillars of stone.
For theirs is not to reason why,
Theirs is but to do and die.
O cunts, O stalwart cunts.
ADDENDUM:
Sunday, August 19, 2007
It's been too long.
It's 3:45 am. You're on the road, completely alone, except for the music pumping out of the speakers. Your name brand portable music player is hooked to your car through an adapter plugged into the tape deck, bridging the gap between old technology and new. Your car cannot handle the new device; it is in a transitory state, as are you. You don't know what you want to listen to, so you tell your player to play all your songs in random order.
You are not alone for long, as you soon detect the flash of headlights in your side mirror. A red light up ahead soon brings you side by side as you stop, waiting for no one. As your playlist flips over to the next song, the opening strains of “Don't Stop Believin'” fill your car. Not long ago, these notes played over the final moments of the last episode of a popular TV show, and you are embarrassed to seem so predictable. Of course, it wasn't your choice, but all the same you turn to see if the person next to you has noticed, knowing full well there's no way they could have.
The person is alone in their car. It seems like this late at night, everybody is alone. They remain alone, for as you regard this person, they look straight ahead, taking no notice of you. Their face is half obscured in shadow, so it is hard to make out their expression, but the overwhelming neutrality of it shines through the darkness. They show absolutely no emotion, yet you're drowning in pathos. The situation says it all, they like you, and all the other cars on the road, that now are nothing but pale flashes off in the distance, you're all in a state of transition.
Authors have long probed how a physical transitory state reflects something of the human condition. They tell of brief meetings on buses, planes, trains, in waiting rooms, stations, and terminals. But as far as I know, none have documented the phenomenon at stoplights. I suppose these locations are more seductive; you have plenty of time to kill, and the people involved can engage in conversation. This works better in a novel, but as an experience, nothing is so perfectly succinct as these 30 seconds.
Back in the car, the light changes, and instantly you're alone again. The other person now cares only for the road ahead, and try as you might, you cannot lose yourself in that person again. Your old companion remains practically as close as ever, but now you are insurmountably divided. You've been bitten by a snake, and now it has gone, and you have only the sting to keep you company. And then you hear these lyrics:
Strangers waiting
Up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching
In the night
Streetlights, people
Livin' just to find emotion
Hidin', somewhere in the night
And suddenly what seemed so cheesy before is now uncomfortably appropriate.
Sometimes life is maddeningly clichéd.
SIDE NOTE: Today's Pearls Before Swine is fucking awesome.
You are not alone for long, as you soon detect the flash of headlights in your side mirror. A red light up ahead soon brings you side by side as you stop, waiting for no one. As your playlist flips over to the next song, the opening strains of “Don't Stop Believin'” fill your car. Not long ago, these notes played over the final moments of the last episode of a popular TV show, and you are embarrassed to seem so predictable. Of course, it wasn't your choice, but all the same you turn to see if the person next to you has noticed, knowing full well there's no way they could have.
The person is alone in their car. It seems like this late at night, everybody is alone. They remain alone, for as you regard this person, they look straight ahead, taking no notice of you. Their face is half obscured in shadow, so it is hard to make out their expression, but the overwhelming neutrality of it shines through the darkness. They show absolutely no emotion, yet you're drowning in pathos. The situation says it all, they like you, and all the other cars on the road, that now are nothing but pale flashes off in the distance, you're all in a state of transition.
Authors have long probed how a physical transitory state reflects something of the human condition. They tell of brief meetings on buses, planes, trains, in waiting rooms, stations, and terminals. But as far as I know, none have documented the phenomenon at stoplights. I suppose these locations are more seductive; you have plenty of time to kill, and the people involved can engage in conversation. This works better in a novel, but as an experience, nothing is so perfectly succinct as these 30 seconds.
Back in the car, the light changes, and instantly you're alone again. The other person now cares only for the road ahead, and try as you might, you cannot lose yourself in that person again. Your old companion remains practically as close as ever, but now you are insurmountably divided. You've been bitten by a snake, and now it has gone, and you have only the sting to keep you company. And then you hear these lyrics:
Strangers waiting
Up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching
In the night
Streetlights, people
Livin' just to find emotion
Hidin', somewhere in the night
And suddenly what seemed so cheesy before is now uncomfortably appropriate.
Sometimes life is maddeningly clichéd.
SIDE NOTE: Today's Pearls Before Swine is fucking awesome.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Variation
A historian, a scientist, and a mathematician are sharing a cabin on a train traveling through Scotland. The train suddenly stops, and the conductor announces that the train will be delayed for some time, so they talk to pass the time. As the historian glances out the window, he notices a lone black sheep standing in a field. "Ah, all Scottish sheep are black," he exclaims. The scientist corrects him. "No," she says, "it is far more likely that some Scottish sheep are black, and others are white." They both naturally turn to the mathematician, who silently contemplates the sheep for some time. Eventually, he says, "In this particular field, on this particular day, at this particular time, there exists one sheep that is at least half black."
Meanwhile, a priest walks by, and the group inquires his opinion on the matter. The priest replies, "All Scottish sheep are white, that black one is a forgery made by the devil."
---
Plus: a bonus fallacious proof of the existence of unicorns:
Einstein showed that space and time are closely related.
There was no space before the universe existed.
Thus, there was no time before the universe existed.
Space is infinite.
Therefore, time is also infinite.
Thus, time has always existed.
Thus, before the big bang, time both existed, and didn't exist.
Therefore, if something exists, it also doesn't exist.
Unicorns don't exist.
Thus, unicorns exist.
QED
Meanwhile, a priest walks by, and the group inquires his opinion on the matter. The priest replies, "All Scottish sheep are white, that black one is a forgery made by the devil."
---
Plus: a bonus fallacious proof of the existence of unicorns:
Einstein showed that space and time are closely related.
There was no space before the universe existed.
Thus, there was no time before the universe existed.
Space is infinite.
Therefore, time is also infinite.
Thus, time has always existed.
Thus, before the big bang, time both existed, and didn't exist.
Therefore, if something exists, it also doesn't exist.
Unicorns don't exist.
Thus, unicorns exist.
QED
Thursday, June 7, 2007
A List of Things
An old guitar with rusty strings and splintered wood.
An old barn, with a single spotlight staring into your soul.
A mangy dog gnawing on a human hand.
The sound of the wind, as great hulking trashcans bound across the street.
The moon, pale and orange, barely hanging onto the sky.
A broken promise, delivered by a broken man.
A smarmy bumper sticker, lying at the bottom of a dirty pond.
The glowing haze of a forest fire, poking its way between the smoky trees.
Spaghetti noodles straddling a storm drain.
A lone streetlight dimly flickering.
A blood-stained trailer with a broken axle.
A children’s toy in a dumpster, excitedly exclaiming, “Hug me!”
The feeling of knowing exactly who you are, and then it disappearing one hour later.
A muddy trail lined with debris.
A cake celebrating your birthday, in a flavor you can’t stand.
A beloved hot dog stand, boarded up and gone forever.
An old man in the park, feeding tacos to the ducks.
A small child, kicked in the face by a break dancer.
A man, a plan, a kind of man-made river planned.
A fashionable brooch of solid green.
A certification of your completion of the seventh grade, dated 79 years before you were born.
An unread book on your shelf that speaks to you perfectly at the moment you finally pick it up.
Losing your voice, and then finding it again.
An old barn, with a single spotlight staring into your soul.
A mangy dog gnawing on a human hand.
The sound of the wind, as great hulking trashcans bound across the street.
The moon, pale and orange, barely hanging onto the sky.
A broken promise, delivered by a broken man.
A smarmy bumper sticker, lying at the bottom of a dirty pond.
The glowing haze of a forest fire, poking its way between the smoky trees.
Spaghetti noodles straddling a storm drain.
A lone streetlight dimly flickering.
A blood-stained trailer with a broken axle.
A children’s toy in a dumpster, excitedly exclaiming, “Hug me!”
The feeling of knowing exactly who you are, and then it disappearing one hour later.
A muddy trail lined with debris.
A cake celebrating your birthday, in a flavor you can’t stand.
A beloved hot dog stand, boarded up and gone forever.
An old man in the park, feeding tacos to the ducks.
A small child, kicked in the face by a break dancer.
A man, a plan, a kind of man-made river planned.
A fashionable brooch of solid green.
A certification of your completion of the seventh grade, dated 79 years before you were born.
An unread book on your shelf that speaks to you perfectly at the moment you finally pick it up.
Losing your voice, and then finding it again.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
A Broken Mind Part 2: Playing Dress-Up
As should be readily apparent, I am a great admirer of science. I think the scientific method is THE crowning achievement of mankind (sorry to disappoint you, figure skating, but you’re just kind of lame). But I also think science is one of the most misunderstood concepts in today’s society. To most people, the word conjures up some sort of image of people standing around in lab coats, fiddling with test tubes, and figuring out how much an atom of beryllium weighs, and other information which couldn’t possibly be of interest to them. Others see it as something not unlike voodoo, all the while standing around cursing the bureaucratic bean counters for holding back production of their flying automobiles.
It is this second group which the charlatans feed off. People who wouldn’t know true science if it punched them in the face and shat on their tuna fish sandwich. These people are fair game for psychics, chiropractors, mediums, new age anythings, messiahs, alien abductees, missionaries, ghost hunters, gypsies, tramps, and thieves. These people, who hold up science as some sort of treat, enticing the hoodwinkable with hard to understand concepts like energy, and dazzling them with big ten dollar words (adjusted for inflation), are just making speed bumps on the road of our cultural evolution by confusing people with fake science.
Now, I’m not faulting them for being opportunistic. I see nothing wrong with attempting to make a quick buck. I’m just saying that if you have to lie to sell your product or service, you shouldn’t be selling it in the first place. Anything you have to offer society must stand on its own or not at all. You can’t pack your excrement into bars and then tell me it’s chocolate, that’s immoral. If you want to sell it with a big ol’ sign that says, “Feces for Sale, RIGHT HERE!” I’m okay with that. It’s when someone not only resorts to dishonesty, but also drags the good name of science through the mud that makes me want to pull out my switchblade, snap my fingers, and get ready to rumble.
