Foreword by the author: This is stupid.
I didn't used to look like this. Sure, like everybody else I had my humble beginnings in several misguided 4-cheese pizzas, and some poorly executed forays in the entertainment bizz. They couldn't give me away for free... People would look at me and say, "What the hell is that?" Under their breath they would talk about how I don't work well with Merlot. They don't know shit about Merlot, nobody worth a damn will work with fucking merlot. I'd rather come in individually wrapped slices than be able to work with fucking merlot. People couldn't even pronounce my name, so I was told to change it to "Sharp Cheddar". I took their suggestion for a while, those were some rough times. When an agent discovered me, I had a toothpick sticking out of my back outside a supermarket in Hell's Kitchen. After that I knew everything would be fine. I was the feature cheese in 11 pizzas, three without the accompaniment of other toppings, once without sauce. One time I did an avante-garde pizza without crust. I was a fixture at all the right parties; I had my space right between Boule De Lille and Tilsit. I was briefly in an international touring quartet with Brie, Beemster, and Campo De Montalban. Critics raved, "An intense, fiery start gives way to pleasant nuttiness, with a rich dry finish that makes us all feel a little more... human". Then someone suggested I do a project with "Spaghetti & Meatballs". At first I refused, saying I don't do that hokey wop bullshit. They wined and dined me and flattered me, saying I was perfect for the part, so aged and so hardened. Signing that contract was the biggest mistake of the latter portion of my career. I had to go through their middle man: a cheese grater. After my share of these grueling productions, this is what's left of me. No more taking center stage at parties, no more shackin' up with naive young Ritz crackers fresh from the package, and even Tilsit won't return my calls. They keep me around for my popular role in "Spaghetti and Meatballs", but every time they look at me I can see guilt in their eyes because I know they're thinking about getting rid of me... but hey, I know I'm good for at least one more show.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
CRUSH!
I just wanted to do you a big favor. I know you think what you wrote was insightful and witty and biting, as well as whimsical and unexpected but not as though to try to be unexpected but that natural way of being unexpected that is so hard to accomplish... but it was really just weak. I mean if someone else ran with the idea you started it could have been great, but it looks like all you do is come up with unlikely situations and describe them in ways that are more "specific" than they are insightful or thought provoking... there is nothing special or especially appropriate about them. It's basically like the Family Guy, except at least Family Guy manages to be mainstream and absurd at the same time. You manage to be neither.
"Well thank you, I think you have a point, I could use some more experience and fine tuning. Thank you for being honest, it is-"
Ok, stop right there. First of all, don't tell me that my honesty is refreshing, which I know you were about to do. Yes you were, where else was that sentence going? Also stop trying to be all magnanimous, accepting my criticism gracefully as though we are journeyman experiencing some rough camaraderie in the rigorous process of "sharpening your craft" and that you can impress me by how courageously objective you are in response to my harsh words, as though in a few weeks we'll be drinking cider up the road talking about fucking Bulgakov or some shit. It is patronizing and inaccurate and it is rude to impose your ego and your comfortable fantasies onto someone who obviously sees through you. This distance you keep between yourself and the truth is just as apparent in your writing as it is in person. You've been lulled to sleep in the esurient arms of your delusions of grandeur. It is utterly painful to listen to you speak, and even more so that you genuinely don't know how hopeless each sentence you construct is, nor do you know how woeful the notion of any future efforts you may expend on what you call writing.
"Honestly I just do this for therapeutic reasons and because I enjoy it, I'm not trying to make a career out of it."
AHHHH! Stop acting like you aren't distraught right now, it is a conceited and vain pretense that you are trying to maintain an even tone while clenching your jaw like that and keeping a death grip on the strap of your laptop case. And no this isn't me masquerading as an observant bystander giving my opinion and projecting my insecurities on you, anybody in this room has noticed at least all of these egregious faults and probably more. Do you see yet how dire this situation is? Also, no way do you find it therapeutic to write about the strange thoughts you force yourself to indulge into essays and stories and poems. Each work is like a hose with your thumb over the outlet, spraying vanity all over the crowd. You're not blowing our minds, man! You know what will be therapeutic for you, as well as the rest of us? Stop writing. Stop trying to use your strange observations to assert superiority in the irrelevant domain of your imagination. Just enjoy your silly thoughts and let them pass the way the rest of us do. You're not listening, I can tell that you are trying to think of something to say.
"Don't flatter yourself, I don't care about what you are saying, I've stopped paying attention."
Alright. Feel free to act like you don't care, but in reality, I am now your largest influence, and I will follow you around for the rest of your life. Every time you are disillusioned and you're trying to decide whether to ever write another sentence, I'll be in your thoughts. Then you will continue to write just to spite me, then once you realize that you will try to repress all thoughts about me, building more mental scar tissue upon other mental scar tissue all from this confrontation.
"Well thank you, I think you have a point, I could use some more experience and fine tuning. Thank you for being honest, it is-"
Ok, stop right there. First of all, don't tell me that my honesty is refreshing, which I know you were about to do. Yes you were, where else was that sentence going? Also stop trying to be all magnanimous, accepting my criticism gracefully as though we are journeyman experiencing some rough camaraderie in the rigorous process of "sharpening your craft" and that you can impress me by how courageously objective you are in response to my harsh words, as though in a few weeks we'll be drinking cider up the road talking about fucking Bulgakov or some shit. It is patronizing and inaccurate and it is rude to impose your ego and your comfortable fantasies onto someone who obviously sees through you. This distance you keep between yourself and the truth is just as apparent in your writing as it is in person. You've been lulled to sleep in the esurient arms of your delusions of grandeur. It is utterly painful to listen to you speak, and even more so that you genuinely don't know how hopeless each sentence you construct is, nor do you know how woeful the notion of any future efforts you may expend on what you call writing.
"Honestly I just do this for therapeutic reasons and because I enjoy it, I'm not trying to make a career out of it."
AHHHH! Stop acting like you aren't distraught right now, it is a conceited and vain pretense that you are trying to maintain an even tone while clenching your jaw like that and keeping a death grip on the strap of your laptop case. And no this isn't me masquerading as an observant bystander giving my opinion and projecting my insecurities on you, anybody in this room has noticed at least all of these egregious faults and probably more. Do you see yet how dire this situation is? Also, no way do you find it therapeutic to write about the strange thoughts you force yourself to indulge into essays and stories and poems. Each work is like a hose with your thumb over the outlet, spraying vanity all over the crowd. You're not blowing our minds, man! You know what will be therapeutic for you, as well as the rest of us? Stop writing. Stop trying to use your strange observations to assert superiority in the irrelevant domain of your imagination. Just enjoy your silly thoughts and let them pass the way the rest of us do. You're not listening, I can tell that you are trying to think of something to say.
"Don't flatter yourself, I don't care about what you are saying, I've stopped paying attention."
Alright. Feel free to act like you don't care, but in reality, I am now your largest influence, and I will follow you around for the rest of your life. Every time you are disillusioned and you're trying to decide whether to ever write another sentence, I'll be in your thoughts. Then you will continue to write just to spite me, then once you realize that you will try to repress all thoughts about me, building more mental scar tissue upon other mental scar tissue all from this confrontation.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sustainability
On a Thursday morning in the future, the world is devastated by the discovery that anybody who had eaten widely distributed meat products, foods with GMO, or large amounts high-fructose corn syrup was going to die a drawn-out torturous death, the onset of which happens when certain chemicals and additives present in these foods accumulate and age together within our tissues. There is no cure and no ambiguity in the "phases" of the illness, which begin suddenly as flipping a switch. There is only one symptom: all your major organs become become voluntary and require constant conscious operation. You will have to make your heart beat as though flexing your biceps, and you will have to push blood through the liver as though blowing dust off an old book.
