Creative Effluvium!

Hey, kids! Been a while, I know. But today I have a weird treat for you guys. To start off, the worst pun you'll hear all day:

How do you say "thank you" to a German girl with a nice ass?
Badonkadanke schoen.

You were warned.

And now for something completely different: As an exercise in the development of my conlang, I wrote a poem in English (attributed to a fictional character) and then translated it into its "original" tongue. So here we go; the poem isn't great, but it actually flows pretty beautifully in its original tongue, I think.

Home is no brick, nor stone, nor patch of ground.
But where I can smell of your breath
taste of your sweat
caress your skin
And lose myself in you.
Wherever this may be, there am I home."
- Gorlan

And now, in its original Entitian (Transliterated):

Ahio isinatoin ekkamin, i velamin, i tioramin.
Kien am fueratoh serat vit iemin
nurat vit suomin
kriat vit amiomin
et ve zet caliutia
Amia maiutoin, an sinaton ahio.
-Gorlan


Ask me about my conlang. Please?

Conqering The Dread Melatonin

What follows is an experiment I suggest you all repeat.*


Search your neighborhood convenience stores and crackhouses for an energy drink known as Spike. You'll know it by its smaller-than-redbull can, its three colorful varieties, and the warning labels that basically amount to:

WARNING: CRYSTAL METH IN A CAN! IT'S CRYSTAL METH IN A CAN! SPIKE ENERGY DRINK IS CRYSTAL METH!**

**May contain naturally-occuring methamphetamine, a dietary supplement.

The label suggests you start with "half a can a day, to determine tolerance." I scoff at such suggestions. I'm one of the most tolerant guys I know. So last night's Frontal Assault On My Sleep Cycle started with a full can of Spike-- the Red flavor-- tempered with a couple shots of whiskey. The whiskey was necessary, you see, to balance out the inevitable onset of The Shakes and the instinctive sucking on the back of the tongue that come with today's beverages.

It should be noted that, according to the Spike label, it is not, it would seem, a beverage. It is in fact marketed as a "dietary supplement," and bears the traditional "THIS IS NOT A MEDICINE" warning label.

Let me say that this was in retrospect a really pretty decent idea. I'm pleased to report that Spike is the greatest weapon since dexedrine in the ongoing War On Circadian Rhythm. A better idea yet was taking two melatonin at around hour six. What followed after the rather light caffeine crash was eight hours of incredibly vivid dreams and astoundingly restful sleep.

Just another biochemical hack from the research labs of Ian J. Slinger & Associates.

*I can't in good conscience actually suggest this. Much like airport bathrooms.

Your Uncomfortableness Sustains Me!

What new cereal has the CDC, JCC and ACLU all up arms?

Beri-Beri Kikes.



Thank you. I'm here 'til Thursday.

Shit, that's today.

*blip*

The Preachification of Convincing Ian

Okay. I think this is the last post about religion for a while, at least until the rapture. At least I hope. I'd rather like to get back to thinking about circuitry and sex and stuff, but, well, my mind won't let go of a point until it drives it home to me, and I think I've finally reached said point. And good fucking riddance; religion is a cruel institution and I hate being The Man.

Today's sermon is entitled, "God, Difficult Times, And a Variable Number of Footprints in the Sand." Let us rise and say the Lord's Prayer:

"Weeble weeble wobble wobble. Tits or GTFO."

You may sit down again. Seriously, why the fuck did you actually stand? Are you gonna take that shit from me?

Anyway. Last night I dreamt I walked along a beach that was the Sands of Time. When I walked on its sand I left no prints, but the closer I came to the shore the more I realized that it was covered in prints already. Someone had walked along the shore before and left two sets of footprints, and upon closer inspection I noticed one with the tread of my sandals and one clearly of God's bare feet. At variable intervals along the shore were two roughly circular prints-- places I had been idle, and left not but ass-prints in the sands of time.

Eventually, as it goes in these dreams, God came to me and stood next to me, and walked along the beach with me. He didn't need to point out the parts where I was weak in life and He carried me-- I knew His footprints, and I had never doubted, for in my times of weakness I very rarely felt as though He had forsaken me. But what puzzled me more was that often I would come to a part of my life when I was very, very happy-- a massive party, a joyous celebration, a bacchanal-- and I saw that God had not left footprints next to mine.

I turned to God then, and I said to him, "These are the times in my life when I have felt your presence most. When I have been in revelry and rapture, when I have been among those I love most in all the world. And yet I see you have not walked beside me in these times. Do you disapprove of my revelry? Was the presence I felt a lie?"

And God shot me one of his looks he shoots me.

"Then what? Why aren't you there? I know you can fly and shit, but that's not how this sand works and you know it."

And God then smiled, and patted me on the shoulder, and he let out a very hearty chuckle... And he said to me, "My son... Those were the times I was too drunk, and you had to carry me."

He's just this guy, y'know?

So, alright. We've got the Christian Jesus, who said a lot of hippie bullshit and threw a temper tantrum in a temple and then got nailed to a stick, where he died, eventually came back as a zombie and burst into flames in front of a shit-ton a people, whereupon he immediately ascended into the Silver City and hung out with God for all eternity, telling people they're not paying enough attention to him.

You know what? Fuck that shit, because that was clearly an act. I've met Jesus, and he's alive today, and he has a fuckin' straggly beard and he's still wearing the same sandals he bought two thousand years ago. I smoked a bowl with him and he told me the whole story. Christian Jesus died on the cross and disappeared; Stoner Jesus faked his own death, fucked around in France with Mary Magdalene and then went off to India after she presumably fell off a bridge or something. He hung out with Buddha and all those motherfuckers (smoking a lot of hash the whole time) and then he just kinda wandered around and watched civilization happen. He likes Japan these days.

But man, the guy's real down to Earth for having died two thousand years ago. If there's anything hanging out on this world for that long will teach you, it's that at the end of the day, if God's up there, he doesn't want any of us pathetic fucks getting down on our knees and sucking his cock every Sunday. To an omnipotent trans-dimensional being, a human gives a shitty blowjob. No, the only reason Jesus believed in any of that shit was that he was a Jew who did a lot of mushrooms and had an oedipal complex so bad he couldn't come to terms with the fact that his father fucked his mother.

But he's over that shit now-- he's over most shit, to be honest-- and he'll gladly sit down and smoke a bowl with you and laugh about whatever you think is funny. He probably thinks you're a pretty cool person, and you probably know at least one funny thing he doesn't, and he'd really love to hear it. He looks homeless these days-- and I mean, he is, but, y'know, he's Jesus-- and he doesn't smell too good because fuck you, he's Jesus and he can stink if he wants. But keep an eye out and one of these days you'll see him and smoke him out, and he'll tell you some cool story of the shit he's done, like hang-gliding over a volcano with a hundred thousand bees coming out of it, and when he leaves you'll feel better about your life, cuz dude, this guy's just some stoner, so there's no reason you can't be as cool as him. I mean, shit, you probably even smell better.

Christ, Love?

I've always felt like most people's love for their god(s) feels less like love and more like Stockholm's Syndrome. I'd like my deity to let me live with them in the house all the time, not just when I've been a good boy (I don't like the cage!), and I don't want to have to rub the lotion on my skin to avoid getting the hose-- though I would gladly rub the lotion on my skin if they asked politely. That said, I wouldn't mind turning into a person-suit in the end, but I'd at least like the opportunity to sign a waiver so it wouldn't be murder.

I couldn't resist.

So, when you're masturbating to internet porn, does anyone else feel kinda like they're having sex with their computer?

If not, then congratulations, you probably will next time.