Claiming to play in the realm of science when you obviously don’t is a serious offense. It’s like printing a fake review on the back of your book, and attributing it to a real critic. It’s utterly dishonest, and you just shouldn’t be able to get away with it. Science is very clearly defined, it’s never vague, and you can’t make statements without supporting them. Science is also peer reviewed, so on the off chance someone’s judgment is clouded on a particular issue, it can be caught and corrected. Those are some big shoes to fill, and that’s the reason I’m not a scientist, merely a cheerleader for science. The amount of responsibility required to enter that arena is substantial, unlike the claims of the aforementioned charlatans.
Okay, fine, not all of them are charlatans. Some actually do believe in the shit they’re selling. But that’s only because somebody else sold it to them first, and that’s part of the problem. You’ve got otherwise trustworthy people spreading disinformation simply because someone gave them a good price on a fake bridge. Since not everybody peddling this shit is a fraud, it becomes harder and harder to figure out what’s true and what isn’t. And that’s exactly what the dishonest people want.
They want fact and fiction to mingle together into an inseparable mess. This legitimizes them, which is an attractive quality for the consumer. In no uncertain terms, they seek to destroy science in order to make money. Not only does this mean they’re stepping on the customers, and the people they con into propagating their spurious claims, by weakening the position of science they are diminishing the quality of your life, the lives of your family, the lives of your friends, the lives of your neighbors, of your countrymen, of the entire population of the world and every generation yet to come. They are fucking over billions of people, and for what? To make a few bucks? That is utterly repulsive.
There will always be repulsive people in the world, people who will have more power than they should. There will always exist people who will lie and swindle, and get away with it; but these people don’t have to get away with it. It is so incredibly easy to catch them in their lie, yet they maintain power because most people don’t even try. They always come up with excuses, like “I can’t make this distinction, I’m not an expert!” or “science is too complicated for me to understand.” These are, of course, untrue. I mean, it’s not like you have to do the research yourself, there are plenty of other people willing to do that for you. All you have to do is recognize the signs of true science, which is why I’ve taken the time to create the following list to help you out. If the claim you’re examining is missing any of these elements, chances are you’re holding a big old vial of snake oil:
Observation
This is pretty basic, if there’s something you want to understand, you first have to observe some kind of result that doesn’t have an adequate explanation. If your claim is based on a theory instead of an observation, you’ve probably been flim-flammed. For example, holistic medicine is based on some kind of theory about vibrating particles, which is currently untestable and thus, unobservable. Where the supposed good effects come into play, I have never seen.
Prediction
This is perhaps the most misunderstood part of the scientific method, because what it isn’t is a wild guess about what is going on. This stage involves taking what we do know about the world around us and combining it with what we think we know, in order to form a way to move the latter category into the former. The way the fakers usually twist this one is to move things between the two categories before they’ve been proven, they make the effect into the cause and the cause into the effect. Unless a hypothesis is founded upon hard fact, it’s just a guess.
Control
This is the big one. It’s where most psuedosciences fuck it up, because this is a difficult one to fake. This is a group of experimental subjects who are exposed to all the same conditions as the others, except for the one you’re testing for. It doesn’t weed out all inaccuracy, as some conditions can be difficult to separate, but it’s considered a requirement because it eliminates a huge group of possible alternative explanations in one fell swoop. If the only results you see are from people who received the so-called treatment, then I absolutely guarantee it’s a con job.
Falsifiability
If something can be proven to be true, it follows that there should also be a test that can prove it false. Now, if the scientist left out one or two possible explanations, then it’s possible you’re simply dealing with a lazy scientist. But if other possibilities never even come up, then that person is trying to take your money. Because when you’re scamming people, you don’t ever want the possibility of you being wrong to ever come up, because doubt hurts the bottom line. In the pursuit of truth though, assumptions have to be questioned every step of the way.
Experimentation
That’s right, once you’ve worked out a theory, and where the weak points in it are, you’ve got to test the damn thing. And testing means data, completely quantifiable and measurable. The tricky thing about data though, is since it doesn’t exist in the physical world, it’s so easy to fake. Bad data can be hard to spot, but a good rule of thumb is if it’s too good to be true, it’s probably not true. If your study does have data though, and it fails on any of these other counts, then at least you know they just pulled it out of their ass, and now you know the magnitude of the malfeasance being performed on you.
Repeatability
Repetition builds a theories strength, especially when performed by others. In order to allow others to reproduce your experiment though, you have to very clearly outline your method. If something about the method seems unclear or slightly off somehow, chances are they’re covering their tracks, because they don’t want people to verify their lies.
Explanation
Time to wrap it up, and for the real scientist, this is where you have to go all in. You have to form a conclusion, but not just any conclusion. Your conclusion has to be supported by every single one of the steps outlined above. If you come up short in any single area, everything you’ve just attempted is all for nothing. As you can see, this is no small task, and this is the reason I could never be a scientist. You could devote years of your life to something only to find out one day that everything you’ve accomplished has been refuted because of some tiny concept that you failed to observe. And if you go into that field, this IS going to happen to you, and probably more than once. Is it cruel? Without a doubt. But it is also the fastest and most reliable way of attaining accurate knowledge. And if you claim to be a scientist but don’t allow yourself to be exposed to that, then you’re just a kid stuffing your little feet into a parent’s enormous shoes. Science is about bravery, valor, and humility. And to undermine it is to undermine all those things.
I beg all who would listen, to stop letting people get away with this kind of cockery. Use this guide, and learn to tell real science from the money-grubbing schemers. Because if you’re not a part of the solution, you’re a part of the precipitate.
It is this second group which the charlatans feed off. People who wouldn’t know true science if it punched them in the face and shat on their tuna fish sandwich. These people are fair game for psychics, chiropractors, mediums, new age anythings, messiahs, alien abductees, missionaries, ghost hunters, gypsies, tramps, and thieves. These people, who hold up science as some sort of treat, enticing the hoodwinkable with hard to understand concepts like energy, and dazzling them with big ten dollar words (adjusted for inflation), are just making speed bumps on the road of our cultural evolution by confusing people with fake science.
Now, I’m not faulting them for being opportunistic. I see nothing wrong with attempting to make a quick buck. I’m just saying that if you have to lie to sell your product or service, you shouldn’t be selling it in the first place. Anything you have to offer society must stand on its own or not at all. You can’t pack your excrement into bars and then tell me it’s chocolate, that’s immoral. If you want to sell it with a big ol’ sign that says, “Feces for Sale, RIGHT HERE!” I’m okay with that. It’s when someone not only resorts to dishonesty, but also drags the good name of science through the mud that makes me want to pull out my switchblade, snap my fingers, and get ready to rumble.
Claiming to play in the realm of science when you obviously don’t is a serious offense. It’s like printing a fake review on the back of your book, and attributing it to a real critic. It’s utterly dishonest, and you just shouldn’t be able to get away with it. Science is very clearly defined, it’s never vague, and you can’t make statements without supporting them. Science is also peer reviewed, so on the off chance someone’s judgment is clouded on a particular issue, it can be caught and corrected. Those are some big shoes to fill, and that’s the reason I’m not a scientist, merely a cheerleader for science. The amount of responsibility required to enter that arena is substantial, unlike the claims of the aforementioned charlatans.
Okay, fine, not all of them are charlatans. Some actually do believe in the shit they’re selling. But that’s only because somebody else sold it to them first, and that’s part of the problem. You’ve got otherwise trustworthy people spreading disinformation simply because someone gave them a good price on a fake bridge. Since not everybody peddling this shit is a fraud, it becomes harder and harder to figure out what’s true and what isn’t. And that’s exactly what the dishonest people want.
They want fact and fiction to mingle together into an inseparable mess. This legitimizes them, which is an attractive quality for the consumer. In no uncertain terms, they seek to destroy science in order to make money. Not only does this mean they’re stepping on the customers, and the people they con into propagating their spurious claims, by weakening the position of science they are diminishing the quality of your life, the lives of your family, the lives of your friends, the lives of your neighbors, of your countrymen, of the entire population of the world and every generation yet to come. They are fucking over billions of people, and for what? To make a few bucks? That is utterly repulsive.
There will always be repulsive people in the world, people who will have more power than they should. There will always exist people who will lie and swindle, and get away with it; but these people don’t have to get away with it. It is so incredibly easy to catch them in their lie, yet they maintain power because most people don’t even try. They always come up with excuses, like “I can’t make this distinction, I’m not an expert!” or “science is too complicated for me to understand.” These are, of course, untrue. I mean, it’s not like you have to do the research yourself, there are plenty of other people willing to do that for you. All you have to do is recognize the signs of true science, which is why I’ve taken the time to create the following list to help you out. If the claim you’re examining is missing any of these elements, chances are you’re holding a big old vial of snake oil:
Observation
This is pretty basic, if there’s something you want to understand, you first have to observe some kind of result that doesn’t have an adequate explanation. If your claim is based on a theory instead of an observation, you’ve probably been flim-flammed. For example, holistic medicine is based on some kind of theory about vibrating particles, which is currently untestable and thus, unobservable. Where the supposed good effects come into play, I have never seen.
Prediction
This is perhaps the most misunderstood part of the scientific method, because what it isn’t is a wild guess about what is going on. This stage involves taking what we do know about the world around us and combining it with what we think we know, in order to form a way to move the latter category into the former. The way the fakers usually twist this one is to move things between the two categories before they’ve been proven, they make the effect into the cause and the cause into the effect. Unless a hypothesis is founded upon hard fact, it’s just a guess.
Control
This is the big one. It’s where most psuedosciences fuck it up, because this is a difficult one to fake. This is a group of experimental subjects who are exposed to all the same conditions as the others, except for the one you’re testing for. It doesn’t weed out all inaccuracy, as some conditions can be difficult to separate, but it’s considered a requirement because it eliminates a huge group of possible alternative explanations in one fell swoop. If the only results you see are from people who received the so-called treatment, then I absolutely guarantee it’s a con job.
