Thursday, November 30, 2006

A Bovine Suicide Note


Goodbye, cruel herd! Soon I, Mortimer, the pathetic cow you have all mocked and scorned for so long, will leave this place forever. At noon today, I am going to wander down to the railroad tracks and lie down, waiting for the 12:16 express train from Bloomington to put me out of my misery once and for all. For years, I have searched for friends on every pasture where I graze, and for years I have been hated by herefords, giggled at by guernseys, and booed by black angus bulls. Even humans do not like me! Having reached my wit's end I stood in line at a slaughterhouse, waiting eagerly to shake loose this mortal coil, and I was turned away! I was singled out by the human overlord and sent back to the fields from whence I had come, sentenced to sullenly skulk my days away in the very pastures who's rejection had pushed me to seek the sweet release of death in the first place. Oh, cruel fate! Why have you tested me so? Why is it that my udders produce only curds? Why is it that no matter how much cud I chew I remain gaunt and sickly looking? Why do I have the unfortunate dishonor of having not one, not two, but three penis shaped splotches on my hide? Why??? Fare thee well, awful pastures, and fare thee well, horrible herd- I am off to a better place, just as soon as the 12:16 express train from Bloomington comes screeching down those tracks. I pray to all that is holy that the humans have not divined some way for a train to catch a cow, for if they have I know not what I'll do.

Sincerely,

Mortimer Abondance

P.S. I've left my bell, which only clanks out the theme from "The Twilight Zone," so that my memory shall always haunt you.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

The Wright Brothers Politely Defer To One Another


Orville: Really, Wilbur, stop this silly bickering and get in the aeroplane. You're the older one here- it makes sense that you should have the esteemed privilege of being the first one to fly this aeroplane that we've constructed.

Wilbur: It is an esteemed privilege, Orville, and what sort of older brother would I be if I took it away from you? When we were growing up, mother and father always said to look after you and keep your best interests in mind. I can think of no better way to honor their wishes than to allow you to be the one to usher in this new age of aviation.

Orville: I'm flattered, brother, truly I am- but I can imagine no crime greater than taking this honor away from you. What have I ever done to deserve the distinction of being the first man to pilot this rickety glider?

Wilbur: Your hard work and determination are the glue that hold this ramshackle plane together, Orville. In many ways, this tumbledown flying contraption is yours alone, as should be the pleasure of being the first person to take it airborne.

Orville: Wilbur, you are too modest. It is true that I helped a great deal in the construction of this run-down aircraft, but without your blueprints and your logical-sounding yet insofar untested and therefore unreliable concepts about aeronautics, I would still be repairing bicycles back in Dayton. You first. I insist.

Wilbur: No. My modesty fails me now, brother, in the light of your argument. I am crucial to the fledgling field of aeronautics, and any injury I sustained would be not only an injury to myself, but also an injury to the 20th century. Inasmuch as I am too important to risk my life in this unsound aerial apparatus, you should be the first.

Orville: Point noted, but if your body were injured when this dubious device of ours crashed, your mind and your ideas would still be intact. Aeronautical engineering would experience hardly any delay in it's development. On the other hand, if I were to be involved in some sort of crash, and these hands were to become useless, who would rebuild the plane?

Wilbur: Brother, be not too haughty- I would mend the craft.

Orville: Would you, brother? These hands...

Wilbur: Were taught everything they know by this mind. A mind, which I might add, is not going to risk itself by being the first to climb into winged craft made of wood and paper which contains a combustion engine. Get in.

Orville: Hrm... Wouldn't mother be sad if I were injured?

Wilbur: Maybe, but not as sad as she'd be if I were injured. Now hurry up and get in before the wind dies down. I don't trust this thing to stay in the air without a strong wind.

Orville: What was that last part?

Wilbur: Nothing. Have a safe flight, and try to steer for a dune if you begin to fall.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

The To-Do List Of A Poltergeist


Photo courtesy of Central Louisiana Paranormal Society (CLaPS)

Monday, November 27, 2006

The Bittersweet Experience Of Unwrapping A Knockoff Play-Doh Extruder On Christmas Morning


Oh. How nice. A Fun-Doh extruder. Merry Christmas to me. As if Play-Doh wasn't cheap enough, mom and dad somehow managed to find a Fun-Doh toy for me. This box looks like it's been sitting at the bottom of a dollar store bargain bin for a few years. I wonder if the smiling Bulgarian boy on the label had anything to do with that. Check the unibrow on that guy. Ok, they're watching... May as well open her up and take a look at what we've got here... Oh good. I'll be able to extrude a waxing gibbous moon shaped snake with this. Or a circle. Or... oh no, that's it. Just two choices. Waxing gibbous moon or circle. And look, this Fun-Doh comes in three fun colors: chartreuse, ochre, and salmon. I didn't even know salmon was a color. I certainly didn't know it was a fun color. Thanks, mom and dad. Thanks for this knockoff Play-Doh extruder. Merry Christmas.

I guess I should be happy. I could have gotten no extruder at all. This way, at least I can talk with the rest of the kids in my kindergarten class about extrusion. That's a good thing, I guess. I'll just have to make sure I don't slip and mention that I've got a Bulgarian extruder at home. I'm sure this thing works pretty much the same as a Play-Doh extruder would. Just stuff the Fun-Doh in here and- ugh... Sweet crap, this stuff is greasy. Pungent, too. It smells like a gas station. What's in this stuff anyhow? ...Water, ochre dye #40, rice flour... Oh, there it is. Gasoline. Leaded gasoline. Great. I'll have to remember that next time my big wheel needs a tune-up.

Who am I kidding? This is awful. I've been playing with this stupid knockoff extruder for five minutes and I smell like a full serve attendant's grease rag. Chances are I've already absorbed enough lead into my system to have screwed my chances of ever getting anything beyond a bachelor's degree in sociology. What am I gonna do if my mom invites someone over for a playdate? If it's sunny, I'll be okay. We'll go out to the swingset in the backyard and that'll be the end of it, but what if it rains? Mom always makes me do arts & crafts when it rains, and, sadly, Fun-Doh extrusion falls into that category. What then? Even if I feign boredom- as if I would need to feign it when Fun-Doh is inolved- my guest might be fooled by the Fun-Doh packaging, and think that we have been presented with Play-Doh. I'll be mortified when he sinks his hand into this greasy doh. He'll pause, look at me, remove his hand, and our friendship will end the second his mother comes to retrieve him for dinner. As will my five-year old social life. I'll become a laughingstock.

Maybe it's not all that bad. I should stop worrying about the future so much and focus more on the present. I'm not so blinded by brand-recognition that I can't enjoy knockoff extruding on my own. Really, when you get down to it, stripped of all the advertising and the jingles and all the marketing, one doh extruder is as good as another. I've just got to try to have a good time. There's nothing wrong with Fun-Doh. Well, the colors aren't great. And I'm not too keen on this gritty, greasy texture. Or the smell. Or the social stigma that I'll have to cope with once word leaks out that I spend my free time handling a mixture of rice flour and leaded gasoline with my bare hands. Calm down- live in the now. Move on to the next gift. I'll worry about all this Fun-Doh stuff later. For the time being, I'm just going to open another present and try to enjoy my Christmas morning.

Oh good. A SpongeBiff ShortShorts DVD. And it's encoded for region six, so I can't even watch it. Mom, Dad, really- you shouldn't have.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

Practical Uses For Super Powers: Reed Richards (a.k.a. Mr. Fantastic)


After surviving bombardment by comic rays, Reed Richards was granted the ability to stretch and distort his body. Here are some practical uses for this amazing power:
  • Changing lightbulbs in hard to reach places
  • Sticking his head up to look for acquantainces in large crowds (and to be seen by said acquaintances)
  • Extending his legs slightly, thus increasing his stride and walking speed
  • Reaching into vending machines to procure snacks free of charge
  • Expanding lung walls, to increase oxygen intake and thus athletic endurance
  • Forming into a thin sheet and riding wind currents around town to help reduce CO2 emissions
  • Slightly changing size to make clothes which don't quite fit fit well

Saturday, November 25, 2006

A Cetacean Fairy Tale

nce upon a time, in the ancient seas of the world, there lived a pod of humpback whales. The whales all lived in harmony, singing happy whale songs to one another and blowing great spouts of water from their blowholes when they surfaced for air. For many years the whales lived this way, but the year in which our story takes place was a particularly happy year, for one of the whales, Brisbane, was pregnant with a calf. Her and her mate Lawrence were overjoyed because they had had such difficulty conceiving a child in previous years that they feared it would never happen. As is the way with all pregnant humpbacks, Brisbane's appetite grew, for now she was eating not only for herself but for her unborn calf as well. Lawrence would help all that he could, dutifully collecting for her all the capelin and herrings he could find. One day, however, Brisbane was struck with a desire for krill. There was krill nearby, but it was forbidden. The krill belonged to an old, lone humpback named Eutheria who's pod had abandoned her years ago because she was a sea-witch. Every whale in the sea, from the Sei to the Blue, knew and feared Eutheria, for it was rumored that she was so powerful that not even Architeuthis, the giant squizard of the deep, was able to subdue her. Regardless, Brisbane's craving for krill was so dire that her health began to wane, and Lawrence feared both her and the unborn calf would die unless he were able to procure some. Under cover of night, he snuck up to Eutheria's krill garden, broke through her bubble netting, and took some krill to bring back to Brisbane. Sure enough, Brisbane's health improved, thus emboldening Lawrence to try and steal some krill the next night as well. Again, Lawrence snuck into Eutheria's krill garden and brought some back for Brisbane. Surely the krill had been enchanted, for now Brisbane was more lively and energetic than ever. So thrilled was he to see his mate in such high spirits that Lawrence decided he would try once more to fetch her some krill. On the third night, however, just as Lawrence was approaching Eutheria's krill garden, Eutheria appeared behind him. She was as displeased with Lawrence as a sea-witch can be, and threatened to kill his entire pod as punishment. Lawrence pleaded for his pod, and pleaded for the lives of Brisbane and the unborn calf. Finally, Eutheria agreed to let Lawrence go on the condition that when his calf was born, it would be given to Eutheria as payment for the stolen krill. Fearing the sea-witch's wrath, Lawrence had no choice but to agree, and ten months later, when Brisbane gave birth, Eutheria appeared and stole the calf away. She called the calf Krillpunzel, and raised her as her own.