After the announcement on the morning news, most of the civilized world made the decision to never leave the house again and surrender to fate. They discretely stocked up on bomb-shelter cuisine and minimized communication with the outside world. Nobody wanted to face the shitstorm of smugness and gloating that would be emanating from all the vegans who were already self-righteous even before their lifestyle saved them from a plague. Little did everyone know that the vegans were to do something far more insulting on the height of their great edification: Rather than simply shower the world with "told ya so"'s(2), they were humble and empathetic and did all they possibly could to help those who were willing to accept it.
Many non-vegans were bitterly offended by this. They rationalized that it is easy to be magnanimous when you know you are soon going to inherit control of the world. Vegans were accused of being the benefactor of a lucky choice they arbitrarily made. They were dubbed the trust fund babies of fate, heirs to a fortune they didn't earn.
People started becoming symptomatic in large groups. The first great wave of people were understandably the slowest to adapt, but the ones who survived documented their experiences for the benefit of their successors. Unfortunately they soon discovered their ability to orgasm at will, which distracted and killed everybody except for Donny Mazerbek, who found a unique use for this level of control. Donny maintained an erection for the entire 3-month duration of his career as a porn star.(1)
The subsequent waves of infectees had a higher ratio of survivors. Unfortunately, the only way they could survive was to sit in a trance-like dormant state, consuming the minimum required to stay alive, allocating their calories and nutrients with near-perfect efficiency. They never interacted with anybody unless forced to, and nobody went out of their way to communicate with them and thus risk causing a loved one to lose focus and die. In the later waves, even some vegans and vegetarians because symptomatic, as they had consumed enough GMO or meat with questionable FDA-approved additives or high fructose corn syrup at some point in their lives to have it eventually accumulate. In 3 years time, everybody who was going to succumb to the disease had isolated themselves in an almost comatose state, hidden from everything except some canned goods and a water source. Only the most extreme vegans who rigorously practiced their beliefs were left with free will.
Marissa recognized someone, "Merry Christmas, Brent." This was the most assertive thing Marissa had said in 8 months. "Oh thank you but I don't celebrate Christmas. I only celebrate holidays relating to the sun and the Earth and the cosmos; nothing that was made by religions that harbor genocide. Oh I'm sorry, not that I mind you celebrating Christmas, you are perfectly free to do that as well." "You're right Brent. Besides, now that the practice of speciesism is over, everyday is a celebration. Do you know what I mean? And it will be a celebration like this every day for the rest of our lives. How lucky we are." Brent flashed his version of a smile and expressed his form of friendly agreement, "Marissa, you always use the same words to describe the way you feel, but that is ok because it is still just as wonderful and joyous, and the words you use don't even matter." Then they both say at the exact same time, "I hope there will come a day when all the world can escape the confines of language altogether." Then they took a moment to smell one another, locked eyes, disrobed, and started having sex. They thought about how special that moment was. They thought about how renewed the world was. They thought about how great it was to be a part of it. Without words they knew procreation was the goal of this act. There were no condoms left anyway. It was a natural and beautiful act. She had coarse hair all over her legs the way some women are supposed to, with a mound of pubic hair obscuring the current of rapturous juices being churned. The flow ran down his scrotum, which from lack of undergarment support had stretched to a more natural level next to his kneecap. With majestically outstretched arms they held hands, and the interlocking hairs of their armpits diffuse the scent of stale fast-food taco meat around the perimeter. Razor blades and deodorant are still widely available, but a new standard of beauty has become universally accepted. People wanted to be as close to a "natural human state" as possible. Minimal clothing was worn, all hygiene products became unscented, with many people trying to hone in on the body's natural self-cleaning capabilities and doing away with bathing altogether. Pheromones were all the rage. The pursuit of this "natural human state" became the philosophy of everyone who was free to have philosophies.
During the waves of people dropping out of functional society, the population pretty much froze as nobody wanted to bring new life into such a depressing world. Brent and Marissa were not alone in their desire to rebuild a civilization that was more to their liking. Millions of emaciated hairy vegans started having pungent and itchy sex in the name of the "natural human state". Every disturbing publication about natural human sexuality that contradicted mainstream civilized courtship you may have read in stuffy liberal blogs and obscure sociology journals soon came true. Orgies were what a crowded cafe or night club once was. Since pleasure was no longer the goal, women took on multiple male partners in rapid succession to maximize chance of fertilization. The more squeamish among them would find each other independently and either procreate among themselves or gradually encourage one another into the orgies.
The children who were born of these activities and raised with this philosophy were taught to speak very little, but to instead use actions to show their feelings and desires. The children knew only who their mothers were, and they were never taught to crave structure, or even what the word meant. The adults would forgo speaking for months at a time. They lived in small dwellings and farmed what they needed to survive, leaving as little impact on the world as possible. Then something strange started to happen. Children would find that their guardians had disappeared, leaving them to fend for themselves or find another home-base. Finding another farm was never difficult, but as the trend continued, soon the children far outnumbered the adults. With more and more children being around and watching over the adults at all times, it was inevitable that some of them would see what was happening. In the middle of a long bout of silence and deep thought, the adult would spontaneously become part of nature. That is, they would dissolve into air and shrubbery, or vanish and a pond would appear where they were standing. Most commonly, however, they would turn into cows and other livestock. Eventually, there was nobody left to take care of these confused children. Until they started wandering and found large symmetrical buildings. These buildings were dilapidated and solemn, with no sound except the wind and their own footsteps. They entered the buildings through curious means and startled the equally confused inhabitants. In the words that their guardians taught them use with great thrift, the children spouted a deluge of stories and fears and questions. Some people died trying to pay attention to the stories. Some simply ignored the children and chose to remain dormant. Most of the world, however, took on the responsibility of properly raising these children and rebuilding civilization. Once their strength was recovered, everyone noticed that they hadn't aged much at all. They learned to divide their focus between their internal functions and contributing to society, and what was once seen as a debilitating handicap proved to be an inexhaustible asset. They taught the youth the lessons that their mistakes had taught them. With the fruits of knowledge came a craving for meat. After some time being weened onto a diet that could include meat, they needed to find a fresh new source. The children were happy to suggest a good place to find livestock. Each one knew the twisted path that delivered them to their new guardians, and they back tracked to a land with many ponds, shrubs, and cows. And the cow did not resist the axe, because it is a dumb tasty animal that humbly lives up to its natural and significant role in the world.
(1) Donny was a 398 lb pile of ingrown hairs and infected bed sores which were acquired from excessive online gaming. He maintained an erection for the 3 month duration of his career as he was ridden by 849 of the most horrified starlets, who were each required to act excited for a consecutive hour of bouncing on his erection, which was the only thing not obscured by flab. The fluid motion of his lopsided and indistinguishable torso region provided a revealing contrast to the gallery of fake titties. There was a busy vomit bucket at the foot of the bed. They were running low on women who needed the $400 when he finally met his end. Kerella Patches had recently become symptomatic; information she thought it prudent not to disclose to the director. She figured that a cluster of the most intense orgasms ever caught on film would boost her career. About ten minutes into her set, she unleashed an onslaught of euphoric expression, a battery of contortions and spasms and moans. Nobody noticed, but Donny died less than a minute after her first climactic twitch. She slid off the bed and noticed that he was still erect. He must have died just from watching her performance without actually getting off.
(2)Think just for a moment about how the world would react in the opposite situation: it is scientifically proven that all vegans are going to die of (blah) deficiency. As a vegan, you would be unable to escape the sneers and mockery of non-vegans. It wouldn't just be mockery from the uneducated and/or conservative pricks that can be easily ignored. It would be from everybody who has endured dating or being friends with someone who went through a "phase" in college, or anyone who has been confronted by a vegan zealot in front of a supermarket.