Falsifiability
If something can be proven to be true, it follows that there should also be a test that can prove it false. Now, if the scientist left out one or two possible explanations, then it’s possible you’re simply dealing with a lazy scientist. But if other possibilities never even come up, then that person is trying to take your money. Because when you’re scamming people, you don’t ever want the possibility of you being wrong to ever come up, because doubt hurts the bottom line. In the pursuit of truth though, assumptions have to be questioned every step of the way.
Experimentation
That’s right, once you’ve worked out a theory, and where the weak points in it are, you’ve got to test the damn thing. And testing means data, completely quantifiable and measurable. The tricky thing about data though, is since it doesn’t exist in the physical world, it’s so easy to fake. Bad data can be hard to spot, but a good rule of thumb is if it’s too good to be true, it’s probably not true. If your study does have data though, and it fails on any of these other counts, then at least you know they just pulled it out of their ass, and now you know the magnitude of the malfeasance being performed on you.
Repeatability
Repetition builds a theories strength, especially when performed by others. In order to allow others to reproduce your experiment though, you have to very clearly outline your method. If something about the method seems unclear or slightly off somehow, chances are they’re covering their tracks, because they don’t want people to verify their lies.
Explanation
Time to wrap it up, and for the real scientist, this is where you have to go all in. You have to form a conclusion, but not just any conclusion. Your conclusion has to be supported by every single one of the steps outlined above. If you come up short in any single area, everything you’ve just attempted is all for nothing. As you can see, this is no small task, and this is the reason I could never be a scientist. You could devote years of your life to something only to find out one day that everything you’ve accomplished has been refuted because of some tiny concept that you failed to observe. And if you go into that field, this IS going to happen to you, and probably more than once. Is it cruel? Without a doubt. But it is also the fastest and most reliable way of attaining accurate knowledge. And if you claim to be a scientist but don’t allow yourself to be exposed to that, then you’re just a kid stuffing your little feet into a parent’s enormous shoes. Science is about bravery, valor, and humility. And to undermine it is to undermine all those things.
I beg all who would listen, to stop letting people get away with this kind of cockery. Use this guide, and learn to tell real science from the money-grubbing schemers. Because if you’re not a part of the solution, you’re a part of the precipitate.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Fucking Fuck Apple, and Their Shoddy Ass Products
I'm going to start off this post with a confession. I'm a big fucking hypocrite. I wrote this huge review completely blasting Apple Computers, particularly their marketing, and a few weeks ago, I bought an Ipod (no, I shall not lowercase that "I" because I won't give them the satisfaction). I bought it because I wanted a portable video playing device, and theirs was the cheapest one with all the features I wanted. I also bought it because I now subscribe to a number of podcasts, and I wanted a device with better organization for those. Which brings me to my complaint.
I fucking hate Itunes (again, note the "I"). And with good reason, because it sucks at organizing my music, and it likes to fuck around with my painstakingly organized tag information. But now that I have a fucking Ipod, I need to use fucking Itunes to transfer my stuff to it. Which is bad enough, but as I'm subscribing to all my podcasts over again in Itunes, something interesting is happening. Occasionally, a big group of podcast files decides to just disappear into the ether. Now, longtime Itunes users, I know what you're thinking; you're thinking that I just have it set to delete my old episodes. This is not the case, because I know where to find the settings, I know what they are set on, and I know what happens when you set them that way, and it isn't this. I can tell, because Itunes continues to look for the files, going so far as to ask me if I want to locate them. So I go into the folder, and to my surprise, the file that was there just two hours ago has now vanished without a trace. And no file bearing its name exists anywhere on my computer. And of course there's no way to re-download just that one file, oh no, that would be too convenient. You have to unsubscribe from the podcast, and re-download EVERY SINGLE EPISODE over again. And if you like to keep your old episodes like I do, this is a huge pain in the ass.
So, Apple, if you're reading this (you're probably not, so luckily I sent you an email stating the same thing but saying the word "fuck" a few less times), you're officially on my list of people who I wouldn't mind if they got sodomized by bears (sadly, the bears can only manage to sodomize six people per year, or at least six who will report it). If this is the type of product you put your name behind, and the type of customer service you offer (where the fuck is your damned telephone number?), then I deeply regret giving you money. And keep in mind you were already on my shit list when I did. If I had it to do over again, I would have spent the extra money and gone with a brand that doesn't treat people like shit and act all fucking haughty over it. Your corporation is garbage, and I hope that someday your legacy is regarded as a puke-stain on the carpet in the hall of history.
Also, bears, if you're reading this, I would be eternally grateful if you would place these guys at the top of your anal rape list. Seriously, I'll buy you guys dinner and everything.
ADDENDUM:
I fucking hate Itunes (again, note the "I"). And with good reason, because it sucks at organizing my music, and it likes to fuck around with my painstakingly organized tag information. But now that I have a fucking Ipod, I need to use fucking Itunes to transfer my stuff to it. Which is bad enough, but as I'm subscribing to all my podcasts over again in Itunes, something interesting is happening. Occasionally, a big group of podcast files decides to just disappear into the ether. Now, longtime Itunes users, I know what you're thinking; you're thinking that I just have it set to delete my old episodes. This is not the case, because I know where to find the settings, I know what they are set on, and I know what happens when you set them that way, and it isn't this. I can tell, because Itunes continues to look for the files, going so far as to ask me if I want to locate them. So I go into the folder, and to my surprise, the file that was there just two hours ago has now vanished without a trace. And no file bearing its name exists anywhere on my computer. And of course there's no way to re-download just that one file, oh no, that would be too convenient. You have to unsubscribe from the podcast, and re-download EVERY SINGLE EPISODE over again. And if you like to keep your old episodes like I do, this is a huge pain in the ass.
So, Apple, if you're reading this (you're probably not, so luckily I sent you an email stating the same thing but saying the word "fuck" a few less times), you're officially on my list of people who I wouldn't mind if they got sodomized by bears (sadly, the bears can only manage to sodomize six people per year, or at least six who will report it). If this is the type of product you put your name behind, and the type of customer service you offer (where the fuck is your damned telephone number?), then I deeply regret giving you money. And keep in mind you were already on my shit list when I did. If I had it to do over again, I would have spent the extra money and gone with a brand that doesn't treat people like shit and act all fucking haughty over it. Your corporation is garbage, and I hope that someday your legacy is regarded as a puke-stain on the carpet in the hall of history.
Also, bears, if you're reading this, I would be eternally grateful if you would place these guys at the top of your anal rape list. Seriously, I'll buy you guys dinner and everything.
ADDENDUM:
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Mini-Review: Butter
That's right, I'm reviewing butter. Not a specific brand or type of butter, just butter in general. The concept of butter, if you will. If you have a problem with this, you can refer to me pointing toward my crotch, indicating, I'm not sure what, perhaps some sort of appeals process if you want me to regard your protest, but implying to just leave me alone. So stop your bitching and let's start the review proper.
Butter. Is it good? Yes, but perhaps too good. It's like how you may really like cheesecake, but if someone tied you down and force fed you nothing but cheesecake for three years, you might change your mind. Butter is like three years of cheesecake in a single serving. I say serving as if some guy is just sitting there chewing on sticks of butter, but I actually mean it as when spread on something, such as bread, or fresh onion. Butter, applied in this manner, is simply shit.
Of course, butter also has a myriad of culinary uses. I guess. But whatever, who cares about that?
In conclusion, I'd like to break down the pros and cons of butter.
And that's about all there is to say about butter.
OBJECTION!
Butter. Is it good? Yes, but perhaps too good. It's like how you may really like cheesecake, but if someone tied you down and force fed you nothing but cheesecake for three years, you might change your mind. Butter is like three years of cheesecake in a single serving. I say serving as if some guy is just sitting there chewing on sticks of butter, but I actually mean it as when spread on something, such as bread, or fresh onion. Butter, applied in this manner, is simply shit.
Of course, butter also has a myriad of culinary uses. I guess. But whatever, who cares about that?
In conclusion, I'd like to break down the pros and cons of butter.
- It's slippery.
- It's easily made from, um, cows, and other stuff...
The Case For Butter
- It's slippery.
- Three years of cheesecake.
- Too much like margarine.
The Case Against Butter
And that's about all there is to say about butter.
OBJECTION!
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Outside, Looking In
I was given a script to read, a part to play. I read my script and played my part, and I did so with true intent. Simply excited to be on stage, I gave no thought to the content or quality of my script. I was a part of something, a grand play. My friends and I all defined ourselves around our acting, often staying late under the guise of improving our acting, but really we just fed each other meaningless compliments. In truth, our acting was terrible, but nobody cared enough to tell us, or perhaps they simply didn’t notice.
Deep into a rehearsal session one day, something happened. I faltered, and could not find the words. I knew the words, I had said them a hundred times before, but for some reason they simply would not come. I stumbled and stammered through, mortified beyond belief at my failure. I expected to be either mocked or chastised, but to my surprise it was as though nothing had happened. The others cheerily patted me on the back, the director chimed in with his usual uplifting comments. It was then that I noticed how fake everyone was, how hollow the whole ordeal felt.
I started to become bored with the play we had been working on for so long. I began dropping lines out of my dialog, to see if anyone would notice. Sometimes, I would arrive at the start of rehearsal, then sneak out to the parking lot to sit in my car and listen to the radio. I would return before the end, and if anyone noticed, they never said anything.
One day, the director called me aside to inform me I was being recast. Starting next week, I would be playing the lead. THE lead. Suddenly my passion was renewed. I instantly forgot my distaste for the material, because after all, now it was all about ME! My eyes filled with stardom, I worked harder and longer than I ever had before. I honed my craft, my part became my life. Then something happened that would change everything.
I saw a play.