or many years, Eutheria and Krillpunzel lived in this way, isolated from the rest of the world. Eutheria taught Krillpunzel the ways of being a whale, and used her sea-witch magicks to groom her into the prettiest and most alluring whale she could be. In time, Krillpunzel grew to be a beautiful young humpback, who's enchanting and complex whale songs could be heard throughout the seas. Drawn by the beautiful melodies they heard carried on the ocean currents, whale suitors would occasionally seek Krillpunzel out, only to be frightened off by the jealous and fearsome Eutheria. Wanting to keep Krillpunzel all to herself, Eutheria used a sea spell to command the coral to construct a mighty atoll in which Krillpunzel would be kept. The walls of the atoll were so high that no whale could breach them, and even Eutheria herself could not gain entry by conventional means. Krillpunzel had unknowingly learned a magic song from Eutheria in her youth called "Let Down Your Baleen," and Eutheria had told the coral who built the atoll to open a hidden door whenever Krillpunzel sang it. Every day, Eutheria would go to the atoll and say "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen," and when Krillpunzel sang the magic song, the sea-witch would be allowed to enter. Eutheria was very happy with this arrangement, as she did not ever have to share the pleasure of Krillpunzel's company with anybody else. Krillpunzel, on the other hand, quickly grew weary of her new living quarters. She was lonesome and bored, and would pass the time the only way she knew how- by singing. Krillpunzel spent many years passing the time this way, with Eutheria visiting every afternoon to bring food and spend time together. One day, a rogue humpback happened to be feasting in the neighborhood of the atoll and overheard Krillpunzel singing. The beautiful melody had an overpowering effect on him, and he fell in love. Determined to find the cetacean enchantress who's song he had heard, he swam all around the atoll searching for a way in, but could not find any. He searched until the sun set and the moon rose, and then he kept searching until the dawn broke and the day began, but he could not find a way in. Then, just as he was giving up hope, Eutheria approached. He had heard the legends about her, and so he hid behind a rock to avoid her gaze. Eutheria swam up to the atoll and said "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen," at which point the hidden door opened and she went inside. The rogue whale was thrilled, and his heart beat so fast that he thought for sure his hiding spot would be given away. It wasn't, and when Eutheria left he swam up to the atoll and said "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen."

rillpunzel sang the secret song, and the hidden door was once again revealed. When he entered, he was taken aback by how beautiful Krillpunzel was, and Krillpunzel was taken aback to see someone who was not Eutheria. He gave her a piece of kelp that he had picked for her, and they talked for hours. Krillpunzel told the rogue whale about how she came to be trapped in the atoll, and the rogue whale, who's name was Timothy, told Krillpunzel of all the wonderful things outside the atoll. He told her that he loved her, and they mated. Krillpunzel loved Timothy, too, but was afraid of what Eutheria would do if she found out about their coupling. They decided that Timothy had better leave before Eutheria returned, and so Timothy left the atoll, promising to return. The next day, when Eutheria came by, she noticed the piece of kelp that Timothy had given Krillpunzel. Knowing that she had not brought the kelp in, she reasoned that Krillpunzel had had a visitor, and she again grew jealous. Furious that Krillpunzel would be so ingrateful as to allow anyone else into the atoll, Eutheria put a curse on her that rendered her mute and then cast her out into the sea. Krillpunzel immediately began to search for Timothy, but not having swum in the open sea for many years, she quickly became disoriented and got lost. Not knowing what had transpired, Timothy returned that night as he had promised. When he called "Krillpunzel, Krillpunzel, Let Down Your Baleen," the hidden door opened and he swam inside. Timothy was surprised, though, for Krillpunzel was gone, and Eutheria, the sea witch whom he feared, had taken her place. Eutheria knew at once that Timothy was the forbidden visitor. Her spite and her rage knew no bounds, and so she blinded him to prevent him from ever finding Krillpunzel again. Determined to prove the sea-witch wrong, Timothy set out to find his beloved Krillpunzel. Timothy swam and swam and swam, but he could not find her. He swam until his tail was sore and his flippers felt dead from exhaustion, but he did not give up. He swam into countless sea-crags and piers for he could not see, but still he searched for Krillpunzel. After years of searching, Timothy finally gave up, and settled onto a sand bar. Just then, in the distance, he heard a song that he had not heard in ages. Finding renewed vigor for his quest, he swam towards the source of the song. When he got closer, he could tell it was not Krillpunzel. The young whale who was singing the song explained that she had known the song since birth, but did not know how. Timothy demanded that the young whale take him to her mother. The young whale did, and when she came home with Timothy following behind her, Krillpunzel recognized him at once. She cried with joy, and when her tears mingled with the seawater they restored Timothy's sight. Upon seeing Krillpunzel, Timothy began to cry as well, and his tears restored Krillpunzel's voice. So happy were they to be together again after so many years of fruitless searching that they mated again, much to the dismay of Krillpunzel's child, and they all lived hapily ever after.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Preamble To An Eruption


Declaration Of Eruption
Despite my prior record of volcanic dormancy, the subduction of the convergent plate boundary upon which I am stationed has resulted in an abnormal lithospheric pressure differential which shall be remedied during the week of January 8th, 2007. Therefore, pursuant to the Human-Volcano Fair Warning Treaty of 1994, and inasmuch as it is my moral duty to warn the hikers on my slopes and the townsfolk who live in my shadow, I hereby proclaim that a volcanic eruption is imminent. In accordance with section VII(a) of the aforementioned treaty, wherein it was agreed by both parties that no eruption shall occur with malice of forethought, I submit the following diagnosis of the eruption, in hopes that the peace now held between volcanoes and their human brethren may be maintained.

Expected Impact
Due to silicon concentrations upwards of sixty-five percent, a felsic lava flow is expected. The human impact of said lava flow is expected to be minimal, thanks in large part to the adherence to the zoning regulations put forward by the 1994 treaty. However, pyroclastic flows are anticipated, and thus a precautionary evacuation is being recommended. This recommendation is in no way mandatory on the part of the erupting party, and therefore its declaration absolves the volcanic contingent of any responsibility for loss of life which may occur. Property damage, although regrettable, is to be expected. Whereas any damaged sustained on projects or public works commissioned since the 1994 treaty shall be the responsibility of the building party (the human contingent), damage sustained on sites previously identified as historical landmarks shall be the responsibility of the erupting party, and will be accounted for.

Reparations
Inasmuch as it is not the desire of any volcano for their eruption to be the cause of any longstanding grievance on the part of human parties residing in the locality of said volcano, reparations shall be made by the erupting party in an attempt to mend ecological and financial damage derivative of the eruption in question. In this particular case, the volcanic contingency shall help provide for future reforestation with the deposit of volcanic soils rich in nutrients. Furthermore, the erupting party shall remain dormant for several years to come, in order to allow for an influx of tourist dollars and real estate development. Said dormancy is accompanied by the standard caveat that heretofore unseen and unknown geological activity may render said dormancy untenable, at which point further declarations of eruption shall be issued if necessary.


December 15th, 2006
Global Volcano Alliance


Thursday, November 23, 2006

Awkward Situations For Cyborgs

  • "Sir, please check to make sure your pockets are all empty. The other people in this line have flights to catch."
  • "Oh hey, Rick- this is the guy I was telling you about. Arxon-4800, this is Rick Deckard. Rick Deckard, this is Arxon-4800."
  • "Oops! I really need to reset the timers on these sprinklers."
  • "Yeah, the shag carpet's really nice, but it builds up a lot of static electricity. Try not to touch anything metal."
  • "No, the best scene in Terminator is when Schwarzenegger gets crushed in the crusher- just like the piece of cyborg trash he is."
  • "Mom, dad, this is my boyfriend Arxon-4800. Arxon-4800, these are my parents. Did you know that I was raised as a Luddite?"

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

A Venerated Turkey Addresses His Fellow Birds, Offering His Wisdom And Counsel On The Eve Of Thanksgiving

Fellow turkeys- Thanksgiving is a day of tradgedy and woe for all of us. There is not a single bird in this barn who has not shed a tear for the loss of a dear friend or family member on this day in years past, and this year will be no different. Come sunup, Farmer John will stalk in here, axe in hand, and choose one of our number to be killed, plucked, and roasted to sate his family's gluttonous appetite. As if death were not a cruel enough fate, the chosen one will also have to suffer the ignominy of having their body cavity stuffed with spiced bread crumbs, carrots, and apples. The chosen one may even be deep-fried, or become a turduckin. Now, I have oveheard some gobbling among the flock. Political firebrands walk among us- birds who are too young or too lean to truly fear the fate of the farmer's axe- and they speak of revolution. "Give me liberty," they say, "or give me death." Fellow turkeys- I beg of you not to propose this ulitmatum to the farmer, for he will most certainly give you death.