After the announcement on the morning news, most of the civilized world made the decision to never leave the house again and surrender to fate. They discretely stocked up on bomb-shelter cuisine and minimized communication with the outside world. Nobody wanted to face the shitstorm of smugness and gloating that would be emanating from all the vegans who were already self-righteous even before their lifestyle saved them from a plague. Little did everyone know that the vegans were to do something far more insulting on the height of their great edification: Rather than simply shower the world with "told ya so"'s(2), they were humble and empathetic and did all they possibly could to help those who were willing to accept it.
Many non-vegans were bitterly offended by this. They rationalized that it is easy to be magnanimous when you know you are soon going to inherit control of the world. Vegans were accused of being the benefactor of a lucky choice they arbitrarily made. They were dubbed the trust fund babies of fate, heirs to a fortune they didn't earn.
People started becoming symptomatic in large groups. The first great wave of people were understandably the slowest to adapt, but the ones who survived documented their experiences for the benefit of their successors. Unfortunately they soon discovered their ability to orgasm at will, which distracted and killed everybody except for Donny Mazerbek, who found a unique use for this level of control. Donny maintained an erection for the entire 3-month duration of his career as a porn star.(1)
The subsequent waves of infectees had a higher ratio of survivors. Unfortunately, the only way they could survive was to sit in a trance-like dormant state, consuming the minimum required to stay alive, allocating their calories and nutrients with near-perfect efficiency. They never interacted with anybody unless forced to, and nobody went out of their way to communicate with them and thus risk causing a loved one to lose focus and die. In the later waves, even some vegans and vegetarians because symptomatic, as they had consumed enough GMO or meat with questionable FDA-approved additives or high fructose corn syrup at some point in their lives to have it eventually accumulate. In 3 years time, everybody who was going to succumb to the disease had isolated themselves in an almost comatose state, hidden from everything except some canned goods and a water source. Only the most extreme vegans who rigorously practiced their beliefs were left with free will.
Marissa recognized someone, "Merry Christmas, Brent." This was the most assertive thing Marissa had said in 8 months. "Oh thank you but I don't celebrate Christmas. I only celebrate holidays relating to the sun and the Earth and the cosmos; nothing that was made by religions that harbor genocide. Oh I'm sorry, not that I mind you celebrating Christmas, you are perfectly free to do that as well." "You're right Brent. Besides, now that the practice of speciesism is over, everyday is a celebration. Do you know what I mean? And it will be a celebration like this every day for the rest of our lives. How lucky we are." Brent flashed his version of a smile and expressed his form of friendly agreement, "Marissa, you always use the same words to describe the way you feel, but that is ok because it is still just as wonderful and joyous, and the words you use don't even matter." Then they both say at the exact same time, "I hope there will come a day when all the world can escape the confines of language altogether." Then they took a moment to smell one another, locked eyes, disrobed, and started having sex. They thought about how special that moment was. They thought about how renewed the world was. They thought about how great it was to be a part of it. Without words they knew procreation was the goal of this act. There were no condoms left anyway. It was a natural and beautiful act. She had coarse hair all over her legs the way some women are supposed to, with a mound of pubic hair obscuring the current of rapturous juices being churned. The flow ran down his scrotum, which from lack of undergarment support had stretched to a more natural level next to his kneecap. With majestically outstretched arms they held hands, and the interlocking hairs of their armpits diffuse the scent of stale fast-food taco meat around the perimeter. Razor blades and deodorant are still widely available, but a new standard of beauty has become universally accepted. People wanted to be as close to a "natural human state" as possible. Minimal clothing was worn, all hygiene products became unscented, with many people trying to hone in on the body's natural self-cleaning capabilities and doing away with bathing altogether. Pheromones were all the rage. The pursuit of this "natural human state" became the philosophy of everyone who was free to have philosophies.
During the waves of people dropping out of functional society, the population pretty much froze as nobody wanted to bring new life into such a depressing world. Brent and Marissa were not alone in their desire to rebuild a civilization that was more to their liking. Millions of emaciated hairy vegans started having pungent and itchy sex in the name of the "natural human state". Every disturbing publication about natural human sexuality that contradicted mainstream civilized courtship you may have read in stuffy liberal blogs and obscure sociology journals soon came true. Orgies were what a crowded cafe or night club once was. Since pleasure was no longer the goal, women took on multiple male partners in rapid succession to maximize chance of fertilization. The more squeamish among them would find each other independently and either procreate among themselves or gradually encourage one another into the orgies.
The children who were born of these activities and raised with this philosophy were taught to speak very little, but to instead use actions to show their feelings and desires. The children knew only who their mothers were, and they were never taught to crave structure, or even what the word meant. The adults would forgo speaking for months at a time. They lived in small dwellings and farmed what they needed to survive, leaving as little impact on the world as possible. Then something strange started to happen. Children would find that their guardians had disappeared, leaving them to fend for themselves or find another home-base. Finding another farm was never difficult, but as the trend continued, soon the children far outnumbered the adults. With more and more children being around and watching over the adults at all times, it was inevitable that some of them would see what was happening. In the middle of a long bout of silence and deep thought, the adult would spontaneously become part of nature. That is, they would dissolve into air and shrubbery, or vanish and a pond would appear where they were standing. Most commonly, however, they would turn into cows and other livestock. Eventually, there was nobody left to take care of these confused children. Until they started wandering and found large symmetrical buildings. These buildings were dilapidated and solemn, with no sound except the wind and their own footsteps. They entered the buildings through curious means and startled the equally confused inhabitants. In the words that their guardians taught them use with great thrift, the children spouted a deluge of stories and fears and questions. Some people died trying to pay attention to the stories. Some simply ignored the children and chose to remain dormant. Most of the world, however, took on the responsibility of properly raising these children and rebuilding civilization. Once their strength was recovered, everyone noticed that they hadn't aged much at all. They learned to divide their focus between their internal functions and contributing to society, and what was once seen as a debilitating handicap proved to be an inexhaustible asset. They taught the youth the lessons that their mistakes had taught them. With the fruits of knowledge came a craving for meat. After some time being weened onto a diet that could include meat, they needed to find a fresh new source. The children were happy to suggest a good place to find livestock. Each one knew the twisted path that delivered them to their new guardians, and they back tracked to a land with many ponds, shrubs, and cows. And the cow did not resist the axe, because it is a dumb tasty animal that humbly lives up to its natural and significant role in the world.
(1) Donny was a 398 lb pile of ingrown hairs and infected bed sores which were acquired from excessive online gaming. He maintained an erection for the 3 month duration of his career as he was ridden by 849 of the most horrified starlets, who were each required to act excited for a consecutive hour of bouncing on his erection, which was the only thing not obscured by flab. The fluid motion of his lopsided and indistinguishable torso region provided a revealing contrast to the gallery of fake titties. There was a busy vomit bucket at the foot of the bed. They were running low on women who needed the $400 when he finally met his end. Kerella Patches had recently become symptomatic; information she thought it prudent not to disclose to the director. She figured that a cluster of the most intense orgasms ever caught on film would boost her career. About ten minutes into her set, she unleashed an onslaught of euphoric expression, a battery of contortions and spasms and moans. Nobody noticed, but Donny died less than a minute after her first climactic twitch. She slid off the bed and noticed that he was still erect. He must have died just from watching her performance without actually getting off.
(2)Think just for a moment about how the world would react in the opposite situation: it is scientifically proven that all vegans are going to die of (blah) deficiency. As a vegan, you would be unable to escape the sneers and mockery of non-vegans. It wouldn't just be mockery from the uneducated and/or conservative pricks that can be easily ignored. It would be from everybody who has endured dating or being friends with someone who went through a "phase" in college, or anyone who has been confronted by a vegan zealot in front of a supermarket.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Common Ground
So The Ruler of the Universe wants every planet to elect a genre of music that most embodies its cultural and historical identity. This music will be broadcast to all space craft within 5 days travel distance in all directions from the planet, thus serving to welcome weary travelers and tourists. On the second Weekend of November, everybody will play their favorite music, and The Ruler of the Universe will tour the world and select the type of music heard most consistently.