I know, it sounds crazy that I spent so much time on this project without actually doing any actual research, right? Well, that’s what I figured, so I decided to go out and actually see a play. What I experienced was shocking to me.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The characters felt real, the story was enthralling, and most of all, it actually made me feel something. It made the play I was working on look like the scrawls of some halfwit with a fountain pen full of feces. I began to see more plays, some good, some bad, but all were better than that awful festering mold on the nipples of good taste that we had the poor sense to commit a crime against humanity by calling it a play.
Yet I still felt an obligation to participate in it. Maybe out of some sort of sense of duty, maybe because these people were my friends, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I did my best to try to elevate it, but I simply felt foolish. I sleepwalked through most of the rehearsals, and left as early as I could. Whenever I was there, I wasn’t actually there. My mind wandered, to more interesting places, more compelling subjects, and sometimes I would read my mail-order scripts during times when I was supposed to be studying my lines.
The big day finally came, opening night. I looked around, surrounded by plastic smiles and propped up bravado. The curtain rose, and I looked out over the audience. I realized how incredibly silly I must look, associating myself with these mannequins and spouting this worthless tripe.
I was given a script to read, and a part to play.
Breathlessly, I stepped forward. The other actors waited in their states of mock euphoria for me to start the show, the audience politely and silently held their applause. I stood straight and tall, in this moment of frozen time, and they regarded me with slight anticipation. In that very moment, I clicked my feet together, lowered my chest in a tremendous bow, and exited the stage, never to return.
Deep into a rehearsal session one day, something happened. I faltered, and could not find the words. I knew the words, I had said them a hundred times before, but for some reason they simply would not come. I stumbled and stammered through, mortified beyond belief at my failure. I expected to be either mocked or chastised, but to my surprise it was as though nothing had happened. The others cheerily patted me on the back, the director chimed in with his usual uplifting comments. It was then that I noticed how fake everyone was, how hollow the whole ordeal felt.
I started to become bored with the play we had been working on for so long. I began dropping lines out of my dialog, to see if anyone would notice. Sometimes, I would arrive at the start of rehearsal, then sneak out to the parking lot to sit in my car and listen to the radio. I would return before the end, and if anyone noticed, they never said anything.
One day, the director called me aside to inform me I was being recast. Starting next week, I would be playing the lead. THE lead. Suddenly my passion was renewed. I instantly forgot my distaste for the material, because after all, now it was all about ME! My eyes filled with stardom, I worked harder and longer than I ever had before. I honed my craft, my part became my life. Then something happened that would change everything.
I saw a play.
I know, it sounds crazy that I spent so much time on this project without actually doing any actual research, right? Well, that’s what I figured, so I decided to go out and actually see a play. What I experienced was shocking to me.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The characters felt real, the story was enthralling, and most of all, it actually made me feel something. It made the play I was working on look like the scrawls of some halfwit with a fountain pen full of feces. I began to see more plays, some good, some bad, but all were better than that awful festering mold on the nipples of good taste that we had the poor sense to commit a crime against humanity by calling it a play.
Yet I still felt an obligation to participate in it. Maybe out of some sort of sense of duty, maybe because these people were my friends, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I did my best to try to elevate it, but I simply felt foolish. I sleepwalked through most of the rehearsals, and left as early as I could. Whenever I was there, I wasn’t actually there. My mind wandered, to more interesting places, more compelling subjects, and sometimes I would read my mail-order scripts during times when I was supposed to be studying my lines.
The big day finally came, opening night. I looked around, surrounded by plastic smiles and propped up bravado. The curtain rose, and I looked out over the audience. I realized how incredibly silly I must look, associating myself with these mannequins and spouting this worthless tripe.
I was given a script to read, and a part to play.
Breathlessly, I stepped forward. The other actors waited in their states of mock euphoria for me to start the show, the audience politely and silently held their applause. I stood straight and tall, in this moment of frozen time, and they regarded me with slight anticipation. In that very moment, I clicked my feet together, lowered my chest in a tremendous bow, and exited the stage, never to return.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Great Search
I went up the mountain to see the three wise men. For three days I climbed, and when I reached the top, I was told I could only see one.
I saw the first wise man, and I asked him, "where did we come from? Where are we going? Why do we care?"
The first wise man, for three days, led me back down the mountain, filling my head with sweet nothings. Unsatisfied with my answer, I once again went up the mountain. This time, I saw the second wise man.
I asked the second wise man, "Why are we here? Where are we going? Why do we want to go there?"
The second wise man simply handed me a flower, and said, "This is the answer to all your questions. Take it, and cherish it forever."
I placed the flower in my pack, and spent three days hiking back down the mountain. When I reached the bottom, I found the flower had withered and died. Again, for three days, I hiked back up the mountain to see the second wise man.
"You came to me seeking answers, and I gave you what I had," the wise man replied to my outbursts. "That you wasted my ephemeral gift is your own fault." And with that, he sent me back down the mountain.
I climbed the mountain one final time, to see the final wise man. I stormed into the third wise man's chamber, and shouted, "Listen! I've come to find the answer to the question of my existence. I've been up and down this mountain seven times, and spent 21 days climbing. I don't want meaningless warm fuzzies, and I don't want cryptic puzzles. Just, please, answer my question. How should I live my life?"
The third wise man leaned in close, and softly said to me, "Stop climbing mountains, you fuckwit."
ADDENDUM:
I saw the first wise man, and I asked him, "where did we come from? Where are we going? Why do we care?"
The first wise man, for three days, led me back down the mountain, filling my head with sweet nothings. Unsatisfied with my answer, I once again went up the mountain. This time, I saw the second wise man.
I asked the second wise man, "Why are we here? Where are we going? Why do we want to go there?"
The second wise man simply handed me a flower, and said, "This is the answer to all your questions. Take it, and cherish it forever."
I placed the flower in my pack, and spent three days hiking back down the mountain. When I reached the bottom, I found the flower had withered and died. Again, for three days, I hiked back up the mountain to see the second wise man.
"You came to me seeking answers, and I gave you what I had," the wise man replied to my outbursts. "That you wasted my ephemeral gift is your own fault." And with that, he sent me back down the mountain.
I climbed the mountain one final time, to see the final wise man. I stormed into the third wise man's chamber, and shouted, "Listen! I've come to find the answer to the question of my existence. I've been up and down this mountain seven times, and spent 21 days climbing. I don't want meaningless warm fuzzies, and I don't want cryptic puzzles. Just, please, answer my question. How should I live my life?"
The third wise man leaned in close, and softly said to me, "Stop climbing mountains, you fuckwit."
ADDENDUM:
Thursday, April 12, 2007
A Brief Respite, Featuring Garfield
It's a little known fact that whenever a strip of the famous newspaper comic "Garfield" goes to print, they are usually highly edited for content, and all the jokes changed to unfunny observations about the dullness of Mondays, or lasagna, or some such bullshit. I have been in email contact with Jim Davis for years now, and I have been editing his published works to more resemble their raw, uncut originals. Here is the latest in my crusade for integrity:
42.gif
And a bonus comic full of pseudo-intellectual angst:
43.gif
Edit: Removed embedded pictures due to formatting issues.
42.gif
And a bonus comic full of pseudo-intellectual angst:
43.gif
Edit: Removed embedded pictures due to formatting issues.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Easter Sunday
Easter has come and gone, and to this atheist's examination, it seemed like any other day. Of course, even as a child, the day never held any deeper significance than a day adults give you candy. Seriously, it was even better than Halloween, because you didn't have to actually go out and earn the candy, they just gave it to you. But did we care at all about some dude named Jesus whose actions did something or other for our eternal souls?
Fuck no.
Of course, as you get older, nobody wants to give you free candy anymore. Instead, they want you to give thanks to Jesus, for saving your ass for eternity.
Actually, why the fuck do we need saving in the first place? Apparently because our supposed ancestors ate some apples, and that pissed God off so much that he doomed all mankind to suffering and misfortune. Kinda seems like you overreacted, big guy. And the solution is even worse, in order for us to escape eternal damnation because of some bitch who was just fucking hungry, some guy has to be brutally tortured and killed. Setting aside the fact that this hardly seems like it solves anything, why the hell is God such a fucking prick?
People ask me why I'm an atheist, and I'd have to say it's because of shit like this. Yes, I have no proof that such a God doesn't exist, but even if he did, I would never in a million years worship this heartless fuck. Even setting doctrine aside, I've made the following observation: For a majority of the people in the world life is miserable. Terrible things happen to good people, and wonderful things happen to bad people. Believers always counter this with some sort of quote, usually containing the word "adversity." Fuck that, there are people who are starving to death, whose entire existence is nothing but pain. What fucking adversity are they supposed to overcome? The desire to eat? Gee, I guess you're right, those starving kids are all just a bunch of pussies, they just need to have more faith.
This leaves us with the following options regarding God:
Call me an optimist, but option "a" seems the most palatable to me.
But if I'm wrong, looks like I'm pretty fucked now, doesn't it? After all, all throughout this post I've said some rather nasty things about our good buddy God, haven't I? Well, if Christianity does hold all the truth it claims to, then I think I'll be okay. Yes, I'm going to hell, but don't forget, who's in charge of hell? That's right, Satan, and that's one guy who hates God as much as I do. I think we'll get along just fine, we'll just watch some R-rated movies while we smoke some marijuana. In fact, why don't we throw a party?
In recognition of this day of salvation, on the almost nothing chance that the Bible actually is the word of God, I'm issuing an open invitation to a kickass party in hell. All you have to do to RSVP is commit some kind of blasphemy sometime between now and your death. There will be amazing acts of wanton carnality unlike anything you've ever seen before. We'll have loud music that promotes unsavory lifestyles. And best of all, that bastard God isn't invited.
See you there!
Fuck no.
Of course, as you get older, nobody wants to give you free candy anymore. Instead, they want you to give thanks to Jesus, for saving your ass for eternity.
Actually, why the fuck do we need saving in the first place? Apparently because our supposed ancestors ate some apples, and that pissed God off so much that he doomed all mankind to suffering and misfortune. Kinda seems like you overreacted, big guy. And the solution is even worse, in order for us to escape eternal damnation because of some bitch who was just fucking hungry, some guy has to be brutally tortured and killed. Setting aside the fact that this hardly seems like it solves anything, why the hell is God such a fucking prick?