I understand that the extremists in the flock tonight do not enjoy hearing me say this. I am prepared to read the scrawls in the barnyard dirt tomorrow, decrying my good name and calling me a farmer sympathizer, but let me state unequivocally here and now that no turkey here is less of a farmer sympathizer than I. Having lived in this barnyard for ten whole years, I have seen the farmer slaughter turkeys, chickens, and pigs at will. I have watched him throw the bones of the dead to his dogs, and I have watched him feed the organs of the dead to the children of the living. As far as I am concerned, there is no creature on this farm more barbarous than the farmer, and I will not sit idly by and watch as the ranks of my flock are thinned. That having been said, this "Give me liberty or give me death" nonsense is some of the most ineffective rhetoric a turkey can use at this time of year.

Does any bird here truly think that Farmer John, who has a long history of meleagricide, will put down his axe and open wide the barnyard gates so that we might be free, because of this phrase? "Give me liberty or give me death"? Please. The farmer has known all along that liberty is what we seek, and he has not granted it. If the farmer were of a mind to grant liberty to any of us, then why have we never seen it happen? Indeed, every turkey here who has attempted to escape- to take liberty by force- was quickly apprehended by the farmer's dogs and brought back to this very barnyard. Liberty, sadly, is not an option for us, my fellow birds- but if we are crafty we may avoid death.

Surely even the youngest among us have noticed a significant trend in the farmer's behavior. The executioner's axe does not swing blindly. Every year, it strikes the neck of the fattest and healthiest among us. Those turkeys who are foolish enough to unquestioningly accept the bounty of grain that the farmhands present to us each autumn are the very same turkeys who end up lying on their stomachs in a roasting pan, being basted with their own juices every thirty minutes. Meanwhile, the rest of the flock is forced to sit downwind of the farmer's kitchen in this very barn and smell the cooked flesh of their kinsmen. How many more necks will have to be cut before we learn that only the gourmands among us will ever meet the axe? How many more Novembers must be tainted by gore and sorrow? No more, I say. This ends now.

Many of you are too young to remember the hard years- the years when summer droughts had drastically cut the autumn grain supply, leaving our people lean, tough, and stringy. You may not remember- but I do. That year, not a single one of our number was culled. Seeing heartier opportunities for a feast amongst the pig's number, the farmer, axe in hand, walked through our quarters that cold morning and walked back out. Yes, without killing a single turkey, the farmer walked out. I have faith, brothers and sisters, that if this happened once, it can- no, will- happen again.

We are the masters of our own destiny, are we not? Are we, as turkeys, not the ones in charge of what becomes of our lives? We are. So let's act like it. It is too late to change what will happen at dawn tomorrow, fellow turkeys, but let us band together and restrain ourselves in the coming years. Let us remember our wild roots- our kind were once lean birds of prey, not fatty future feasts with feathers. We can be this way again, and in doing so we shall all enjoy peaceful, senescent deaths. "Give me liberty or give me death?" Hardly. Grant me restraint and give me life, I say!

Turkeys! Let us raise our waddles to the rafters, and gobble as loud as we may for the chosen one among us! Let us join together as a flock on this day, and let us swear that this shall be the last Thanksgiving where Farmer John shall have the pleasure of a fattened turkey at his table! Dawn soon approaches, and I swear to you turkeys that it shall mark the dawn of a new era in this barn- an era where no turkey shall ever have to fear losing their sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, or friends to a corpulent farm family ever again!

Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble!Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble! Gobble gobble!

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Important Moments In Nerdic History

Taken from Nerdic History And Culture, by Isaac Wattleman; Harper Collins (2002).

November 18th, 1976
After severe harassment from the athletic department at Vassar College, astronomy professor Renald Plimpton develops high-waist trousers. The trousers cover underwear waistbands by several inches, thus drastically reducing the risk of wedgies. The wild success of his invention leads nerds everywhere to refer to a failed wedgie attempt as a "plimpton."

August 7th, 1982
Sydney Bergosser, childhood math prodigy and teenaged bane of high school calculus teachers, calculates the precise angle at which to carry books so that they cannot be slapped to the floor. Sydney's achievement, while notable, is quickly overshadowed by the rise in popularity of backpacks and trapper keepers. Currently, Sydney is working for DuPont chemicals, trying to develop a fabric additive which will prevent "Kick Me" signs from adhereing to shirts.

July 24th, 1989
Following an embarassing incident on a badminton court, materials engineer Pyotr Valkersson develops a strap to hold spectacles close to one's face during periods of exertion. The straps enjoy widespread popularity in the Nerdic community, particularly among model rocket enthusiasts and rock collectors.

December 28th, 1995
As the internet rises in popularity, more and more nerds the globe over find financial success as web entrepeneurs. In particular, computer programmer Roman Crowley enjoys overnight success by pioneering the hyperlink. Later, Crowley would go on to develop the massively popular "unsubscribe" link found at the bottom of unsolicited email as well as the massively unpopular pop-up ad.

March 16th, 2002
String theorist and part time marine biologist Emil Winston-Hurvitz is able to combine his two passions with his award-winning "jellyfish diagram" of the components of M-Theory. The diagram is so useful that several noted members of the Princeton Institute For Advanced Study get it tattooed on their chests. Winston-Hurvitz himself, however, declines to receive a tattoo of his celebrated diagram, citing his "longstanding fear of needles" and "general squeamishness."

Monday, November 20, 2006

Prometheus Voices A Concern


Zeus? Can we talk for a second about this punishment you've meted out for me? And, before I begin, I am sorry about the whole giving fire to mankind thing. I didn't think you'd take it like you did, and I know you're upset, so I'm not going to sit here and butt heads with you about whether or not I should be chained to this mountain for 30,000 years, having my eternally regenerating liver pecked out daily by Ethon the giant eagle-monster. I know I'll lose that argument, so I'm not even going to try. I just wanted to voice what I feel is a legitimate concern: I feel that my continual lack of a liver may have a deleterious effect on my health.

I don't know how much you know about livers, Zeus, but I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that it's a major organ. It plays a major role in metabolism. Now, I know that since I've been chained to this rock I haven't been eating as much as I used to, so my need to have an organ which secretes bile to help break down fats is admittedly diminished. However, the liver serves many functions beyond the aiding of digestion, including but not limited to the conversion of ammonia to urea and breaking down hemoglobin. These are necessary processes that all bodies must carry out, and I fear that my liver simply can't do them while Ethon the giant eagle-monster is pecking it out.

Besides, I stand at a constant risk of infection. Even with Deucalion faithfully tending to my liver-wound every day, my innards are being continually exposed to eagle bacteria and the outside world. The resulting infection may very well trigger a hepatitis attack or primary sclerosing cholangitis. Despite the fact that I will regrow a new liver free of these diseases as soon as my current one was been eaten, the liver's importance in the digestive system ensures that the systemic damages caused by these maladies may plague me for some time to come. I understand that you're upset with me, but do you really want to live with the guilt of being responsible for giving a titan biliary cirrhosis? I don't think that you do.

Maybe I should have said something sooner, but if- just for the sake of my liver- you could alter my punishment ever so slightly. If you just want me to experience terrible pain day in and day out, fine. I'll regenerate whatever that lousy eagle eats, so it shouldn't matter. Have Ethon eat off all of my toes, for instance. Or my fingers. Heck, he can even eat my nose, ears, and lips for all I care, but my liver is too important of an organ to be toyed with so lightly. For that matter, so are my heart and lungs. Frankly, I'd prefer if all of my internal organs could be put on the "do not eat" list. Thanks.

Or, if you really insist on having my liver removed over and over again, why don't we find a better way to do it so that we can give the old livers to people who need transplants? I'm sure that there's scores of hemochromatosis and hepatocellular carcinoma sufferers out there who'd like to have a titan's liver in place of their own. This is just wasteful. Ethon doesn't even care for the taste of liver. He told me. Well, just a thought. It might help people remember you as "Zeus, bringer of livers to the ill" instead of "Zeus, who occasionally takes human form to seduce temple virgins." Just a thought.

Tell you what- I'll let you sleep on it. You don't need to make a decision one way or the other right now, but mull it over tonight and see how you feel about it in the morning. When you figure out what you want to do, just let me know. I'll be right here- chained to the side of Mount Caucasus, screaming and writhing in agony as my tender liver is deftly pecked out of my side. And hey, Zeus- thanks for listening.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

The Horsehead Nebula's Plea



Hey... IAU? International Astronomer's Union? Can you hear me? It's me... The Horsehead Nebula... Look I just wanted to ask... Well... Could you please give me a new nickname.... Anything but "Horsehead Nebula." Please? No? C'mon... I never did anything to you guys... Why do you have to be so cruel? I know I look like a horse. Everyone knows that I look like a horse, so can we please just move on? Stop singing the Mr. Ed theme. I'm not trying to be a jerk or anything... It's just... well, it's embarassing. Nobody calls me Barnard 33 anymore, it's always Horse Nebula this, Horse Nebula that... I can't go anywhere without some galaxy neighing at me as I pass by, or asking me if I'm on my way to a stable. It's really demeaning.