Citizens of Earth were very excited about the chance to show off their good taste and witness the collective good taste of their civilization. There were even some reality shows where a couple dozen people lived in a big house and had to vote one another out based on their taste in music. Every show would erupt into bickering about vague generalizations about culture and human behavior, and every single debate would end with nothing settled and nothing learned, with people agreeing that everybody has a right to express their opinion.
With news of the musical election, the Subterranean Storage Dwellers recently started integrating themselves into society; or at least the parts that didn't bother them. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers are a society of mostly white men who decided that they aren't very fond of social interaction... or people. Since they couldn't crawl back into their mothers' wombs with all the the ammunition they were carrying, they decided to live in the closest thing they could devise: an underground 7' x 7' concrete enclosure with pink walls. "Somebody" (and nobody knows who) feeds them buckets of leftovers from the nearest Ponderosa Steakhouse buffet three times per day. It absolutely has to be Ponderosa. Jim Baker of Sheridan, WY was once caught accepting leftovers from the Golden Corral Buffet. The overlords of the society of Subterranean Storage Dwellers held a press conference announcing to the world that Jim Sheridan was not a true Subterranean Lard Creature but a pale obese misanthrope in a pink concrete box. The rest of the world couldn't tell the difference so they ignored it entirely as they have always done. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers held chapter meetings across the land to decide what music they will select. It was a short meeting because they have all done the exact same things at the exact same time as one another and have had the exact same experiences, so there was only one song even suggested.
So the big day came and the world was was full of rhythm and melody. The Ruler of the of the Universe was scanning the world with all the state-of-the-art sound data collection devices and hearing all completely different types of music:
Jazz. Country. Baroque. Rockabilly. Ska. First Generation Ska Revival. Second Gen. Ska Revival. Third Gen Ska Revival. Fourth Gen Ska Revival. Dubstep. New Wave. Hardcore. Grindcore. Metalcore. Nerdcore. Spazcore. Zydeco. Zouk. Rap. Romanian Techno. Romanian Trance. Transylvanian Romantic Techno. Edgar Winter Group. Pat Metheny Group. Blue Man Group. 9 Nordic Men Pouring a Bag of Wrenches Upon an Upturned Drum Kit Group. Spanish Gypsy Music. R & B. Tenacious D. Prog Rock. Kraut Rock. Pirate Rock. Crocodile Rock. Jam. Jock Jams. Mamie Jams. Indie. Folk. Tecnho. Indie folk with a little techno thrown in for good measure. World. Goth Industrial. Spanish Art Song. French Art Song. Old Fart Song. Pan flute.
-70% of Earth's population played no music, ostensibly because they didn't know how to operate a stereo or are indifferent to music altogether.
-28 million people said "Aaawwww shiiiit, that's my jam, yo!" 27.99 million were trying to be ironic.
-7 million relationships ended over song choices.
-11 Million people thought to themselves that they would have chosen a more obscure Radiohead song.
The Ruler of the Universe couldn't make any sense of it all except that he heard one song most often: "Margaritaville". It was initially announced that Classic Rock was the official genre of Earth, but the Subterranean Storage Dwellers protested that they only voted for "Margaritaville", nothing else. The rest of the world vehemently protested in one big garbled mess of colliding voices that the Ruler of the Universe couldn't understand and, given that the rest of the universe was still to be visited, didn't have time to figure out. So throughout the universe, Earth is represented specifically by the song "Margaritaville", while other planets treat listeners to an entire genre of music with immense variety and enchanting nuance. Whenever other beings headed towards Earth carrying new technology, culture, and cures to the latest diseases, they had to endure 5 days of nonstop "Margaritaville". In the first 3 months, 307 spacecraft intended to visit Earth, every single one turned around in less than 10 hours.
Slorb Sarzlebarts has it tough. He works two jobs and commutes across the galaxy once a month. He uses a shortcut that takes him right past Earth, which meant that he now had to listed to "Margaritaville" for 5 days going towards Earth, and another 5 days once he passes it... so 10 days straight during his monthly commute, "Margaritaville". He spent a while trying to decide if he would rather avoid the shortcut and add a week to his commute or just endure the torture. Then he remembered his planet-vaporizing proton laser. He scolded himself for considering that an option. "These poor fuckers must really have it rough," he thought. "It's probably all one huge misunderstanding that they selected "Margaritaville" as their best representation. They are probably trying to contact the Ruler of the Universe right now to correct the situation." Slorb decided to approach Earth's atmosphere and listen to our non-"Margaritaville" transmissions. The first thing he picked up was an FM radio talk show where some maniac was yelling at someone who called in to their talk show, "Do you not like hearing "Margaritaville"? If not, then you must hate Earth, and I don't think you should be entitled to the same freedoms we all enjoy. If you don't like "Margaritaville", then you should just move to another planet because you are a real threat to our culture and our happiness. Everybody loves Margaritaville. Our troops fought and died for Margaritaville!" Slorb navigated to a safe distance and mercifully destroyed Earth, and the rest of the universe pretended not to notice, but they marveled as a mysterious remote cloud of debris spiraled brilliantly into the sun like salt spilled from a shaker.
Citizens of Earth were very excited about the chance to show off their good taste and witness the collective good taste of their civilization. There were even some reality shows where a couple dozen people lived in a big house and had to vote one another out based on their taste in music. Every show would erupt into bickering about vague generalizations about culture and human behavior, and every single debate would end with nothing settled and nothing learned, with people agreeing that everybody has a right to express their opinion.
With news of the musical election, the Subterranean Storage Dwellers recently started integrating themselves into society; or at least the parts that didn't bother them. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers are a society of mostly white men who decided that they aren't very fond of social interaction... or people. Since they couldn't crawl back into their mothers' wombs with all the the ammunition they were carrying, they decided to live in the closest thing they could devise: an underground 7' x 7' concrete enclosure with pink walls. "Somebody" (and nobody knows who) feeds them buckets of leftovers from the nearest Ponderosa Steakhouse buffet three times per day. It absolutely has to be Ponderosa. Jim Baker of Sheridan, WY was once caught accepting leftovers from the Golden Corral Buffet. The overlords of the society of Subterranean Storage Dwellers held a press conference announcing to the world that Jim Sheridan was not a true Subterranean Lard Creature but a pale obese misanthrope in a pink concrete box. The rest of the world couldn't tell the difference so they ignored it entirely as they have always done. The Subterranean Storage Dwellers held chapter meetings across the land to decide what music they will select. It was a short meeting because they have all done the exact same things at the exact same time as one another and have had the exact same experiences, so there was only one song even suggested.
So the big day came and the world was was full of rhythm and melody. The Ruler of the of the Universe was scanning the world with all the state-of-the-art sound data collection devices and hearing all completely different types of music:
Jazz. Country. Baroque. Rockabilly. Ska. First Generation Ska Revival. Second Gen. Ska Revival. Third Gen Ska Revival. Fourth Gen Ska Revival. Dubstep. New Wave. Hardcore. Grindcore. Metalcore. Nerdcore. Spazcore. Zydeco. Zouk. Rap. Romanian Techno. Romanian Trance. Transylvanian Romantic Techno. Edgar Winter Group. Pat Metheny Group. Blue Man Group. 9 Nordic Men Pouring a Bag of Wrenches Upon an Upturned Drum Kit Group. Spanish Gypsy Music. R & B. Tenacious D. Prog Rock. Kraut Rock. Pirate Rock. Crocodile Rock. Jam. Jock Jams. Mamie Jams. Indie. Folk. Tecnho. Indie folk with a little techno thrown in for good measure. World. Goth Industrial. Spanish Art Song. French Art Song. Old Fart Song. Pan flute.