People ask me why I'm an atheist, and I'd have to say it's because of shit like this. Yes, I have no proof that such a God doesn't exist, but even if he did, I would never in a million years worship this heartless fuck. Even setting doctrine aside, I've made the following observation: For a majority of the people in the world life is miserable. Terrible things happen to good people, and wonderful things happen to bad people. Believers always counter this with some sort of quote, usually containing the word "adversity." Fuck that, there are people who are starving to death, whose entire existence is nothing but pain. What fucking adversity are they supposed to overcome? The desire to eat? Gee, I guess you're right, those starving kids are all just a bunch of pussies, they just need to have more faith.
This leaves us with the following options regarding God:
- God doesn't exist.
- God doesn't care.
- God is a sadist.
- God is benevolent, but also retarded.
Call me an optimist, but option "a" seems the most palatable to me.
But if I'm wrong, looks like I'm pretty fucked now, doesn't it? After all, all throughout this post I've said some rather nasty things about our good buddy God, haven't I? Well, if Christianity does hold all the truth it claims to, then I think I'll be okay. Yes, I'm going to hell, but don't forget, who's in charge of hell? That's right, Satan, and that's one guy who hates God as much as I do. I think we'll get along just fine, we'll just watch some R-rated movies while we smoke some marijuana. In fact, why don't we throw a party?
In recognition of this day of salvation, on the almost nothing chance that the Bible actually is the word of God, I'm issuing an open invitation to a kickass party in hell. All you have to do to RSVP is commit some kind of blasphemy sometime between now and your death. There will be amazing acts of wanton carnality unlike anything you've ever seen before. We'll have loud music that promotes unsavory lifestyles. And best of all, that bastard God isn't invited.
See you there!
Saturday, April 7, 2007
A tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it. As it lands, it at once makes a deafening roar, at least were there anyone around to deafen, and at the same time is defiantly silent. It was a very old tree, and never once did it falter against the elements. Yet here the titan lay, its limbs broken and bent, its massive trunk cloven halfway through about a third of the way up its mighty stature. Its life blood lay pooled near the gaping wound. Its spine and its spirit eternally broken.
It fought valiantly against the treacherous winds, as it always had, standing steadfast and strong, but unbeknownst to the giant, its resolve had been weakened by a group of parasites that had burrowed themselves into its base. Their sweet prosperity had turned the mighty giant's sour. As the wind pounded the unyielding defender, a horrible and resounding creak shrieked out, and the tree's body began to splinter and shatter. The horrible wail gave way to a sort of resigned sigh, as its weight slowly shuddered forward, until a thunderous crack rang out, followed by the terrible and soundless thud as the great tree slammed against the cold, harsh ground.
The tree had never believed in anything, never been a part of anything, had never felt anything, or cared for anything. It was, after all, a tree, and had no aspirations whatsoever. But as it lay there, helpless and dying, you could swear the tree was feeling a deep sadness. At least, if anyone had been there, they could have.
A few weeks later, a hiker spotted the fallen tree and notified the park ranger. It was cut into pieces and hauled off to wherever it is that dead trees go. Its stump was also cut up and shipped off, for it was full of bugs, and the parks service didn't want it infesting the other trees. Now there is nothing there, no marker or monument to a tree that, while completely unremarkable, did as much good as a tree can possibly do.
A tree fell in the forest, and no one was there to hear it.
And that's about it, actually.
It fought valiantly against the treacherous winds, as it always had, standing steadfast and strong, but unbeknownst to the giant, its resolve had been weakened by a group of parasites that had burrowed themselves into its base. Their sweet prosperity had turned the mighty giant's sour. As the wind pounded the unyielding defender, a horrible and resounding creak shrieked out, and the tree's body began to splinter and shatter. The horrible wail gave way to a sort of resigned sigh, as its weight slowly shuddered forward, until a thunderous crack rang out, followed by the terrible and soundless thud as the great tree slammed against the cold, harsh ground.
The tree had never believed in anything, never been a part of anything, had never felt anything, or cared for anything. It was, after all, a tree, and had no aspirations whatsoever. But as it lay there, helpless and dying, you could swear the tree was feeling a deep sadness. At least, if anyone had been there, they could have.
A few weeks later, a hiker spotted the fallen tree and notified the park ranger. It was cut into pieces and hauled off to wherever it is that dead trees go. Its stump was also cut up and shipped off, for it was full of bugs, and the parks service didn't want it infesting the other trees. Now there is nothing there, no marker or monument to a tree that, while completely unremarkable, did as much good as a tree can possibly do.
A tree fell in the forest, and no one was there to hear it.
And that's about it, actually.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Start at the End
Have you ever done anything you later came to regret? Have you ever hurt someone, intentionally or unintentionally, only to realize your wrongdoing too late, and now that person remains lost to you forever? Have you ever felt like you were caught in a dark dense fog, and in your confusion and fear you lashed out, thrashing, biting, and screaming, only to have the fog lift to discover your perceived attackers were really your friends all along?
Today I am taking the first steps to put the darkness behind me, but in doing so, I realize I can never truly be free of it. The time to make amends came, and went while I was still enshrouded. The memories are painful, having to watch yourself make your worst decisions over and over. At times like these, I can understand why the concept of sin came to be. This deep feeling of regret, which never seems to disappear, can begin to feel like a stain on the soul.
So what happens? A con artist shows up to try to sell you salve for your soul. Absolution at reasonable rates. After all, we're all sinners, every single one of us, and we all could stand to lighten our burdens. But that miracle analgesic is really just cold cream, and we're being ripped off. Believe me, I know, because I've pushed the cold cream, in fact that's one of my regrets. And it's designed that way. They have you lie to people, that way if you ever want to leave, you have to embrace the darkness and face the pain of one of the worst decisions of your life. You find yourself trapped by an ever-expanding wall of pain and misery, and few people have the courage to climb it.
This step I am now taking, I have been putting it off for fear that it would strain some of my relationships, but I see now that I have in fact put it off too long. By holding on to my association, even if it is simply a matter of record, I am continuing to lend support to my regrets. Well, not anymore, I am ending my part in this cycle of lies. True, this in no way absolves me, but I've no longer come to expect absolution. That promise is a lie, and the refuge of a coward. All we can do is deliver our best effort, and hope that it eventually gets better.
Salvation lies not in a great chapel of brick and mortar, but in a simple act of honesty and compassion.
Today I am taking the first steps to put the darkness behind me, but in doing so, I realize I can never truly be free of it. The time to make amends came, and went while I was still enshrouded. The memories are painful, having to watch yourself make your worst decisions over and over. At times like these, I can understand why the concept of sin came to be. This deep feeling of regret, which never seems to disappear, can begin to feel like a stain on the soul.
So what happens? A con artist shows up to try to sell you salve for your soul. Absolution at reasonable rates. After all, we're all sinners, every single one of us, and we all could stand to lighten our burdens. But that miracle analgesic is really just cold cream, and we're being ripped off. Believe me, I know, because I've pushed the cold cream, in fact that's one of my regrets. And it's designed that way. They have you lie to people, that way if you ever want to leave, you have to embrace the darkness and face the pain of one of the worst decisions of your life. You find yourself trapped by an ever-expanding wall of pain and misery, and few people have the courage to climb it.
This step I am now taking, I have been putting it off for fear that it would strain some of my relationships, but I see now that I have in fact put it off too long. By holding on to my association, even if it is simply a matter of record, I am continuing to lend support to my regrets. Well, not anymore, I am ending my part in this cycle of lies. True, this in no way absolves me, but I've no longer come to expect absolution. That promise is a lie, and the refuge of a coward. All we can do is deliver our best effort, and hope that it eventually gets better.
Salvation lies not in a great chapel of brick and mortar, but in a simple act of honesty and compassion.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Pants, the Silent Killer
The detective pulled up, skidding his car across 3 lanes of traffic and into the side of an old brick building. His engine sputtered a few last words of regret before giving up the ghost and bursting into flames. The detective slammed the door, bending over the more convenient of the two engine block halves and lighting his cigarette on the flames. After taking a long drag, he sighed.
"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."
There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.
So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.
The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.
Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"
"What do you want, old man?"
"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."
This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.
He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.
Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.
But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.
"This city is a piece of shit, and so's everyone in it." He paused, enjoying a moment of clarity. "Myself included," he added. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eye of a nearby St. Bernard, and began warming up his voice. "But," he mused, for no other reason than he enjoyed the exposition of his own life, "if I can win that talent competition tonight, I can be rid of this sorry little shit hole forever."
There were some things he would miss though. The old barkeep with the moldy eye, the bimonthly grope fest down at Synecdoche Lane, and all the lunches at Merv's Burger Joint, where the smiles were always free. Maybe the city wasn't such a bad place after all, but time had not been kind to the old detective. The years had hit him like a station wagon full of underage Nicaraguan love slaves. He had grown to loathe the city, and it loathed him back. Besides, he had already quit the force, taken his badge and shoved it straight down the chief's throat. He could probably get his job back after the surgery, but that would require him to muster more humility than he had.
So, his last hope in front of him, he hitched up his lucky singing pants and tightened his belt. There wasn't a bum in this city with a better singing voice than him, and he knew it. What he would have to watch out for were those cocky stunt performers, but he could see to that.
The first thing he saw as he entered the dressing area was a sword swallower practicing his act. The detective knew that nobody gave a fuck about sword-swallowing, but just to be safe, he brought his knee straight up into the fucker's gut. The sword swallower lurched forward, the blade that previously had filled his esophagus now protruding out his back. He collapsed onto the floor, either dead, or dead tired. One down.
Next up was the young upstart martial artist, doing all kinds of standing flips and flinging around a metal chain in a most impressive manner. The detective had to stop and think about this one for a moment. He looked around the room, his eyes finally resting upon a gargantuan fellow, tearing phone books in half while chewing down a giant concrete block. He called out to the chain fighter, "Hey kid!"