I don't feel I'm being unreasonable here... I mean, I've gone along with this nickname for... Jeez... For about one hundred and eighteen of your earth years now. Over a hundred years. Can't we just say the joke has run it's course? I'm tired of the infamy. I used to lead such a quiet life, farming protostars to pass the time and basking in the gentle glow of Sigma Orionis. Now, I can't get a spare second to myself without some grad student in Mauna Kea or tourist in Griffith Park leering at me, saying "Hey, there's that horse-shaped thing." Nobody seems to care about who I am anymore, just how much I look like the profile of a horse. It's really upsetting, and I can't help but think that it wouldn't happen as much if people just called me Barnard 33.

You know what? I'll compromise. I don't have to be Barnard 33, I'll just take any nickname over "Horsehead Nebula." No, please not that... No, "Turd Nebula" is not a better nickname. No, it isn't... I... C'mon. Please stop messing with me. I just want a new nickname... I look sort of like a chess piece, so I could be the "Chess Nebula"... No? Well, then how about something dignified like the Eagle Nebula or the Omega Nebula... I know that those ones are taken, but something that sounds majestic like that... No, I don't think that "Turd Nebula" sounds majestic. Please stop calling me that.

I can hear you snickering.

Look, guys, why do you have to be such jerks about this? You have to rewrite the textbooks soon anyhow because of Pluto, so why can't you just add my nickname to the list of changes you've gotta make? I'll do anything... I'll change my emission spectra. C'mon- I'll tell you where all the cool pulsars are located. Please? I'll make as many Herbig-Haro objects for you as you can study- I'll just crank 'em out... You will change it? Oh great, thank you.... I knew you guys would listen to reason... Wait, what do you mean that the "awesome name" key on your computer is stuck? C'mon, don't hit the "turd" key, please... Please...

Eh... Well, nobody can say I didn't try. I just can't win with you guys. I'm going home, but I want you guys to know that my feelings have been hurt. I came here with a reasonable request and you guys not only turned me down, but you mocked me as well with this whole "Turd Nebula" nonsense. I hope you're happy with yourselves, because I'm really going to have a crappy day because of this... NO.... Eh... I guess I walked right into that one... I'm going home. Oh, by the way, Uranus had wanted to talk to you guys, too, but I think I'll just let him know not to bother.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Survival Guides For Ants: When Anteaters Attack

AUGH! An Anteater Is Attacking My Colony!

First off- calm down. Yes, anteaters are wily, and yes, they do eat ants, but there are ants that have met anteaters and lived to tell the tale. Several of us wrote this survival guide. If you can manage to keep your cool, you may join our hallowed ranks. Armed with the information contained in this handy-dandy survival guide, you'll easily outwit any anteater, armadillo, or pangolin who's foolish enough to lay seige to your home.

Why Are Anteaters So Cruel?
Let's face it- anteaters are just jerks, and there's nothing we can do about it. But why is it that they are so hell-bent on making the lives of every ant within ten square miles of their home miserable? Why won't anteaters just become planteaters and leave everybody be? The answer, as it turns out, is that they can't. Anteaters jawbones have fused together over time, meaning that apart from sucking up ants (and termites), there's not much that they can do. Ant researchers speculate that this is why anteaters hold such a grudge against ants, who's tiny but powerful mandibles must really make anteaters jealous.

The Tongue Of An Anteater Is A Formidable Foe. How Can It Be Beaten?
Quite simply, it can't. As if the fact that it were covered in tiny, backwards facing ant-grabbing spines weren't enough, the tongues of anteaters are also covered in an extraordinarily sticky saliva- good for them, bad for us. Add this onto the fact that an anteater's tongue is nearly two feet long, and all of a sudden you've got a recipe for an antastrophe. Again, calm down. This tongue cannot see you. When an anteater feeds, it will mindlessly slip it's tongue through the widest and most accessible tunnels of your colony, so stay off the beaten path. By hiding in antechambers or arterial tunnels which don't get much use, you'll avoid becoming lunchified. Also, an anteater's tongue is quite long, but it's not nearly as long as the ground is deep. If you hear an anteater coming (see below), head for low ground. Sure, they can use their powerful claws and forelimbs to dig for you, but you can buy yourself some valuable time by going as deep as possible as soon as possible. ADAPASAP, we like to say.

What Was That You Said A Second Ago, About Hearing An Anteater Coming?
A stitch in time saves nine, and an ant who knows when an anteater is on it's way saves nine ants. If you live in anteater territory, be aware. Do you hear a slow, plodding sound, accompanied by a faint rustle? If the answer is 'yes,' then you're listening to an anteater slowly approaching your colony, dragging it's bushy tail of coarse hair behind it. It's a distinct sound, much different from the sound of an approaching whip scorpion or centipede, so make note of it. Note, however, that if you live in tamandua territory, this aural profile does not apply. Tamanduas are sneaky and arboreal. Ant researchers are currently working on a detection system for these pesky predators, but advise tamandua-threatened ants to live by the ADAPASAP philosophy in the meantime.

Ok, I Think I Get It- But What About A Pre-emptive Strike Against The Xenarthrans?
That's stupid. Even a large colony of fire ants could not defeat a small anteater. They are gigantic, and so stupid that they are impervious to pain. C'mon.

Well, What Else Is There To Do?
Educate your fellow ants. Acting on the advice we've given here, any ant can save himself. However, by telling his fellow ants everything he's learned here today, an ant may be able to save his whole colony. Knowledge is power- power against anteaters. Having made it this far, you have become more powerful- against anteaters. Do the right thing and share that power with those you care about. Help build smarter colonies- have fake tunnels, deep antechambers in which to hide, and line your walls with bitter leaves that anteaters will find repulsive. If any one of us can survive an anteater attack, then all of us should be able to.


This informational pamphlet was published by the Anteater Attack Veteran's Council (AAVC), a non-profit organization dedicated to the prevention of the needless eating of ants. The AAVC is supported by donations from readers like you. To make a donation, visit our website.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Phineas Vapochevsky's Earnest Yet Failed Attempt To Further Medical Science


I want to help people. I have always wanted to help people. I have lived my entire life with the unwavering conviction that a man's achievements are limited only by his imagination, and I have strived to imagine the impossible. I speak not of silver-necked dragons or tooth faeries, nor do I speak of six-legged radishes or corpulent elves. I speak instead of what others who have come before me has considered impossible. I speak of alleviating acute viral nasopharyngitis- the common cold, which every physician since Hippocrates has written off as 'incurable.' Incurable? Can they seriously gaze down from their ivory towers at the sniffly, coughing throngs amassed beneath them pleading for reprieve and say "If I don't know what to do, then there must be nothing that can be done"? Not I. I have developed a cure for the common cold- but you need to rub this camphorated salve on your chest for it to work. Hold still and I'll show you.

Don't shy away! The wheels of progress cannot turn forward if the breaks of fear are engaged! My miracle salve will alleviate even the toughest symptoms of the common cold. I've incorporated eucalyptus into this salve to soothe sore throats, and turpentine oil to ward off catarrh. Perhaps you do not know what catarrh is, because you haven't as much medical education as I, but I assure you that it is the least pleasant of mucous-related ailments and that my slighly greasy camphorated salve can stop it. Please allow me to demonstrate by rubbing a generous palmful onto your chest.

Come on now! You have now twice rejected the opportunity to experience the future that medical science has promised all along. Do you mean to tell me that you would rather stumble through the rest of your day bleary-eyed and sore than allow me to smear some salve on your chest? That's absurd. As your body heat vaporizes my miraculously potent poultice, the medicine will take effect instantly, relieving your cold symptoms and curing your ailment. Where would we be today if gentlemen as skittish as you had turned down the treatments proposed by Sir Alexander Fleming, or Jonas Salk? Why, we'd be stuck wallowing in our own infected filth, covered in polios. I don't want that, and I don't think that you do either. Why don't you be a sport and let me put this handful of medicated cream on your chest. Still no? What about your neck?

Perhaps I can just spread a fingerful of it on your upper lip. Even just a small amount will halt inflammation in its tracks and clear your thinking. I'm making a compromise with you! Why must you be so intractable? I had thought that people would welcome my discovery with open arms. I had thought that if I tried to do good in this world I would not be spurned by those I tried to help. All I want to do is cure you, you ungrateful imp! If you can't appreciate the difficulty of what I've done- making an ointment which, when spread liberally about one's chest, will vaporize, causing itself and any and all cold symptoms to dissappear- then perhaps you don't deserve the benefit it confers on those who use it. Still, I will be the bigger man and gladly give this ointment to you, because I can't stand to see anybody- even an ungrateful body- in misery. Besides, I hadn't anticipated such resistance on your part, and now this stuff is melting all over my hand.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Upon Finding Out That France Has Been Invaded By Germany, The Maginot Line Offers An Apology


Hey France... Look, I uh... I just heard what happened- you know, with the Germans sneaking past me through the Ardennes forest and the low countries and I... Well, I just feel awful about the whole thing, and I wanted to talk to you about it. You placed so much trust in me, and to think that I've failed you, well... It just really bothers me, and I couldn't go any longer without pulling you aside and saying something about it. I am so sorry that you got invaded by Germany.