-70% of Earth's population played no music, ostensibly because they didn't know how to operate a stereo or are indifferent to music altogether.
-28 million people said "Aaawwww shiiiit, that's my jam, yo!" 27.99 million were trying to be ironic.
-7 million relationships ended over song choices.
-11 Million people thought to themselves that they would have chosen a more obscure Radiohead song.
The Ruler of the Universe couldn't make any sense of it all except that he heard one song most often: "Margaritaville". It was initially announced that Classic Rock was the official genre of Earth, but the Subterranean Storage Dwellers protested that they only voted for "Margaritaville", nothing else. The rest of the world vehemently protested in one big garbled mess of colliding voices that the Ruler of the Universe couldn't understand and, given that the rest of the universe was still to be visited, didn't have time to figure out. So throughout the universe, Earth is represented specifically by the song "Margaritaville", while other planets treat listeners to an entire genre of music with immense variety and enchanting nuance. Whenever other beings headed towards Earth carrying new technology, culture, and cures to the latest diseases, they had to endure 5 days of nonstop "Margaritaville". In the first 3 months, 307 spacecraft intended to visit Earth, every single one turned around in less than 10 hours.
Slorb Sarzlebarts has it tough. He works two jobs and commutes across the galaxy once a month. He uses a shortcut that takes him right past Earth, which meant that he now had to listed to "Margaritaville" for 5 days going towards Earth, and another 5 days once he passes it... so 10 days straight during his monthly commute, "Margaritaville". He spent a while trying to decide if he would rather avoid the shortcut and add a week to his commute or just endure the torture. Then he remembered his planet-vaporizing proton laser. He scolded himself for considering that an option. "These poor fuckers must really have it rough," he thought. "It's probably all one huge misunderstanding that they selected "Margaritaville" as their best representation. They are probably trying to contact the Ruler of the Universe right now to correct the situation." Slorb decided to approach Earth's atmosphere and listen to our non-"Margaritaville" transmissions. The first thing he picked up was an FM radio talk show where some maniac was yelling at someone who called in to their talk show, "Do you not like hearing "Margaritaville"? If not, then you must hate Earth, and I don't think you should be entitled to the same freedoms we all enjoy. If you don't like "Margaritaville", then you should just move to another planet because you are a real threat to our culture and our happiness. Everybody loves Margaritaville. Our troops fought and died for Margaritaville!" Slorb navigated to a safe distance and mercifully destroyed Earth, and the rest of the universe pretended not to notice, but they marveled as a mysterious remote cloud of debris spiraled brilliantly into the sun like salt spilled from a shaker.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Age of Information
Loosely Inspired by "The Sphynx Without A Riddle" by Oscar Wilde.
Ray Betchner is a reasonably attractive person. He does well on standardized tests and only suffers from anxiety and depression when doing so would be charming and interesting. He is as naturally tan as he is successful, and all of his ex-girlfriends try to maintain friendships with him and he allows them to. His taste is so diverse as to include just about any movie, band, activity, and food item available to him.
The other night he inadvertently found the Facebook profile of this beautiful young lady who works at a cafe he frequents. Her name is Jaime, he was able to recognize her solely from her eyes, specifically this soulful glance she gives Ray most days when he takes his order from her and departs. While it hadn't been on his mind that much before finding her profile, now it was all he could think about. She distributes charming bits of conversation that are often the odd coloured pieces that probably form a mosaic of her personality, so reading her interests will give him an edge over other guys (if used properly). He is past the age of knowing better than to try to pick up waitresses, bartenders, hairdressers...
anybody who works for tips. He is also way too young to be desperate enough to forget that fact, but he feels this is an extenuating circumstance since he can create a special encounter with this person based on his knowledge about her.
Finding her profile was a high level of fulfillment to him. She is as exotic as a white girl can look; humbly curvaceous with evenly fair skin, teal eyes that come to immeasureable points. You could probably pick her bare skull out of a line-up after just a few careful glances at her face. Ray never looked that close though, her face and those hips seemed to be the only possible companions of carelessness and indulgence. Her facebook profile confirmed this, but it also added an intriguing depth, a personality that must be full of rampaging philosophy and excitingly distorted and impossible idealism. Alternative medicine, athiesm, anarchy, lofty ambitions, and quotes far outside the scope of her community college drop-out status that she seems completely proud of. All the while she was so composed and careful, so sweet and quaint. He wanted to fuck her. He saw her as a silently neglected towering bonfire and he wanted to throw some of himself into it to see the reaction, he wanted to be a tourist in her frivolity.
He arrives earlier than usual for his morning dosage, to allow room for conversation. He is carrying plenty of unnecessary objects so that in order to find his wallet, he needs to put one of them down on the counter. The first book listed in her profile is "The Truth About Flagrant Uselessness" by Hartley Mangrove, which he tenderly drops onto the counter with an almost gratifying slap, just the right volume to attract her attention. To add extra character, he uses a coffee stir as a book marker, it sticks out a good three inches. Two ace conversation starters staring her down. Her mind must be blown. She looks right at the book and looks into his money as though it were time and says, "Well you're here early!" He doesn't know exactly what to say or where to steer the conversation from there... so he simply reacts. "Wow, I feel flattered that you recognize what time I usually come here." She smiles towards her left boob which is pointing roundly towards the tip jar. "Well, I usually time my first cigarette break right after the rush of people that you usually come in with." Ray is grateful for something that isn't totally pre-recorded. "So you're saying that I drive you to smoke? I better not get sued when you get lung cancer!" Morbid, yes... but so is that book she likes. She laughs and hands him his drink and bids him to have a good day with that glance that he can't get enough of as a line starts to form to his right.
Definitely not a victory, but maybe a seed was planted? He wanted to draw her true colours out by example. he was hinting at a dark side that he kept hidden, hoping that she would reciprocate and confide in him.
This time he goes there for lunch. Like most coffee houses, the non-pastry fare is small portions of pompous deli items on stale "artisan" bread with sauce placated to believe that it is more than mustard with mayonaise. Jaime offered a surpised pleasantry as he waked in, and since like most pleasantries it required an equally sincere response, he cringed as he explained that he always wanted to go there for lunch since the menu items looked so interesting. He is trying to find some way to inject random normal statements with recreational dissonance, just to get onto her personal side. He orders and takes a seat just within "conversation possible" distance and just outside of "why is he sitting right by me without having something specific to talk about" distance from her. When his food arrives, he takes a few bites and 7 seconds after completing mastication asks her about any local shows, hoping she would mention a band from her profile in the mix. After several bands he hadn't seen, he jumps on one and gives an engineered explanation of why he likes them. "I love the Filthy Scott Farkus Sheets. They got me through a bad breakup years ago. They remind me to change the little annoying crap in my life." "I know what you mean", she says, "They are very hopeful and yet always sould like they are on the verge of chaos. I have to be in the mood for them though." Ray's feet were curled under themselves as he asked if she was going to the show. She continues looking at the floor and then at the register and says she possibly would see him there. He starts pushing the conversation towards phone numbers, but she rips off a sheet of paper with her Facebook on it before he can get that far. He immediately notices that the last name doesn't match the one he found! He pays and exits with an anchorman smile and, leaning against the brick wall in the alley goes online. It was an entirely different person whose profile he saw. He looked at he real profile... she has no alter ego aside from that of a hard working, unpretentious girl working through grad school. Knowing this and seeing her mysterious beauty makes him want her even more. She is exactly what he would actually want to be with. She is stable and in control of her life, open minded, and physically turns him on in obvious ways and oblique ways he will never forget or fully understand.