"What do you want, old man?"
"See that big guy over there? He, uh, he said your mom is a fag."
This remark caused a massive fight between the martial artist and the strong man. Such fights usually bored the detective, so he sat down and read a novel while all around him the foundation of the building was nearly shook loose. Finally, he heard a massive ripping sound, and looked up to see that both fighters had torn out each other's spines. They stood there, dead, still standing and unblinkingly staring each other down. Now there was only one act remaining that posed any threat to the detective. The juggler.
He approached the juggler, who was juggling some chainsaws that happened to be on fire. "Nice day we're having," the detective said. The juggler nodded at him cordially. Suddenly, the detective sprung his cunning plan into action! He drew his service revolver, and shot the man in both his kneecaps.
Finally, it was time to go on stage. The old man was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He knew he had the talent, and with his lucky singing pants on, there was no way he could lose. As the opening strains of Strangers in the Night began to play, he ran out on stage, and at that one shining moment, everything was perfect. His singing was perfect, the crowd was swooning, and all eyes were on him and his stunning pants.
But as luck would have it, the detective's pants, like everyone else, hated him with a passion, and in the midst of his moment of pride, his pants betrayed him. As he hit the refrain, the detective could feel his pants noticeably tighten. At first he blamed it on the excitement, and the massive hard on he was getting from it, but the pants continued to tighten. He did his best to ignore it, but by "love was just a glance away," his voice had become a squeaky travesty. People in the audience began to boo, taking it as an insult against Frank Sinatra. Unable to continue singing, the old detective simply looked on in horror, finally collapsing on the stage. As the instrumental score blared on wordlessly from the loudspeakers behind him, his vision began to fade. He could no longer feel his pants tightening, the feeling had gone long ago. Defeated, he closed his eyes, leaned back, and with a slight whimper, died in a pool of his own shame.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
A Broken Mind
In my last post, I discussed how to set up a rational method for handling your decisions. In this post, I'd like to take a moment to lament those who are no longer capable of accessing those basic tools. The people who have dedicated their life so fully to a wrong idea that to even question it slightly would completely destroy them. I am talking about those defenders of the indefensible, ecclesiastical apologists.
I've never quite understood why these people exist. I mean, what idea could possibly be so important that you still cling to it, even after logic comes in and kicks its ass up and down the courtyard and pisses on its limp, unconscious body? What kind of person invests themselves that fully in an unproven concept? Certainly not a normal person. And it's true, these people are indeed far from normal. Obviously they believe, because otherwise why would they be defending such a ridiculous idea? Except that deep down, not a single one of them does. A person who truly believes does not need to resort to apologetics, because they have their faith to fall back on. If you are a religious person, and you have need to answer the claims of critics, it's only because somewhere inside of you, you hold those same concerns.
It's a shame too, because often these people are quite intelligent. They waste so much potential chasing logic in circles, melding lies and truth until they can no longer tell the difference between either, and paralyzing their minds with an astounding level of cognitive dissonance. For example, obviously an apologist knows what a logical fallacy is, they are quite adept at pointing them out, even when one doesn't actually exist. Yet to read their work, almost every significant statement contains at least one blatant fallacy. Or often they will play the post-modernist card, that nothing in life can really be known, so how can you prove my religion is false? This, of course, is the rhetorical equivalent of running out the door, turning off the lights, and shouting, "case closed!" as you disappear into the distance. And of course, there's the old uncited historical source routine. This is where they make a dubious claim, as if it were common knowledge, straight off the top of their heads, with absolutely nothing to back it up except maybe for a derisive guffaw. Do they not realize that they're using such weaselly methods? Hard to say, actually. It may just be another effect of the cog dis, or maybe they feel the need to lie to serve their end, although either way the intention is still about the same. To desperately defend this apparent lynch pin of your life, at all costs.
True, these people are to be pitied, but does that mean they are not to be mocked? Absolutely not, by all means, mock away. There's no need to poke holes in their arguments, because the holes are already there, and they're huge. These people aren't human, the more logic you throw at them, the more deranged and unpredictable they get. All your pity and good intentions will do is anger them. So just have a laugh with your friends about their flimsy argument, then move on and go about your business. And to help you feel better about what is essentially making fun of the mentally handicapped, let's take a moment to grant them more respect than they deserve. I propose ten seconds of silence, for the lost minds of the Christian apologists.
Starting now.
Ok, that's plenty. Fuck those guys.
I've never quite understood why these people exist. I mean, what idea could possibly be so important that you still cling to it, even after logic comes in and kicks its ass up and down the courtyard and pisses on its limp, unconscious body? What kind of person invests themselves that fully in an unproven concept? Certainly not a normal person. And it's true, these people are indeed far from normal. Obviously they believe, because otherwise why would they be defending such a ridiculous idea? Except that deep down, not a single one of them does. A person who truly believes does not need to resort to apologetics, because they have their faith to fall back on. If you are a religious person, and you have need to answer the claims of critics, it's only because somewhere inside of you, you hold those same concerns.
It's a shame too, because often these people are quite intelligent. They waste so much potential chasing logic in circles, melding lies and truth until they can no longer tell the difference between either, and paralyzing their minds with an astounding level of cognitive dissonance. For example, obviously an apologist knows what a logical fallacy is, they are quite adept at pointing them out, even when one doesn't actually exist. Yet to read their work, almost every significant statement contains at least one blatant fallacy. Or often they will play the post-modernist card, that nothing in life can really be known, so how can you prove my religion is false? This, of course, is the rhetorical equivalent of running out the door, turning off the lights, and shouting, "case closed!" as you disappear into the distance. And of course, there's the old uncited historical source routine. This is where they make a dubious claim, as if it were common knowledge, straight off the top of their heads, with absolutely nothing to back it up except maybe for a derisive guffaw. Do they not realize that they're using such weaselly methods? Hard to say, actually. It may just be another effect of the cog dis, or maybe they feel the need to lie to serve their end, although either way the intention is still about the same. To desperately defend this apparent lynch pin of your life, at all costs.
True, these people are to be pitied, but does that mean they are not to be mocked? Absolutely not, by all means, mock away. There's no need to poke holes in their arguments, because the holes are already there, and they're huge. These people aren't human, the more logic you throw at them, the more deranged and unpredictable they get. All your pity and good intentions will do is anger them. So just have a laugh with your friends about their flimsy argument, then move on and go about your business. And to help you feel better about what is essentially making fun of the mentally handicapped, let's take a moment to grant them more respect than they deserve. I propose ten seconds of silence, for the lost minds of the Christian apologists.
Starting now.
Ok, that's plenty. Fuck those guys.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
A Reasonable Challenge
They say the two things you should never argue with anyone are religion and politics. These are said to be the two topics most likely to cause strife amongst otherwise friendly individuals, because in most cases the person has already made up their mind. But why would you make up your mind about something before you've even heard all the facts? And why bother even making up your mind in the first place, when new information could always come up?
The world is a complicated place, and it is often difficult to arrive at the truth. So, most people prefer to have the truth told to them. They latch on to the first person or group that seems to know what's going on and they parrot that entity's opinions as their own. And the worst thing is, everyone alive today has likely done this at one point or another.
Which isn't to say borrowing an opinion or two is a bad thing, far from it. There's a good chance that if you have any opinion on anything, there's going to be a decent number of people who share it with you. Hell, it's pretty likely that you'll find some people that agree with a lot of your opinions, which is fine, the problem is when you take it to the extreme.
The problem is compounded when we decide to make compromises. Maybe your affiliated political party takes a stance on social issues that you strongly agree with, and though you disagree with their economic stances you still support them because of how strongly you feel about their social agenda. Listen to me, you don't have to do this! Supporting the lesser of two evils only perpetuates more evil, it makes it easier for the evil to slip in. We've lost ourselves so much in the process of governing, and all the posturing that goes with it, that we've forgotten that it's supposed to be about results. We are no longer a government by, for, and of the people, but by the people, for the majority, and of the status quo. This is not how civilizations advance, this is not how we forge new truths about ourselves and our world. But we can get back on track, if we follow some simple steps.
First off, we need to forget the phrase, "I can't make a difference, I'm only one person." This is the rallying cry of the anti-revolutionaries, the banner of the banal, the perpetuator of the pragmatic. This is the reason we have two big political parties who justify their existence mainly as an attempt to piss off the other one. These people are so concerned with garnering votes and perpetuating their public selves that they no longer have any souls. They make all their decisions based on being as inoffensive as possible, and to get your vote they will lie straight to your face. And if you're casting your vote based on who is more likely to win, then guess what, you're one of them. Besides, if you believe your vote is just a drop in the sea anyway, then it doesn't matter where you put your drop, right? Better to vote for what you believe in, and wait for the world to do the same.
But what do you believe in now? Not so easy now that you're thinking on your own, is it? Well, don't sweat it too much, just do what you should do in any difficult situation, start small. Pick any single, specific issue, and just research the fuck out of it. Read the arguments of both sides, and read the rebuttals to those arguments. Try to search out anything you can find on it, no matter how small, no matter how crazy the opinions you find. Just bury yourself in information about this one thing, and eventually things will start to look clear. Don't worry, you don't have to do this every time, because eventually you'll start to see patterns. You'll recognize phrases that should raise a red flag, or you'll discover what kind of wording someone will use when they're trying to hide something. And it will get easier and easier to craft an informed opinion.
Now, as I mentioned up front, the hardest thing to do in the world is to change a person's mind once they've already made it up, so I'm not deluded enough to think that I'm going to make much of a difference here. In fact, there's a very good chance I'm simply shouting into the dark. But here I am, because even if I can't solve the problem, at least I don't have to be a part of it. If I can get through to even one person, that's fantastic, but even if not, I can rest easy tonight knowing that at least I tried.
The world is a complicated place, and it is often difficult to arrive at the truth. So, most people prefer to have the truth told to them. They latch on to the first person or group that seems to know what's going on and they parrot that entity's opinions as their own. And the worst thing is, everyone alive today has likely done this at one point or another.