There's no excuse for what happened back there. I was fooled by a German decoy force, but there was this whole thing where I thought it was their main force and... Ehh... I'm rambling. You know the rest of the story- Germany invades you then defeats you at the Battle of France, forcing you to sign the second armistice at Compiègne. In addition to providing significant strategic advantage to Germany, the armistice at Compiègne was a symbolic victory, as they had been forced to sign an armistice there not so long ago. I'm not surprised Hitler had the site destroyed. He seems like the sort of guy who has a hard time letting things go. I'll bet you he had a rough childhood. It's hard to believe somebody like that could be a vegetarian. And that creepy little moustache... Ugh. He really skeeves me out.

At any rate, this whole thing's just been awful, and I can't help but feel at least partially responsible for it all. I mean, you created me for one purpose: to stop Germany from invading, and now Germany has invaded. I am so, so sorry. France, I want you to know that I did all that I could. Every time the Wehrmacht tried to attack one of my grands ouvrages, I stood strong and held my ground. I am loyal to you, France, and would never even dream of giving up a millimeter of French soil without a fight. My only regret is that I am not able to uproot my extensive network of tunnels, forts, and casements so that I might move into a more useful position.

As is, I suppose it is only a matter of time before I am forced to surrender to the Germans. But do not fear, France- they may have my concrete and steel body, but they will never have my heart. Vive La France, I say- Vive La France! Right? ...Ehh... I can tell you're not in a mood to chat, and that's fine. I don't blame you. I'll go back to my post now.... Not that there's much of a point anymore, but life goes on, right? Besides, I'd bet that this whole Third Reich thing is just a passing fad. Germany will get bored with the invasion in another year or two, this whole thing will blow over, and you'll go back to making crepes and croissants again. You'll see. You'll see...

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

A Lonely Horseshoe Crab's Lament

Look at her over there, on the bottom of the mating heap... She's gorgeous. I'll bet that not a single one of the two dozen jerks crowding around her has any idea how special she is. They don't care about her like I do... They only want to spawn, but who could blame them? She's the most exquisite horseshoe crab I've ever seen. Oh, Claudette! If only I had the courage to tell her how I felt! Everything about her is grand, from the way she flicks her caudal spine to the gentle slope of her carapace... Her gnathobases are always well kept, and nobody's gnathobases are well kept! But do those sleazeballs care? No. They ignore her all year long, and then the second she releases some pheromones into the tidal pool they just can't wait to hook their grubby pedipalps into her opisthosoma. I'm not that way, Claudette. I love you.

Oh, Claudette! If you would only turn even one of your four compound eyes in my direction, I am certain you would see how perfect we are for each other. I would be so good to you, Claudette. If you were sore after a long day of plowing through loose sand scavenging for mollusks and annelids, I would gladly massage each of your legs with my pincers until you were completely at ease. If you were to live to the ripe old age of 25, I would stay by your side, supporting you and fertilizing each of the 900,000 eggs you will lay in your lifetime. I don't care that not even one percent of those eggs will live long enough to become fully developed horseshoe crabs, for if I have helped any of your genes pass on to a new generation, then I have made the world a better place.

Alas, Claudette... I am not like those other male horseshoe crabs, mindlessly jostling one another out of the way in an effort to get my genital operculum closest to you, but how will you ever find out if I cannot get up the courage to approach you? You may not think it, Claudette, but your beauty intimidates as much as it captivates, if not moreso. I am left helpless in your presence, like a limulus laying languidly on land with dessicated book flap gills, roasting in the sun as it lies supine on the shore. I would rather have a seven year old human poke my undersides with a stick for all eternity than hear you say that my unrequited love for you was not returned, Claudette, and so here I sit.... On the sandbar... Hoping you'll pry yourself loose from the fertilization fest over there and tell me you love me. Ah... I am so lonely. Thank goodness I have this small colony of flatworms feeding off my foodscraps to keep me company. Too bad I don't speak flatworm.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

A Snowman Confronts His Doctor About His Botched Rhinoplasty

Are you insane??? How is this in any way acceptable? I asked for a carrot nose, you butcher- a carrot nose. Have you ever seen a carrot before? Shut up- that was a trick question. I can tell you haven't seen a carrot before because if you had, I would have one for a nose. Instead I have this... thing. What is this thing even? It looks like... like I don't even know... some sort of inverted walnut shell or something. You know what? It doesn't matter what it is, because I know what it is not, and it is not a carrot-nose!

This nose... this nose is so far off base that it's not even wrong. It would have been better if you had just removed my nose entirely. A lot of snowmen don't have noses, so that way people wouldn't have thought twice about it. That having been said, it is understood in snowmen culture that if you are going to have a nose, you have two options. The first, is a piece of coal. This is a very practical nose, in that one coal nose will last forever. However, it is not very stylish. This is the sort of nose that my Uncle Wilt or perhaps my Grandmother would wear. They lived through the depression, so that's okay. I don't fault them for wanting nasal security. The second kind of nose that snowmen wear is a carrot. This is a flashier nose, the sort that celebrities like Snowen Wilson and Flake Busey wear. It is a luxury nose. You see, carrots aren't as practical as coal- they attract squirrels, will rot and deform if not properly cared for, and may get knocked off in a heavy breeze. Even if properly cared for, carrot noses need to be regularly replaced, which can become costly over time.

Why, then, might a blue-collar snowman such as myself want a carrot nose? What could possibly make a root vegetable so alluring as a piece of facialwear that I would pawn my corncob pipe to pay for it? Why on earth would I want a carrot nose so badly that I would be willing to undergo the psychological stress of waking up one day to see a face that was drastically different from the day before staring back at me in my shaving mirror? What could motivate a snowman to do something so impractical? There must be some reason, right? I'm not crazy, so what could it be?

I'll tell you what, doc- snowwomen. Have you ever been with a snowwoman? No, I didn't think so. There is nothing on this planet so beautiful or as fragile as a snowwoman. Each snowwoman is as delicate and unique as the individual snowflakes which make up her spherical head, midsection, and bottom. Every single part of a snowwoman- from the tips of her twiggy fingers to that layer of snow under the surface that's full of dead leaves- every single part is icy cold to the touch, and yet her embrace will warm you to the core and melt your heart, figuratively. Paradoxically beautiful, snowwomen are what drive us snowmen. And you know what snowwomen love? A striking profile. Do you know what makes for a striking profile doc? A carrot nose. A long, orange, slightly ribbed carrot nose- the bigger the better.

Now then, if snowwomen love striking profiles, which are created by protrusions visible when one's head is viewed from the side, does it not stand to reason that a snowman without a striking profile is a snowman without a snowwoman? Furthermore, does it not also stand to reason that if a snowman had paid considerable money to purchase a carrot nose and thus a striking profile for himself that he might be just a bit irate when he removed his bandages to find some sort of inverted walnut shell in the middle of his face? Some sort of inverted walnut shell! Because of you, doctor, I will never be the object of a snowwoman's affection. Because of you, doctor, I will forever be lonely. Because of you, doctor, my life will forever be a disappointment. Remember that. Remember that you had the chance to make a snowman happy. A snowman- who exists soley to make children giggle. You had a chance to make a snowman happy and instead you made it miserable. May the weight of guilt forever hang by a noose about your neck, doctor, and pray that you don't see me again. I hate you.

Oh, and doctor, do me one favor, would you? Validate my parking for me so that I don't have to look that cute snowwoman secretary of yours in the face on my way out of your office. The pain of her pitiful gaze is too much to bear.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Ad Astra Cum Astacoidea -Or- Crawdads In Space!


Garçons et chéris of le press corps, welcome aboard the Étoufée spacestation. Laissez les bon temps roulet! I am the chief crawdadstronaut on board, Beau Sheux, and it is my pleasure to be your tour guide for today. We (myself and chief science crawfficer Po' Boy Merceau) have been stationed aboard this spacestation for several months now to research the effects of weightlessness on crawdads. We have gathered a fair amount of data on this matter, which we are eager to share with the world.

The most noticeable effect of weightlessness on crawdads is that it is fun! Myself and Po' Boy have amused ourselves for hours, drifting about the confines of our spacestation, playing Marco Polo and doing somersaults. Watch, I will do one for you now! And... Voilà! A somersault extraordinaire! Sometimes, we are worried that we are spending too much time floating and not enough time doing the research we were sent out here to do. C'est la vie, say we- perhaps it is the case that weightlessness makes crawdads less focused! If that is true, then we are doing plenty of research. If it is not, we are wasting precious time and valuable resources. But, hey- we are crawdads!

We have also discovered that weightlessness makes crawdads hungry. Mon dieu, such hunger we have known aboard this spacestation! We have already eaten nearly all of the vegetables and dehydrated detritus we were allotted for our entire trip, and we still have three months to go! I suppose it does not help that Po' Boy and I have been burning so many more calories with our extensive cavorting about, but we crawdads do not like to live in the past.

Our final discovery of note has been that weightlessness makes crawdads moult at an accelerated rate. Po' Boy has been moulting nearly twice a week since we got here, and we have just been throwing them out of the airlock. Ça ne fait rien- it is more of a nuisance than anything else. Also, it is gross. Have you ever spent an extended period of time in close quarters with une homme who sheds his skin every four and a half days? It is awful. It smells worse than you would expect, and one would expect it to smell bad.