The he remembers, what about the other Jaime? How did he confuse the two? How could two people have that stare? He finds Internet Jaime's page and stares at those eyes. They are slightly different, but they do have something in common with Cafe Jaime. Internet Jaime isn't giving an emotive, soulful stare. She is fronting a meaningful stare into a camera, trying to broadcast a temporary amiable look, trying to hide a feeling of disconnect or annoyance while she moves on. So was Cafe Jaime, every time someone paid and left. Sadly he knows he could have maybe gotten along well with her, but there is now way he can retract the needy, angstly, ego-troubled and conflicted image of himself he flashed her with. Ray will not go to the Filthy Scott Farkus Sheets show and he will not visit the cafe anymore.
Ray Betchner is a reasonably attractive person. He does well on standardized tests and only suffers from anxiety and depression when doing so would be charming and interesting. He is as naturally tan as he is successful, and all of his ex-girlfriends try to maintain friendships with him and he allows them to. His taste is so diverse as to include just about any movie, band, activity, and food item available to him.
The other night he inadvertently found the Facebook profile of this beautiful young lady who works at a cafe he frequents. Her name is Jaime, he was able to recognize her solely from her eyes, specifically this soulful glance she gives Ray most days when he takes his order from her and departs. While it hadn't been on his mind that much before finding her profile, now it was all he could think about. She distributes charming bits of conversation that are often the odd coloured pieces that probably form a mosaic of her personality, so reading her interests will give him an edge over other guys (if used properly). He is past the age of knowing better than to try to pick up waitresses, bartenders, hairdressers...
anybody who works for tips. He is also way too young to be desperate enough to forget that fact, but he feels this is an extenuating circumstance since he can create a special encounter with this person based on his knowledge about her.
Finding her profile was a high level of fulfillment to him. She is as exotic as a white girl can look; humbly curvaceous with evenly fair skin, teal eyes that come to immeasureable points. You could probably pick her bare skull out of a line-up after just a few careful glances at her face. Ray never looked that close though, her face and those hips seemed to be the only possible companions of carelessness and indulgence. Her facebook profile confirmed this, but it also added an intriguing depth, a personality that must be full of rampaging philosophy and excitingly distorted and impossible idealism. Alternative medicine, athiesm, anarchy, lofty ambitions, and quotes far outside the scope of her community college drop-out status that she seems completely proud of. All the while she was so composed and careful, so sweet and quaint. He wanted to fuck her. He saw her as a silently neglected towering bonfire and he wanted to throw some of himself into it to see the reaction, he wanted to be a tourist in her frivolity.
He arrives earlier than usual for his morning dosage, to allow room for conversation. He is carrying plenty of unnecessary objects so that in order to find his wallet, he needs to put one of them down on the counter. The first book listed in her profile is "The Truth About Flagrant Uselessness" by Hartley Mangrove, which he tenderly drops onto the counter with an almost gratifying slap, just the right volume to attract her attention. To add extra character, he uses a coffee stir as a book marker, it sticks out a good three inches. Two ace conversation starters staring her down. Her mind must be blown. She looks right at the book and looks into his money as though it were time and says, "Well you're here early!" He doesn't know exactly what to say or where to steer the conversation from there... so he simply reacts. "Wow, I feel flattered that you recognize what time I usually come here." She smiles towards her left boob which is pointing roundly towards the tip jar. "Well, I usually time my first cigarette break right after the rush of people that you usually come in with." Ray is grateful for something that isn't totally pre-recorded. "So you're saying that I drive you to smoke? I better not get sued when you get lung cancer!" Morbid, yes... but so is that book she likes. She laughs and hands him his drink and bids him to have a good day with that glance that he can't get enough of as a line starts to form to his right.
Definitely not a victory, but maybe a seed was planted? He wanted to draw her true colours out by example. he was hinting at a dark side that he kept hidden, hoping that she would reciprocate and confide in him.
This time he goes there for lunch. Like most coffee houses, the non-pastry fare is small portions of pompous deli items on stale "artisan" bread with sauce placated to believe that it is more than mustard with mayonaise. Jaime offered a surpised pleasantry as he waked in, and since like most pleasantries it required an equally sincere response, he cringed as he explained that he always wanted to go there for lunch since the menu items looked so interesting. He is trying to find some way to inject random normal statements with recreational dissonance, just to get onto her personal side. He orders and takes a seat just within "conversation possible" distance and just outside of "why is he sitting right by me without having something specific to talk about" distance from her. When his food arrives, he takes a few bites and 7 seconds after completing mastication asks her about any local shows, hoping she would mention a band from her profile in the mix. After several bands he hadn't seen, he jumps on one and gives an engineered explanation of why he likes them. "I love the Filthy Scott Farkus Sheets. They got me through a bad breakup years ago. They remind me to change the little annoying crap in my life." "I know what you mean", she says, "They are very hopeful and yet always sould like they are on the verge of chaos. I have to be in the mood for them though." Ray's feet were curled under themselves as he asked if she was going to the show. She continues looking at the floor and then at the register and says she possibly would see him there. He starts pushing the conversation towards phone numbers, but she rips off a sheet of paper with her Facebook on it before he can get that far. He immediately notices that the last name doesn't match the one he found! He pays and exits with an anchorman smile and, leaning against the brick wall in the alley goes online. It was an entirely different person whose profile he saw. He looked at he real profile... she has no alter ego aside from that of a hard working, unpretentious girl working through grad school. Knowing this and seeing her mysterious beauty makes him want her even more. She is exactly what he would actually want to be with. She is stable and in control of her life, open minded, and physically turns him on in obvious ways and oblique ways he will never forget or fully understand.
The he remembers, what about the other Jaime? How did he confuse the two? How could two people have that stare? He finds Internet Jaime's page and stares at those eyes. They are slightly different, but they do have something in common with Cafe Jaime. Internet Jaime isn't giving an emotive, soulful stare. She is fronting a meaningful stare into a camera, trying to broadcast a temporary amiable look, trying to hide a feeling of disconnect or annoyance while she moves on. So was Cafe Jaime, every time someone paid and left. Sadly he knows he could have maybe gotten along well with her, but there is now way he can retract the needy, angstly, ego-troubled and conflicted image of himself he flashed her with. Ray will not go to the Filthy Scott Farkus Sheets show and he will not visit the cafe anymore.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Board of Generalizations & Stereotypes
The following is a conversation from a call center. I should note that it was vaguely inspired by this article http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/07/the-end-of-men/8135/. Anyhow...
Hello, Board of Generalizations & Stereotypes: Division of Alterations, Updates, & Adjustments, what can we do to help you think less today?
(in a really obviously put-on falsetto) Hi, I represent The Interests of Women.
(Skeptical tone) O-ok... Umm, can I have your account number?
Sure thing, (rustling through papers) let me find it (away from the receiver in a husky man voice) Keep your mouth shut, bitch. (back to falsetto)Yes, it's... 1718FEM.
Oh, Ok. What can we do for you?
Yes, we would like to dispel Article 7240-Blue TS7: the belief that men are poor communicators who make ego-driven decisions because of their evolved hunter-gatherer instincts instead of being open to finding better solutions, which makes them a liability to have in leadership roles and management. I think that they should be given another chance to prove themselves.
And what is the reason for this change?
Uhh, because we're women and we have feelings. WOOO feelings!
Also, what's the deal with the colours in the Stereotype ID #'s?
Well using colours and familiar objects is just more intuitive... we're phasing out numbers altogether, actually.
I'd also like to have Item GD345 Red Cherry Grove re-evaluated: The one about men's competitive instincts eclipsing their better judgment and that is one of the reasons they are out of touch with their feelings.
Umm, ok, I can hear a gagged voice in the background. Can you please her go?
Dude! Come on, can't you just do us a solid? You're right there, nobody would notice!
Wait... So you broke in and tied and bound The Interest of Women with masking tape and stuffed her in a closet so you can dispel the stereotype that you are competitive and unfeeling.
That reminds me, I'd also like to dispel the widespread belief that men never notice irony.