Which isn't to say borrowing an opinion or two is a bad thing, far from it. There's a good chance that if you have any opinion on anything, there's going to be a decent number of people who share it with you. Hell, it's pretty likely that you'll find some people that agree with a lot of your opinions, which is fine, the problem is when you take it to the extreme.
The problem is compounded when we decide to make compromises. Maybe your affiliated political party takes a stance on social issues that you strongly agree with, and though you disagree with their economic stances you still support them because of how strongly you feel about their social agenda. Listen to me, you don't have to do this! Supporting the lesser of two evils only perpetuates more evil, it makes it easier for the evil to slip in. We've lost ourselves so much in the process of governing, and all the posturing that goes with it, that we've forgotten that it's supposed to be about results. We are no longer a government by, for, and of the people, but by the people, for the majority, and of the status quo. This is not how civilizations advance, this is not how we forge new truths about ourselves and our world. But we can get back on track, if we follow some simple steps.
First off, we need to forget the phrase, "I can't make a difference, I'm only one person." This is the rallying cry of the anti-revolutionaries, the banner of the banal, the perpetuator of the pragmatic. This is the reason we have two big political parties who justify their existence mainly as an attempt to piss off the other one. These people are so concerned with garnering votes and perpetuating their public selves that they no longer have any souls. They make all their decisions based on being as inoffensive as possible, and to get your vote they will lie straight to your face. And if you're casting your vote based on who is more likely to win, then guess what, you're one of them. Besides, if you believe your vote is just a drop in the sea anyway, then it doesn't matter where you put your drop, right? Better to vote for what you believe in, and wait for the world to do the same.
But what do you believe in now? Not so easy now that you're thinking on your own, is it? Well, don't sweat it too much, just do what you should do in any difficult situation, start small. Pick any single, specific issue, and just research the fuck out of it. Read the arguments of both sides, and read the rebuttals to those arguments. Try to search out anything you can find on it, no matter how small, no matter how crazy the opinions you find. Just bury yourself in information about this one thing, and eventually things will start to look clear. Don't worry, you don't have to do this every time, because eventually you'll start to see patterns. You'll recognize phrases that should raise a red flag, or you'll discover what kind of wording someone will use when they're trying to hide something. And it will get easier and easier to craft an informed opinion.
Now, as I mentioned up front, the hardest thing to do in the world is to change a person's mind once they've already made it up, so I'm not deluded enough to think that I'm going to make much of a difference here. In fact, there's a very good chance I'm simply shouting into the dark. But here I am, because even if I can't solve the problem, at least I don't have to be a part of it. If I can get through to even one person, that's fantastic, but even if not, I can rest easy tonight knowing that at least I tried.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Horsing Around
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
--A popular children's rhyme
My entire life, I've always had a problem with this passage. Apparently this anthropomorphic egg man is the king's favorite son, and when he's hurt, the king sends all kinds of aid to attempt to reassemble the poor guy. Including horses.
...
What the fuck?
Why horses? What the fuck can horses do in this situation, besides stomp on the fragments in futility? No wonder he couldn't be put back together, if your A-team consists of fucking horses. Obviously, this guy completely ignored the First Law that governs the universe:
Horses are no good for anything.
You gonna trust horses to perform open heart surgery? To cure polio? To save millions of starving people, Norman Borlaug style? Of course not, because horses are terrible.
Don't believe me? Fine, just take a look at these Horse Facts:
Why do we bother to keep around something that's been made obsolete by bicycles and the combustion engine? Because if we let them go, they're too dumb to survive on their own. That's right, horses only exist because we're too fucking nice to let them die. What do we call an organism that needs another organism to sustain it? That's right, HORSES ARE A PARASITE ON HUMANITY.
Seriously, fuck those equine bastards.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
--A popular children's rhyme
My entire life, I've always had a problem with this passage. Apparently this anthropomorphic egg man is the king's favorite son, and when he's hurt, the king sends all kinds of aid to attempt to reassemble the poor guy. Including horses.
...
What the fuck?
Why horses? What the fuck can horses do in this situation, besides stomp on the fragments in futility? No wonder he couldn't be put back together, if your A-team consists of fucking horses. Obviously, this guy completely ignored the First Law that governs the universe:
Horses are no good for anything.
You gonna trust horses to perform open heart surgery? To cure polio? To save millions of starving people, Norman Borlaug style? Of course not, because horses are terrible.
Don't believe me? Fine, just take a look at these Horse Facts:
- First and foremost, horses suck ass.
- Machines are better than horses in every category except shitting.
- Horses caused the Holocaust(look it up, Hitler was just trying to please his horse).
- Horse farts cause more pollution than cars(believe it or not, they actually do).
- They're ugly, and they smell bad.
- Seriously, the smell, it's fucking terrible.
Why do we bother to keep around something that's been made obsolete by bicycles and the combustion engine? Because if we let them go, they're too dumb to survive on their own. That's right, horses only exist because we're too fucking nice to let them die. What do we call an organism that needs another organism to sustain it? That's right, HORSES ARE A PARASITE ON HUMANITY.
Seriously, fuck those equine bastards.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
That Oh-So-Special Time of Year
A brief history of myself: Every year, right at around exactly this time of year, every single fucking plant decides to bloom on the exact same day, assaulting me with their airborne flower sperm. The second I inhale the aforementioned plant essence, within my body a passing white blood cell will see this harmless gamete, slam on the brakes, get on its radio and shout, "holy fuck, everyone, the goddamn Ebola virus is here!" Then, because my entire immune system is apparently retarded, it will allocate all of its resources to eradicating this taciturn invader. Which leaves me coughing, and sneezing, and dripping out of various orifices, but that's only the beginning. See, while my body mounts "Operation: Kill the Fuck out of That Thing," a real threat will slip in undetected, that exceptional bastard, the common cold. Suddenly, I feel like I've just been punched in the head, and am now coughing and dripping twice as much as before. To make matters worse, I have a very acute form of asthma, which pretty much only gets activated during this deathly time of year, so during the thrall I will often have coughing fits, which will only resolve themselves after they've induced a small amount of vomiting.
I was planning on finishing the week with a proper post, but since right now all I can think of right now is how miserable I am, here you go. Now, so that you'll take actually take something away from this post, here is another link to a random song.
I was planning on finishing the week with a proper post, but since right now all I can think of right now is how miserable I am, here you go. Now, so that you'll take actually take something away from this post, here is another link to a random song.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Joy and Joy
Few things in life are universal. Outside of basic survival necessities, there is only one thing that humans universally strive for, and that is joy. We all want to experience unrelenting, pure, deep joy, a rush of orgasmic energy that runs from inside our hearts all the way to just past the reach of our fingertips. We want to experience a high to inspire us to climb to the highest peak available to us, and shout about how unbelievably wonderful every little thing is, so that everyone in the goddamn world can hear us. The desire to feel this is the one thing that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom, in fact, you could say that this desire is the single defining quality of humanity. We seek life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
A philandering conman once formed a faith around the concept that "men are that they might have joy." Of course, he was using it to gain money, power, and women, but the idea rang true with his followers. As well it should, joy is a compelling thing, but people are capable of doing some terrible things to get or give it.
In his book, The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins made the claim that religion is the source of all war. Which is close, the problem is religion is not the disease, it is the symptom. Joy is the disease. It is that which every religion promises to its dedicated followers, happiness by the bowel-full. And because we all essentially love each other, that which impedes the perceived source of happiness is something to be hated. Even though this certainly very accurately describes religion, the various faiths do not own a monopoly on the tactics of joy warfare.
In fact, we experience it every day. It annoys us when people take a separate path from us in the pursuit of that which makes them happy. Even the small things. Admit it, when someone doesn't like your favorite movie, it disappoints you on a minuscule level. When someone says they listen to a musician you can't stand, you silently wonder if they should seek professional help. And when someone says that the scientific research of Norman Borlaug is unethical, you want to punch their fucking lights out. Is it at all surprising, then, that people are willing to kill or even be killed themselves for an ideology?
People will always find some new thing to go to war over, whether it be political ideology, racial differences, land ownership, or they just plain don't like each other. And I'll bet you think I'm going to point out the excellent two part South Park arc "Go, God, Go" here, and in fact you're right. However, I'm not going to side with it. There just isn't any way real, true scientists could get worked up enough to kill each other over any disagreement. This is because if the scientific method is adhered to, the results are indisputable. The only thing that can be considered questionable are the methods used. Yet there is a certain subtle joy associated with science. There is great pleasure to be had in understanding the atom and its properties. The forces which govern the way our little planet hurtles through space are frankly quite astounding. And Bernoulli's principle has an undeniable elegance in its simple elements that produce amazing results.
Religion, politics, and other ideologies are attractive because they make the blood run hot. They are absolute and infallible. They can be very rewarding, but they also serve to divide and isolate us. Science, however, runs cold. Its answers are less attractive because they're incomplete, and they always will be. The scientific community is the first to admit that mistakes are made. But at the heart of it, it can provide that same type of joy and meaning, perhaps even more meaningfully, and more importantly, it unites us. Science, like justice, is blind, it doesn't favor anyone or anything. It is not afraid to offend, but at the same time it doesn't go out of its way to. I really do think the world would be a better place if less people went around embracing tautologies, and instead gave logic a try. Yes, what we really need more of, is science.
A philandering conman once formed a faith around the concept that "men are that they might have joy." Of course, he was using it to gain money, power, and women, but the idea rang true with his followers. As well it should, joy is a compelling thing, but people are capable of doing some terrible things to get or give it.
In his book, The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins made the claim that religion is the source of all war. Which is close, the problem is religion is not the disease, it is the symptom. Joy is the disease. It is that which every religion promises to its dedicated followers, happiness by the bowel-full. And because we all essentially love each other, that which impedes the perceived source of happiness is something to be hated. Even though this certainly very accurately describes religion, the various faiths do not own a monopoly on the tactics of joy warfare.