Well, mon amis, c'est tout! I know that you reporter types are busy, so I will not make you stay aboard the Étoufée spacestation any longer- but if you wish to, myself and Po' Boy are going to set up a volleyball tournament! These gigantic motor neurons we have running down our backsides are no good for escape these days (where would we go?), so we are playing volleyball to keep in shape. What could be more fun? Laissez les bon temps roulet!

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Excuse Presented To Mrs. Smathersby For A Tardy Assignment By Rube Goldberg, Age 12

Dear Mrs. Smathersby-

Please excuse the tardiness of this assignment. I understand that you are a stern taskmaster, and I did not mean to take your deadline of "tuesday, before recess" lightly. However, I feel it only appropriate to tell you that the tardiness of this assignment was not my fault, but my dog's. My dog ate some cheese which was supposed to lure a mouse onto a pressure plate. The mouse's weight on the plate would have caused it to press down on blacksmith's bellows, which were so arranged that they would have blown upon the sail of a toy boat, propelling it forward until the lit candle it carried as cargo would have been positioned beneath a taught string. The string was anchoring a ball-peen hammer that I had arranged to act as a pendulum to the wall. Had this hammer been released in the manner intended, it would have struck a gong, frightening the cat which slept nearby. The cat, which I assure you would have fled, had a string tied to it's tail that, when pulled, would have toggled a switch, completing the electrical circut which powers my typewriter. Yes, I have an electric typewriter, of my own design. Needless to say, this did not occur, and I was thus rendered powerless to complete the essay on "Cause & Effect" which you had assigned. If it makes you feel any better, I feel that I have an adequate grasp on the subject matter.

Sincerely,

Rube Goldberg

P.S. I have since reprimanded my dog for eating the cheese. It will not happen again.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Photos From The 2006 International Miss Cuttlefish Competition

Well, folks, the 2006 International Miss Cuttlefish Competition has come and gone, and, as you can imagine, it caused quite a stir. The excitement of having the loveliest cuttlefishes from all over the world gathered in one reef rattled the cuttlebones of all who attended, and when the results were announced, there wasn't a blank chromatophore in the house.

And now, the Associated Undersea Press is pleased to present to you, the reader, the results of this gala event. So, put your denticulated suckers together, and feast your doubly foveated eyes with w-shaped pupils on these beautiful bathypelagic bombshells! If these girls don't get your hemocyanin pumping, nothing will! They're sure to steal each one of your three separate hearts!



Edwina Moroni, Miss Cuttlefish 2006, Weeping As She Receives News Of Her Victory



Runner-Up Fabiola Consternado In Her Evening Gown



N'dewe Umbalo, Miss Cuttlefish 2005, Sings "Castle On A Cloud" From Les Miserables During The Pageant Opening Ceremony



An Animated Moment During The Bette Midler Song And Dance Revue



Pageant Judges Jeff Zimmer, Bill Fenton, And Ken Rossler Grinning During The Swimwear Portion Of The Cuttlefish Pageant

Friday, November 10, 2006

Alexander The Great Struggles With The Gordian Knot


C'mon, Alexander... You've done tougher stuff than this. Remember when dad died, and all those city-states rebelled? You settled that matter, and, once again, Greece is unified. That was great. You are great. You've got a reputation now... Don't let this stupid knot make you look like a horse's ass in front of all these Gordians. If somebody was able to tie it, then you've got to be able to untie it. Don't panic.

You studied under Aristotle! Aristotle, who studied under Plato! Your mind has had the benifit of having been meticulously groomed by one of the greatest minds that the world has ever known, and yet here you are, standing in front of an ox-cart in Phrygia, jaw agape with beads of sweat pouring from your brow because of a piece of knotted rope. You will crack this nut, Alexander. Greatness is in your future, and this knot is not going to keep you from it.

Seriously, though, who the heck tied this knot anyhow? Isn't one of the criteria of a good knot being able to untie it when you want to? Whoever tied this knot must not have been a sailor. You would never tie this knot on a ship. You would tie a bowline, or maybe a half-hitch, but never this. If you had to put out to sea on short notice, say to defend Crete from an Egyptian naval invasion, you'd be sunk! Galleon upon galleon of soldiers would calmly dock at your pier, and while you sat there, calmly undoing each of the MMLXXXVII loops in your stupid, over-engineered knot, they would walk up behind you and cudgel you to death.

Sweet crap, this knot is impossible! At what point does a knot this complex become necessary, especially for an ox-cart? What sort of society are these people living in where an ox-cart is so prized a posession that some bozo had to create this monstrosity to keep it secure? If this is the sort of oxcrap I'm going to have to put up with for the rest of this military campaign, then I'm done. Back to Macedon I go, with my head hung low and my tail between my legs. I already have Greece, what do I want the rest of the known world for? The rest of the known world is overrated, if you ask me, especially if it's full of these stupid knots.

Eh... No. No, no, no... I can't go home empty-handed... The Spartans will never let me live it down... They'll rile up Thebes and Corinth against me, and then I'll have real trouble on my hands. I've got to do this. But- URGH!!! This is so frustrating!!! Screw you, Persia! Screw you and your stupid knots! You hear me, knot? Screw you, you jerk! You think you're so great, don't you, sitting there all high and mighty on your stupid ox-cart? "Nobody can untie me, I'm so special." Yeah, well, you know what this is? This guy right here- you recgonize him? Oh yeah, that's right- It's a sword, goat-breath. I don't care what sort of knot you think you are, but this sword doesn't care how fancy or intricate you are, 'cause it's gonna cut you just the same. You hear, that, knot? CUT! Take THAT, you stupid jerk!!! Take THAT!!!

Whoa... I really lost my cool for a second there... This is no way for a conqueror to act... I've got to remember to breathe deep and count to X next time. What's that noise? It sounds like... Oh, hey! These people are... applauding me! They hated that knot as much as I did! How funny is that? Phew- it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I feel soooooo much better now- especially about this military campagin. If that knot couldn't stop me, what could? Nothing, that's what. I'll march to the ends of the earth and back unopposed! This is great! I've got to go tell the generals to rally the troops! It's conquering time!

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Proposed Budget For "Fort Awesome!" Construction Project

To whom it may concern:

Below is the itemized budget proposal for the materials required to construct Fort Awesome! as per the specifications outlined by the blueprints received by this office on 11/01/06. The budget does not include staple materials, such as nails and screws, nor does it include "secondary" costs, such as truck/van rentals which may be necessary to transport materials and crew to sight. Estimates for these figures will be provided by the foreman only after a final construction site has been chosen and a materials budget has been approved. It is the understanding of this office that as of the writing of this letter, the following sites are still being considered for the final location of Fort Awesome!:
  • The beech tree located behind turtle swamp
  • The rocky outctrop located due north of the Indian caves
  • The small clearing next to the creek behind Mrs. Robinson's potting shed

In that the blueprints we have been provided with do not take into account the nuances in design needed to be made to accomodate each location, this budget is simply for materials needed to build the basic Fort Awesome! design. Again, budgetary amendments shall be the responsibility of the foreman and shall be provided at a later date.

-Mark Gonzalez
CFO, Totally Sweet Building Corporation


Fort Awesome! Proposed Budget

Structural Materials:
  • 4 pcs. 4x4 cut lumber, 18' $23.85
  • 5 pcs. waferboard, 15'x20' $18.50
  • 2 pcs. doorhinge $4.35
  • 1 pcs. cabinet handle $.85

Structural Materials Subtotal: $47.55

Decorative Materials:
  • 1 gallon black paint $32.40
  • 1 used throw rug $8.50

Decorative Materials Subtotal: $40.90

Miscellaneous Materials:
  • Water balloons $1.25
  • Assorted candies and chips $6.50
  • Comic books $15.00
  • Eyepatches $2.60
  • Assorted soft drinks $5.00
  • Cap guns $3.40

Miscellaneous Materials Subtotal: $33.75

Total Proposed Budget: $122.20


As an addendum, should the proposed budget be rejected due to insufficient funding, it is the intention of this office to generate additional revenue for use towards the construction of Fort Awesome! by selling lemonade and baseball cards on Penfield Road once the weather gets nicer.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Are You Invisible? Three Easy Tests


Are You Invisible?

In today's fast-paced modern world, it can sometimes be difficult to know whether or not you are invisible. Perhaps you are boring, so people seem not to notice you. Perhaps you think the pane of glass in front of you is a mirror, but it is not. Perhaps it is, and you are a vampire. Not knowing the status of one's own visibility can be a real headache, so the editorial staff here at Microanalysis has compiled three easy tests for determining whether or not you are invisible.

  1. Find a mirror. Verify that you are indeed looking into a mirror by fetching a rubber duck bath toy and placing it in front of the mirror. If another rubber duck appears, then yes, you are looking at a mirror. If no rubber duck appears, then you are most likely looking at a pane of glass or maybe even a one-way mirror. Whatever it is, smash it with a rock, for it will not help you determine whether or not you are invisible. Once you have found a bonafide mirror, step in front of it. Stick out your tongue but do not cross your eyes. If you can see yourself sticking your tongue out, you are not invisible (but as noted above, you may still be a vampire).