DAMMIT! This is why I am stuck at this crappy call center job! Because people like you have ruined my reputation. They won't promote me because they assume that I'll use any advanced position to solicit oral sex from interns or that I'm just sitting at my desk thinking about my next hunting trip. I've been doing this for 5 YEARS! 5 YEARS! I should be the one making the stereotypes that prevent large demographics from advancing their careers!
Supervisor gets on the call:
Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen... but this unproductive "comiserating" will have to take place at another time. Maybe at a sports bar?
No, you know what? I'm glad you were listening to this because I've been meaning to bring this up.
Oh, so you're losing your temper and deciding to confront us about something? AKA, Stereotype 559 Yellow Fruitful Meadow. How typical.
See, now you're trying to make me get more frustrated so I am unable to organize my thoughts and my confrontation comes off as an unstable rant with no credibility that I'll have to apologize for later on. But I'm not supposed to know about Women's Stereotype 46C Turquoise Herb Garden, am I?
Very impressive ... that you found that. We'll have to consider you for a promotion.
Don't matronize me. I've been waiting for this moment. 6 years ago, in the summer of 2013, I lost my faith in your system. I am on a nondescript business trip and my father was walking through Bonburry Park... maybe you were there, the Board of Generalizations & Stereotypes was having a recruitment convention there. He shouldn't have been walking in such heat, but I guess that is him being a typical stubborn male... He had a stroke near the main pavilion, surrounded by Board members. Nobody noticed him right away, and all of you started trying to build consensus about the best plan of action. At first you debated whether someone should drive him to the nearby hospital, since ambulance rides are expensive if you don't have insurance. Of course he couldn't get a word in edgewise as he loses feeling in his extremities. He gives up as his speech becomes impeded and and the Board members at this point are debating quality of life issues, since the amount of brain that has been lost is now substantial enough that he will be wheelchair bound and most likely won't be able to speak again. He died that day, and I had to find a local nondescript business job to take care of my mother. This job was the only one I could find.
We are sorry for your loss because Article 74C5 Mauve Gentle Breeze, women are understanding of people who have suffered great loss.
I found another interesting article: Men's Stereotype # JK22: Men don't learn from things the first time.
Yeah, what about it? Can you disagree?
Well there's subsection G 11: "Men will leave empty Coldplay cd cases around to make it seem like they are sensitive even after doing so failed to work on your friends." And I thought, Wait a minute, that very specific for a stereotype. Where did you get consensus on that one? I did some research, and I discovered that all of these Stereotypes and Generalizations are based off of one guy in Wisconsin. This whole thing has been an elaborate manipulation to create the stereotype that women like to build consensus so that you can create your own stereotypes! You only insist on a consensus on things that you don't immediately benefit from! NOW! Using the passcode I swiped Tiffany's desk, I am going to enter the Generalization that women create generalizations and stereotypes using manipulative tactics!"
No! DOOOOOOOOON'T....
POOF!
Hello? Where am I? Where did everybody go?
"Hi, this is God. By generalizing and stereotyping about generalities and stereotypes, you have rendered all coherent existence meaningless. Everybody now exists independently on separate levels of generalization, where you will all remain until... you learn what makes you unable to be generalized."
Hello, Board of Generalizations & Stereotypes: Division of Alterations, Updates, & Adjustments, what can we do to help you think less today?
(in a really obviously put-on falsetto) Hi, I represent The Interests of Women.
(Skeptical tone) O-ok... Umm, can I have your account number?
Sure thing, (rustling through papers) let me find it (away from the receiver in a husky man voice) Keep your mouth shut, bitch. (back to falsetto)Yes, it's... 1718FEM.
Oh, Ok. What can we do for you?
Yes, we would like to dispel Article 7240-Blue TS7: the belief that men are poor communicators who make ego-driven decisions because of their evolved hunter-gatherer instincts instead of being open to finding better solutions, which makes them a liability to have in leadership roles and management. I think that they should be given another chance to prove themselves.
And what is the reason for this change?
Uhh, because we're women and we have feelings. WOOO feelings!
Also, what's the deal with the colours in the Stereotype ID #'s?
Well using colours and familiar objects is just more intuitive... we're phasing out numbers altogether, actually.
I'd also like to have Item GD345 Red Cherry Grove re-evaluated: The one about men's competitive instincts eclipsing their better judgment and that is one of the reasons they are out of touch with their feelings.
Umm, ok, I can hear a gagged voice in the background. Can you please her go?
Dude! Come on, can't you just do us a solid? You're right there, nobody would notice!
Wait... So you broke in and tied and bound The Interest of Women with masking tape and stuffed her in a closet so you can dispel the stereotype that you are competitive and unfeeling.
That reminds me, I'd also like to dispel the widespread belief that men never notice irony.
DAMMIT! This is why I am stuck at this crappy call center job! Because people like you have ruined my reputation. They won't promote me because they assume that I'll use any advanced position to solicit oral sex from interns or that I'm just sitting at my desk thinking about my next hunting trip. I've been doing this for 5 YEARS! 5 YEARS! I should be the one making the stereotypes that prevent large demographics from advancing their careers!
Supervisor gets on the call:
Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen... but this unproductive "comiserating" will have to take place at another time. Maybe at a sports bar?
No, you know what? I'm glad you were listening to this because I've been meaning to bring this up.
Oh, so you're losing your temper and deciding to confront us about something? AKA, Stereotype 559 Yellow Fruitful Meadow. How typical.
See, now you're trying to make me get more frustrated so I am unable to organize my thoughts and my confrontation comes off as an unstable rant with no credibility that I'll have to apologize for later on. But I'm not supposed to know about Women's Stereotype 46C Turquoise Herb Garden, am I?
Very impressive ... that you found that. We'll have to consider you for a promotion.
Don't matronize me. I've been waiting for this moment. 6 years ago, in the summer of 2013, I lost my faith in your system. I am on a nondescript business trip and my father was walking through Bonburry Park... maybe you were there, the Board of Generalizations & Stereotypes was having a recruitment convention there. He shouldn't have been walking in such heat, but I guess that is him being a typical stubborn male... He had a stroke near the main pavilion, surrounded by Board members. Nobody noticed him right away, and all of you started trying to build consensus about the best plan of action. At first you debated whether someone should drive him to the nearby hospital, since ambulance rides are expensive if you don't have insurance. Of course he couldn't get a word in edgewise as he loses feeling in his extremities. He gives up as his speech becomes impeded and and the Board members at this point are debating quality of life issues, since the amount of brain that has been lost is now substantial enough that he will be wheelchair bound and most likely won't be able to speak again. He died that day, and I had to find a local nondescript business job to take care of my mother. This job was the only one I could find.
We are sorry for your loss because Article 74C5 Mauve Gentle Breeze, women are understanding of people who have suffered great loss.
I found another interesting article: Men's Stereotype # JK22: Men don't learn from things the first time.
Yeah, what about it? Can you disagree?
Well there's subsection G 11: "Men will leave empty Coldplay cd cases around to make it seem like they are sensitive even after doing so failed to work on your friends." And I thought, Wait a minute, that very specific for a stereotype. Where did you get consensus on that one? I did some research, and I discovered that all of these Stereotypes and Generalizations are based off of one guy in Wisconsin. This whole thing has been an elaborate manipulation to create the stereotype that women like to build consensus so that you can create your own stereotypes! You only insist on a consensus on things that you don't immediately benefit from! NOW! Using the passcode I swiped Tiffany's desk, I am going to enter the Generalization that women create generalizations and stereotypes using manipulative tactics!"
No! DOOOOOOOOON'T....
POOF!
Hello? Where am I? Where did everybody go?
"Hi, this is God. By generalizing and stereotyping about generalities and stereotypes, you have rendered all coherent existence meaningless. Everybody now exists independently on separate levels of generalization, where you will all remain until... you learn what makes you unable to be generalized."