In fact, we experience it every day. It annoys us when people take a separate path from us in the pursuit of that which makes them happy. Even the small things. Admit it, when someone doesn't like your favorite movie, it disappoints you on a minuscule level. When someone says they listen to a musician you can't stand, you silently wonder if they should seek professional help. And when someone says that the scientific research of Norman Borlaug is unethical, you want to punch their fucking lights out. Is it at all surprising, then, that people are willing to kill or even be killed themselves for an ideology?
People will always find some new thing to go to war over, whether it be political ideology, racial differences, land ownership, or they just plain don't like each other. And I'll bet you think I'm going to point out the excellent two part South Park arc "Go, God, Go" here, and in fact you're right. However, I'm not going to side with it. There just isn't any way real, true scientists could get worked up enough to kill each other over any disagreement. This is because if the scientific method is adhered to, the results are indisputable. The only thing that can be considered questionable are the methods used. Yet there is a certain subtle joy associated with science. There is great pleasure to be had in understanding the atom and its properties. The forces which govern the way our little planet hurtles through space are frankly quite astounding. And Bernoulli's principle has an undeniable elegance in its simple elements that produce amazing results.
Religion, politics, and other ideologies are attractive because they make the blood run hot. They are absolute and infallible. They can be very rewarding, but they also serve to divide and isolate us. Science, however, runs cold. Its answers are less attractive because they're incomplete, and they always will be. The scientific community is the first to admit that mistakes are made. But at the heart of it, it can provide that same type of joy and meaning, perhaps even more meaningfully, and more importantly, it unites us. Science, like justice, is blind, it doesn't favor anyone or anything. It is not afraid to offend, but at the same time it doesn't go out of its way to. I really do think the world would be a better place if less people went around embracing tautologies, and instead gave logic a try. Yes, what we really need more of, is science.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Mac vs PC Round 2
In the last round, Mac won just 1 point out of a possible 12. Now, as we have 11 more commercials to get through, and since nobody reads introductions anyway, fart testicles onomatopoeia, let's watch some movies while I make sarcastic remarks!
Self-Pity
Hey look, he's wearing a suit! It's okay, you can start taking us seriously again because our guy is wearing a suit! He's still rocking the chin pubes, but now he's responsible and shit. On an unrelated note, this much-touted Microsoft Office costs $350. Open Office costs 350 less dollars than that, and is multiplatform to boot.
Better Results
Looks like iMovie takes this contest. By the way, the word professional has been changed to mean "timeline of crap you shot with your friends with no real way sense of flow or timing." Just try to limit the cheesy pseudo-3d transition effects to like, 4 or 5 times per minute, guys. It's called restraint.
Counselor
This one marks a turning point for the series. At this point, the ads had been running for a while, and it seems people were identifying more with the PC Guy (which, can you blame them, being played by the infinitely huggable John Hodgman), so they started making his character into an asshole for no apparent reason. This also marks the point where they stop being intentionally funny.
Meant for Work
Why John Hodgman is funny as a crotchety old man should be apparent to everybody except the people who wrote this ad. He's charming, lovable, and has a natural wit. He couldn't be offensive to anybody even if he were eating a live puppy while singing an original song entitled "Hitler is My Best Friend in the World" (At the same time, how impressive). As for the message of this commercial, it's hard to argue with. If you want to buy your kids a two thousand dollar toy, get them a Mac.
Sales Pitch
Little known fact: this ad was created for the Bizarro world, where Macs vastly outnumber PCs. It found its way into our world when somebody made a paradox by creating a grape soda commercial that was totally fucking awesome. Any time it aired, it punched a hole in the space-time continuum, and we saw this ad instead.
Gift Exchange
AGAIN WITH THE FUCKING iPHOTO! GOD-FUCK-A-DOODLE-SHIT-ASS-CUNT-MOTHER-FUCKING-ASS-BANDIT-COCKSUCKER-CHIN-PUBE-RAPSCALLION!!!! He printed out a photo album, he's not fucking Norman Borlaug.
Goodwill
Man, you guys are just determined to portray Hodgman as a baby-stomping monster, aren't you? "Look, not only does he hate children, he hates Christmas too!" The man just doesn't have a mean spirited bone in his body, that's why it's so funny watching him play such a sociopath.
Surgery
Yeah, he's right, all that upgrading bullshit is for losers! What am I, a scientician? I can't put these "doodads" into my "thinky box." Lucky for me, I own a Mac, so all I have to do is buy a brand new compooter! How do I know when it's time to empty my wallet? Simple, when I install the latest update and everything starts chugging! Why it's so easy, even a baby could do it. If it had a lot of money. And a credit card. And a shipping address.
Sabotage
It's actually getting to the point where Justin Long doesn't even have to be in the commercials anymore. Hodgman could just come out, take a dump on some orphans, and then say, "Don't buy a Mac."
Tech Support
Yep, nothing says wave of the future like a camera the size of a pinhole. Remember in grade school science class when you made a pinhole camera out of a shoebox and it didn't fucking work? Well now you can bring that kind of wonder to the digital world! With it you can take a picture of your face, GRAINY CELL PHONE STYLE! The possibilities are endless! You could take a picture of you smiling, or you sticking out your tongue, or show how much of a rebel you are by flipping off your own camera like you just don't give a shit! I guess the possibilities aren't endless after all, but THE POSSIBILITIES ARE THREE!
Security
Making fun of Vista is like shooting a retarded kid, it's too easy, should be illegal, and if you miss, it can only mean you're even more retarded. Vista's security software may be shitty, but it's a hell of a lot more grand than nothing. To confuse an already confusing gun metaphor, you don't challenge someone to a gunfight and then show up holding nothing but a smug sense of self-satisfaction. Because the other guy probably has a gun. Or maybe he just has a really pointy rock, but hey, still better than you.
Well, I hope you enjoyed joining me on this long and pointless excuse to post a bunch of YouTube clips in an effort to do as little real work as possible. And in the likely event that any of these clips get taken down, let me know, and I'll be sure to replace them with this video of an adorable Japanese kitten:
Self-Pity
Hey look, he's wearing a suit! It's okay, you can start taking us seriously again because our guy is wearing a suit! He's still rocking the chin pubes, but now he's responsible and shit. On an unrelated note, this much-touted Microsoft Office costs $350. Open Office costs 350 less dollars than that, and is multiplatform to boot.
Better Results
Looks like iMovie takes this contest. By the way, the word professional has been changed to mean "timeline of crap you shot with your friends with no real way sense of flow or timing." Just try to limit the cheesy pseudo-3d transition effects to like, 4 or 5 times per minute, guys. It's called restraint.
Counselor
This one marks a turning point for the series. At this point, the ads had been running for a while, and it seems people were identifying more with the PC Guy (which, can you blame them, being played by the infinitely huggable John Hodgman), so they started making his character into an asshole for no apparent reason. This also marks the point where they stop being intentionally funny.
Meant for Work
Why John Hodgman is funny as a crotchety old man should be apparent to everybody except the people who wrote this ad. He's charming, lovable, and has a natural wit. He couldn't be offensive to anybody even if he were eating a live puppy while singing an original song entitled "Hitler is My Best Friend in the World" (At the same time, how impressive). As for the message of this commercial, it's hard to argue with. If you want to buy your kids a two thousand dollar toy, get them a Mac.
Sales Pitch
Little known fact: this ad was created for the Bizarro world, where Macs vastly outnumber PCs. It found its way into our world when somebody made a paradox by creating a grape soda commercial that was totally fucking awesome. Any time it aired, it punched a hole in the space-time continuum, and we saw this ad instead.
Gift Exchange
AGAIN WITH THE FUCKING iPHOTO! GOD-FUCK-A-DOODLE-SHIT-ASS-CUNT-MOTHER-FUCKING-ASS-BANDIT-COCKSUCKER-CHIN-PUBE-RAPSCALLION!!!! He printed out a photo album, he's not fucking Norman Borlaug.
Goodwill
Man, you guys are just determined to portray Hodgman as a baby-stomping monster, aren't you? "Look, not only does he hate children, he hates Christmas too!" The man just doesn't have a mean spirited bone in his body, that's why it's so funny watching him play such a sociopath.
Surgery
Yeah, he's right, all that upgrading bullshit is for losers! What am I, a scientician? I can't put these "doodads" into my "thinky box." Lucky for me, I own a Mac, so all I have to do is buy a brand new compooter! How do I know when it's time to empty my wallet? Simple, when I install the latest update and everything starts chugging! Why it's so easy, even a baby could do it. If it had a lot of money. And a credit card. And a shipping address.
Sabotage
It's actually getting to the point where Justin Long doesn't even have to be in the commercials anymore. Hodgman could just come out, take a dump on some orphans, and then say, "Don't buy a Mac."
Tech Support
Yep, nothing says wave of the future like a camera the size of a pinhole. Remember in grade school science class when you made a pinhole camera out of a shoebox and it didn't fucking work? Well now you can bring that kind of wonder to the digital world! With it you can take a picture of your face, GRAINY CELL PHONE STYLE! The possibilities are endless! You could take a picture of you smiling, or you sticking out your tongue, or show how much of a rebel you are by flipping off your own camera like you just don't give a shit! I guess the possibilities aren't endless after all, but THE POSSIBILITIES ARE THREE!
Security
Making fun of Vista is like shooting a retarded kid, it's too easy, should be illegal, and if you miss, it can only mean you're even more retarded. Vista's security software may be shitty, but it's a hell of a lot more grand than nothing. To confuse an already confusing gun metaphor, you don't challenge someone to a gunfight and then show up holding nothing but a smug sense of self-satisfaction. Because the other guy probably has a gun. Or maybe he just has a really pointy rock, but hey, still better than you.
Well, I hope you enjoyed joining me on this long and pointless excuse to post a bunch of YouTube clips in an effort to do as little real work as possible. And in the likely event that any of these clips get taken down, let me know, and I'll be sure to replace them with this video of an adorable Japanese kitten:
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