  2. Get a flashlight. Now shut off all the lights in your room. Turn on the flashlight and try to make shadow puppets. Specifically, attempt to make a dog, then a duck, then an angry man with a large nose. If you are invisible, the light from the flashlight will pass straight through you and you won't be able to make any shadow puppets at all. If you can't make the dog or the duck shadow puppets but are still casting a shadow, you aren't invisible but you probably suffer from some sort of manual cooridnation disorder. If you are able to make the angry man with a large nose, congratulations. That is a difficult shadow puppet to make.

  3. Look at something. Can you see it? If so, you are not invisible. If you were invisible, then light would pass straight through your eyes, striking nary a rod nor cone on its way through you. Your visual cortex would receive no input, and you wouldn't see anything. It's that simple. In fact, being able to read this sentence is pretty conclusive evidence that you are not invisible, so let's put that matter to rest, ok?

If You Are Invisible

Let's face it- some people are invisible, and that's okay. That having been said, life can be difficult if you are invisible, as none of your friends can see you. Upon hearing your voice or seeing you pick up your favorite ping-pong paddle, folks may think that you are a ghost and run screaming out of the room. Here are some easy ways to increase your visibility:
  • Only travel in areas of heavy fog or steam
  • Strap bicycle horns to your feet
  • Wear lots of really heavy makeup
  • Sing loudly and frequently about what you are doing
  • Always wear a trenchcoat, along with a hat, sunglasses, and full bandaging on your face

Whatever you do, do not wear a sheet over your head with holes cut in it. This will only increase the chances of people thinking you are a ghost.

Are You Still Confused?

Hopefully this article has been helpful to you. If you are still uncertain as to whether or not you are invisible, it may be necessary to seek professional help. Most doctors will be able to tell at a glance whether or not you are invisible. Dentists will be able to tell you only if your teeth are invisible, as that is their specialty. If you are still uncertain whether or not you are invisible, freak out. If a friend, relative, or stranger approaches you and calms you down, then they can see you, and you are not invisible. If a friend, relative, or stranger becomes alarmed because of the disembodied shouting fit that they cannot locate, you are invisible, and can therefore stop freaking out.

Regardless of your visibility, the world is your oyster. Visible and invisible people alike can ride tandem bicycles, paddle kayaks, and tie knots in string. Do not let your visibility hamper your active lifestyle or dampen your sunny position- you're beautiful just the way you are. Even if nobody can see you.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

A Gargoyle's Job Interview For The Position Of Night Watchman At Notre Dame

M. Firebrand: Hi, thanks for having me.

M. Salopard: According to your resume the pleasure is all mine, Monsieur....

M. Firebrand: Firebrand.

M. Salopard: M. Firebrand. Of course. Let's begin the interview, shall we? Tell me, M. Firebrand- why have you applied for the position?

M. Firebrand: Ever since I was a baby gargoyle, I have been in love with the Notre Dame Cathedral. I have always thought her to be as beautiful as she is sacred. I can think of no higher honor to be bestowed upon a gargoyle than to be the one to protect her from harm.

M. Salopard: I'm glad to hear you feel that way... Sometimes, we get fellows in here for the wrong reasons. There is a certain amount of... prestige, I guess, that goes along with the position, and sometimes that can cloud people's true motivation for wanting to apply.

M. Firebrand: I assume you're referring to the incident with the hunchback that's been in the papers of late?

M. Salopard: Sadly, yes.

M. Firebrand: I think it's disgraceful to use Notre Dame as a cheap ploy to impress women, if you don't mind my saying so.

M. Salopard: Believe me when I say that I feel the same way. As you can imagine, the city is more than a little embarassed by the whole incident, and we'd like to put it behind us as soon as possible. Tell me- why should we hire you to be the new night watchman for our hallowed cathedral? What is it that makes you the best candidate for the job?

M. Firebrand: Well, as it says on my resume, I am a gargoyle.

M. Salopard: Yes, I see that here.

M. Firebrand: Unlike the others who have interviewed for this position, or those who have held it in the past, I am able to fly. I would be able to hide on the upmost reaches of the cathedral, waiting to swoop down upon street urchins and drunkards without warning. From my lofty perch, I would be able to see further than any conventional guard ever could, and thus could strike preemptively against those who would sully our fair cathedral. Also, I am made of stone, and am therefore impervious to the sorts of wounds inflicted by knives, broken glass, or angry fists. My sharp teeth will make quick work of ne'er-do-wells, and my sullen disposition will add an air of mystery and tragic beauty to the cathedral itself.

M. Salopard: Impressive.

M. Firebrand: Thank you.

M. Salopard: It sounds like you might be just what this cathedral needs... are you comfortable with a yearly salary of sixty thousand francs with full medical benefits?

M. Firebrand: Does that include dental?

M. Salopard: Sorry, no, but if you intend to use your teeth in defense of the cathedral as you say you will, then I'm sure we could free up some money from our discretionary spending budget for you.

M. Firebrand: D'accord.

M. Salopard: When would you be available to start?

M. Firebrand: Immediately.

M. Salopard: Well then, M. Firebrand, let me be the first one to congratulate you on your new position as night watchman.

M. Firebrand: Ah! Thank you, M. Salopard- you won't regret this!

M. Salopard: No, I don't think that I will. Now then, let's get you fitted for a uniform...

M. Firebrand: No need, sir- I work in the nude.

M. Salopard: I suspected as much. Welcome to Notre Dame!

Monday, November 06, 2006

Magritte's Son Of Man Visits The Opthalmologist

Nope... No... Try that last one again, would you? No luck. All I see is an apple. You see, Dr. Ernst, this has been my recurring problem for some time now- regardless of what prescription corrective lens I wear, or exercise I try to strengthen my eyes, all can I see is an apple. As you can imagine, this has been considerably more than a minor nuisance to me of late, as I can't see anything aside from the aforementioned apple. I've put a lot of thought into this matter- I've spent many a day standing by my favorite seawall, calmly weighing my options as passers-by jeered me ("Grandpa Smith," they have called me, or "Johnny Appleface"), but I have finally made up my mind- I want to correct my vision with lasers.

I know that as an opthalmologist, you are probably bombarded by wisenheimers day in and day out who somehow have a near infinity of ideas on how to improve their vision and zero training in your field. Let me say up front that I am not just another wisenheimer, Dr. Ernst. I was a pre-med as an undergraduate at the Belgian National Academy, and I've had my fair share of courses in eye-ology because of it. Did you know that I am able to name several parts of the eye? Cornea, iris, and eye-vein. I could go on, but there's no sense in preaching to the choir. Let's get down to brass tacks and correct my vision with lasers.

We are living in the 21st century, are we not, Dr. Ernst? I think that someday history will remember the manner in which vision is traditionally corrected as flat out barbarous. To think- we are an advanced civilization, but the best that we can do when a man can see naught but an apple in front of him is to make eye-shaped lenses out of flexible plastics and put them directly on the eye. Directly on the eye! Good heavens! And what of spectacles? Do you really mean to suggest that strapping a small nose harness fitted with polished glass is the best we can do? Ridiculous, I say. High energy pulses of electromagnetic energy aimed precisely at the tender living tissue which composes the eyeball itself ought to be sufficient to cure most visual ailments, and I want to use it to cure my applopia.

The procedure will be quite simple, Dr. Ernst, and I am confident that my eye-ology background will enable me to lead you through it without any problems. We will simply use the lasers to reshape my corneas, irises, and eye-veins such that the image of the apple is countered out. You know, like a bas-relief. If all goes well, I should be able to ride myself home on my bicycle- that's it just out the window, the one with the front wheel that's about five feet tall. I can't see it because of this lousy apple, but unless it's been stolen, it should be outside. Of course, I wouldn't have to guess as to its whereabouts if I had laser vision. Sorry- laser corrected vision.

I've presented my point to you as best as I am able, Dr. Ernst, and now I must go. I should hope that you will take my idea into consideration when determing how best to correct my condition. When you have made my decision, you have my contact information in my file, and I shall be waiting by my lobster phone, anticipating your call. Now then, if you could just point me in the direction of the door, I shall be on my way. I apologize in advance for anything that I knock over on my way out.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Mouth-Watering Recipes For Water Moccasins

The following recipes were taken from Snake Bites: Forkfuls For Forked Tongues, by A. Piscivorus; Reptile Publishing Syndicate (1983).

Rat-Stuffed Rat
Serves 8


Ingredients
1/4 cup ground rat
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
2 tablespoons finely chopped carrots
2 tablespoons finely chopped celery
1 clove chopped fresh garlic
2 1/2 tablespoons fresh bread crumbs
1 pinch ground black pepper to taste
8 medium sized rats, cleaned and split lengthwise
1 tablespoon bacon drippings

Directions
1. Preheat the oven broiler.

2. In a bowl, mix the ground rat, parsely carrots, celery, garlic, bread crumbs, and pepper.

3. Arrange the rats in a baking dish. Separate the skin from the fleshy underbelly of each rat, and stuff with equal amounts of the stuffing mixture. Brush with bacon drippings. Serve on a bed of mixed greens or baby spinach.

4. Broil the rats 7 minutes on each side in the preheated oven, or to a minimum internal temperature of 180 degrees farenheit (85 degrees celsius).


Note:
For a heart-healthy alternative to bacon grease, mix 1 tablespoon olive oil with a generous pinch of salt.



Creamed Stork Eggs
Serves 4


Ingredients
8 stork eggs, stolen from the nest
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 cup milk
1/4 cup grated Parmesean cheese
Salt and pepper to taste

Directions
1. Place eggs in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Bring water to a boil and immediately remove from heat. Cover and let eggs stand in hot water for 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from hot water, cool, peel, and chop.

2. Melt butter in a small saucepan over medium heat. Whisk in flour; when thoroughly blended, slowly add milk, stirring constantly. Cook until thickened. Stir in cheese.

3. Pour sauce over chopped, boiled stork eggs.


Note:
For those with a fang for spicier cuisine, try adding 2 tablespoons fresh venom to the sauce mixture just before pouring it over the eggs. It'll add a zest you won't soon forget!

Saturday, November 04, 2006

The Vienna Fire Department's Success And Failure To Rescue Schrödinger's Cat


Mr. Schrödinger- my name is Sgt. Hasenpfeffer. I'm from the the Vienna Fire Department, whom you called recently to rescue your cat, Whiskers Heisenberg, from a tree. Mr. Schrödinger, it is my great pleasure and sad duty to inform you that we were able and not able to save your cat. Whiskers Heisenberg is a black Tabby, and as we received your call in the evening, cover of darkness obscured your cat from any sort of observation. At the time, we were sorely undereducated as to what effect this seemingly minor detail would have on the rescue operation, but I am prepared to report to you all I can about what happened.

As luck would have it, your cat turned out to be in no danger and extreme peril. The tree in which your cat was potentially and is still stuck was located downwind and upwind of a hydrocyanic acid plant, meaning that at any second during this tense and lackadaisical rescue operation your cat could have been killed and not affected by the poisonous gas emanating from the plant's exhaust pipes. Why Vienna's city council would ever allow a factory that spews poison gas into the air above our beautiful burg is beyond me, but this was the situation we did and did not have to take into consideration.

You see, Mr. Schrödinger, the bevy of factors we were and were not faced with led to some confusion on the part of my men. "Sgt. Hasenpfeffer," they said to me, "how are we to rescue a cat which we cannot observe?" Not knowing what to tell them, I suggested that they attempt to make an observation of the cat in question, and this is when things got tricky.

Shining a light into the tree, we were able to find your cat immediately, have no luck whatsoever finding your cat, and also see the true danger your cat was in. All at once, we were able to safely bring your cat down our ladder, have a hard time catching it as it scampered through the branches of the elm, and unable to stop it from wandering aimlessly into the cloud of deadly hydrocyanic gas which loomed nearby. Again, I cannot express how irresponsible I think the Viennese city council has been on this matter, and I intend to file a report about it later this week.

What happened next still remains a mystery to me, as a sudden drop in power made our searchlight fail and we again lost observation. As near as I can tell, my men were surrouded and not affected by the toxic gas cloud while they were in the process of chasing your cat, being scratched by your cat, giving up on rescuing your cat, trying to revive your cat, and safely bringing your cat down our ladder to the ground. My men were both in the tree and on the ground while the searchlight was out, which facilitated the rescue of your cat and the rampant miscommunication which prohibited her rescue, leading ultimately to her demise at the hands of the toxic gas and her happy but inaccessable life at the topmost branches of the tree which is on the east and west end of town.

Surely, you can imagine my pride and shame at having to report all of this to you, but I'm certain that a man of your erudition understands the situation clearly. At any rate, I present to you this black box, which we have placed your cat inside for safe keeping. If you'd like to, you may open the box up and see how Whiskers Heisenberg is doing, but I don't recommend it.

Hansel & Gretel's Moral Quandary Upon Finding An Untended Gingerbread House In The Forest



Hansel: Inasmuch as gingerbread is a manmade substance, and we are men (in the general sense of the term), there is no reason we should not eat this gingerbread house. No beast in this realm or any other feasts upon gingerbread, and thus by doing so ourselves we shan't be upsetting nature's delicate balance.

Gretel: It has never been my contention that in partaking of this gingerbread house we would be upsetting the local wildlife. Indeed, I wholeheartedly agree with you that this gingerbread house was manmade. Sugar cookies are not created by any known natural force, anomalous or not, and yet we have enough here to shingle a sizeable roof. Likewise, peppermint swirls are no natural occurance, and yet they are used liberally here as decor. Certainly this shelter was manmade, and that is precisely the reason why we should not eat it. If it were made by some man, then he presumably made it for either shelter, sustenance, or both, and it would therefore be immoral of us to help ourselves to his bounty.

Hansel: I agree-

Gretel: Then the matter is settled.

Hansel: However...

Gretel: I rescind my prior evaluation of the matter.

Hansel: ...this gingerbread house has clearly been abandoned for some time. Notice that the icing, which I can only presume was placed along the seams in lieu of proper caulking, has crumbled and flaked due to inattention. Likewise, the rows of gumdrops along the doorjambs and windowsills are incomplete, suggesting that this gingerbread house is in a bit of a state of disrepair. Surely, any interest this candied structure's fabled creator once had has waned considerably- it has been disowned. This, dear Gretel is a wasted morsel that belongs to no man. Let us eat it.

Gretel: Steele your hunger for but a second, brother- Do you agree that this breaded hut once belonged to somebody?

Hansel: Yes.

Gretel: Let us refer to this somebody as "The Owner" from here on out, for sake of ease of reference. Can you or I rightfully claim to be The Owner?

Hansel: No.

Gretel: In that neither of us can claim to be The Owner, can either one of us claim to know his intentions?

Hansel: Not directly, but as I've pointed out, we may infer them from-

Gretel: I did not ask for inference, I asked for direct knowledge of The Owner's intentions. Can we know that?

Hansel: Aye, we cannot.

Gretel: In that we cannot know The Owner's intentions, how are we to know that The Owner has not run to the candy shop for materials to mend his crumbling home? These candy cane columns look newer than the rest of the structure here, which may indicate that this gingerbread house is in a state of ongoing improvement or renovation. Perhaps The Owner is fully aware of his hut's dilapidated state and is in the process of fixing it, slowly but surely. Were this to be the case, and The Owner were to return home, surely he would be cross to find you and I sitting here, bellies full and sweet tooths sated at his expense.

Hansel: Certainly, if that were the case, but I must protest...

Gretel: Shh, brother Hansel! Behold- a shape stirs through that sugared window pane! Perhaps it is The Owner!

Hansel: Oh- the peanut brittle door is swinging open... An old woman! She sees us! Perhaps she is hostile. We should follow our breadcrumb trail back to the village, post haste!

Gretel: Nonsense- an old woman being hostile. Look- she beckons us forth. Let us trust this kindly crone, and perhaps you shall get to taste this house yet!

Hansel: Very well then, I shall trust your judgement... Is that roast flesh I smell?

Friday, November 03, 2006

A Children's Primer For Amoebas


See Moe.
See Moe's amorphous body form pseudopodia.
Locomote using pseudopodia, Moe, locomote using pseudopodia!

Moe is hungry.
Hungry, hungry Moe.
Time for phagocytosis.

Watch Moe.
Watch Moe grow.
Watch Moe's DNA replicate.
Watch Moe's outer cellular wall invaginate, splitting Moe into two daughter cells.
Watch Moe undergo cytokinesis.

Now there are two Moes.
Moe sees Moe.
See Moe See Moe.
Go, Moe, Go!

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Dietary Advice From An Ogre


Excuse me, friend- Since I'm an ogre, I don't normally bother strangers in public, but I couldn't help but notice that you have ordered an entire side of ribs. I've watched you for some time now, and while you've consumed nearly all of your ribs, you haven't even touched your bones. As a good samaritan, I felt it my obligation to come over here and let you know that you're missing out on the most nutritious part of your whole meal- the marrow.

Now, I understand that even in this day and age sucking the marrow out of the bones of a slain beast is sometimes considered uncouth, barbarous, and flat out rude. However, not all cultures are so narrow-minded. We ogres have feasted heartily on marrow for thousands of years. Ancient Ogryptian heiroglyphs depict this practice frequently, and Ogrylonian cuneiform writing has been found detailing marrow stockpiles from a thousand years before that. Marrow shrines were a common sight for hundreds of years in western Europe, and the marrow trade routes established by seafaring merchants during the age of exploration paved the way for the colonization of the western hemisphere. Indeed, sucking marrow is as venerated a dietary tradition as can be had.

Don't let the children's skulls in my hair or the oversized gnarled wooden club at my side fool you- I'm no simple minded brute blindly following in the footsteps of my ogrefathers. I'm a thinking ogre, and I've done my research on this. If you're going to be eating any sort of meat, you may as well eat the marrow. Marrow is rich not only in protein but also monounsaturated fats, which can help decrease LDL cholesterol. Outside of cracking open a peanut, sucking marrow is the healthiest way to put more protein into your diet. Marrow is also rich in calcium and potassium, nutrients which are essential to having a healthily functioning brain- a necessity for ogres. An ogre with an unhealthy brain is an ogre who will blindly break the backs of any horse it meets, or gleefully pluck babies from their beds to make into stew. Unfortunate, yes, but wholly preventable- thanks to marrow.

Well, you can lead an ogre to marrow, but you can't make him suck, right? I hope that you've found our repartee informative, and I ask that you take it to heart. I would gladly chat the ears right off of you about marrow- how best to cook it, it's homeopathic properties, why it has such a reputation as an aphrodisiac- but I've got an order of osso buco waiting for me. Enjoy the rest of your ribs, and if you decide not to have your marrow, just send the bones over to my table- otherwise I'll proably go ballistic and lay this entire town to waste.