Artificial
Shenvar's primary objective was to make sure nobody finds out he is a robot. Primary meaning that all data obtained and all other objectives, while still important, are always at least one importance unit below keeping his identity secret. In fact, all data obtained and other achievements are strictly incidental to continuously completing his primary objective. Nobody really suspected that he was a robot or would have any reason to, but that was all the more cause for worry, all the more room for suspicion to gain momentum and ram into him.
Crossing through an indistinct park in a small metropolis on a particularly hot day, he studies how often people drink of their water bottles and for how long. He pays attention to everybody in equal divisions of time, with that figure changing each time a new person takes out a water bottle, causing him to make calculated glances at the other water drinkers. He takes a 45 minute sample and purchases an average sized water bottle. He is equipped with such fine modern programming that rather than ask for a 23.375 OZ bottle, he simply picks up the closest size he could find in a popular brand. He pays with two one-dollar bills even though he had exact change easily accessible in his pocket, save for picking through a few extraneous coins. He opens the water before leaving the store and starts his sip intervals. He crosses the park using the third most efficient path and checks out some girls, but tries not to get caught, but lets himself get caught and pulls his lips into his teeth as he looks away sheepishly in the exact 180 degree opposite direction. Perfection achieved. In his crisp shirt and tie, it would only be natural that he has a job... but where? It is approaching mid-morning, so there can only be a few reasons for why he is not in an office, ie that he may be on a coffee break or on his way to an appointment. He must always consider what the most unfavorable and judgmental mind would assess. He has recognized 6 people who have crossed his path more than once today. What if they noticed him... what could they be potentially thinking? He can't continue walking around without direction. On the other hand, if he gets a job he will be under supervision and surveillance. That won't do either, there is a risk he will be discovered that way. While he is confident in his evasive tactics and the flawlessness of his design, he sees no reason to risk the primary objective failure. He chooses a middle ground, which is to apply for jobs and interview for them, then if he is offered a job, he simply declines it, stating (if asked) that he was offered another position elsewhere. He produces a competent resume and starts dropping it off at different offices around the city. He makes this part of a daily routine, with carefully considered meals and scheduled appearances for the "regulars". He keeps a list of "regulars" who pass him every weekday, and he makes it his business to be sure to see them and give just the right amount of social recognition, whether it is a tight-lipped ambiguous passing smile or a short conversation in line for pastry. He keeps up with current events specifically for these brief recurring exchanges.
After a few months of water bottles, pastry, short conversations, and job interviews, he has intrigued certain potential employers. A few interested parties follow up weeks after he declined their initial job offer; they ask of him what company he was working for and what his position was, ostensibly so they could make a counter-offer. He had created a fictitious company for just this situation, for which he was a territory account manager. A few of the recruiters did some research and found out that the company did not exist. As more and more of them discovered this, it was inevitable that a few of them would talk about the "strange man" with the "fake company" who "turned down a decent position". A few of them even noticed him on the streets, but there was no confrontation. Months went by, then one day he ran into one of them at a cafe. He would rather have ignored her, but that would seem suspicious. A few pleasantries into the conversation, she let out that "the position you were inquiring about is no longer available" with no segue whatsoever. She said that because she was nervous that this strange person would bring up the subject and more than anything else she wanted to prevent that. Shenvar connected the dots and knew it was time to make drastic changes before further suspicion is aroused. His first move was to instantly verify his non-robot status with the woman at the cafe, who could potentially put the pieces together. He achieves this by talking about himself in ways that she couldn't possibly be interested in or relate to, featuring a languorous narrative of how somebody once paid a great complimented to his DVD collection, and then he sealed the deal by saying that he feels like he can tell her anything and that "this was fun"; then he asked if she "wanted to go out sometime?" The fact that she said yes was completely unexpected, but it clearly indicated that she no longer considered him a potential robot.
He then did a comprehensive image overhaul, deciding to leave the corporate world behind to become an artist who sells his work on the street. To this end he procured three stained folding tables and started rapidly creating slightly flawed, potentially meaningful art. At first he took trips to museums and galleries for a creative starting point and he would imitate the art on display. Once he recognized a few patterns, he imitated the artist's inspirations as well, creating images of simple beauty as well as some subversive and controversial images that were only subversive and controversial because of social hypocrisy. His table was set in a different spot every day, but it was always somewhere near a certain area just outside of the bad part of town where all the other artists had shops and tables and kiosks. Imitating their habits was very easy because they all had different habits. The only rule is that whatever your habits are, have a detailed explanation for them. For example, he drank coffee from the same pushcart every day exclusively because the damaged rear left wheel reminds him of a Radio Flyer wagon he had as a child. As soon as the operator got around to fixing the wheel, he went to another pushcart and broke one of the wheels. People would stop and ask him about his work and he would say wise yet cryptic or awkwardly phrased things, things with an implied sensitivity to life and collective wisdom that no robot would waste their time on. As his work became more popular, he drew from a larger pool of inspiration. He also raised the price the way any human would. After a few months of changing coffee vendors, making up childhood memories, summarizing deep philosophical debates and social issues with unexpected sentences that describe his paintings of unexpected objects doing unexpected things, and raising prices, Shenvar had generated quite a bit of hype. Unwanted hype. Questions were being asked, and someone was bound to ask the right ones to blow his cover. So he does the most human thing he can think of.
He stages a few highly visible panic attacks, then loses his mind from all the pressure and ends up living on the streets. This seems to be the best decision he ever made as far as his primary objective. He still has plenty of money stored in various places, so he keeps reasonably clean. He goes to bars and tells a different set of stories every time (often to the same people) of how the world has failed him. Since he is no longer accountable for his behavior, he can be as inconsistent and weird as he wants. He tells elaborate stories about surviving wars that happened decades or even centuries before he existed, or being cheated on and deceived by celebrities that obviously had nothing to do with him, or being used by debutantes from completely fabricated families who made their wealth in really absurd trades. As with his other endeavors, Shenvar's success lead to attention, but as a homeless person this wasn't much of a liability.
Then one afternoon something very unlikely happened: a few people recognized him from his previous occupations. Pretty soon a small crowd was asking him questions about who he truly was, why such an employable and educated business person is living on the streets, or why he gave up art when he had such passion and talent... there was a certain malice in their tones, a few strong implications that he is wasting his talents. People were ganging up on him with questions, some of them were telling him off, calling him a lazy fraud of a panhandler. His alibis are colliding and his true identity is on the verge of exposure by process elimination. He goes through a list of his options, and decides to unleash the most human action in his programming, a last-ditch self-destruct button he kept in a glass enclosure. Something that would irrefutably prove to this crowd that Shenvar is a human being, not a robot. His back against a wall, with militaristic efficiency, he unzips his pants and starts calmly masturbating. He starts out slow, then he starts scanning the crowd for "inspiration". He stares down every attractive woman he can make eye contact with. He flaunts his repulsive humanity to everyone, and they are certainly repulsed.
Before Shenvar can pay his fine and leave the municipal building, they want to ask him a few questions. He is seated in the interrogation room and two officers enter, trying to affect an air of confidence. They start out pretending like they haven't read his paperwork yet and would do that as they questioned him, and they want him to know that his future and freedom are really at the hands of their interpretation of these pages and his cooperation. "Mr. Shenvar Springs, you are a mysterious figure I must say." This is not what Shenvar wants to hear. "You had your name changed 2 years ago, and since then you haven't held a job for more than a few months... why is this?" Guided by popular self-help books and magazine articles he gives the healthiest human response he could think of, that he simply likes to reinvent himself. "Well more power to you and all that, but... we did a little background check, made some phone calls... wanna tell us how your job search went last year?" Shenvar said it was fruitless, none of the positions offered to him were good enough (adding a little conceit and indignation for misdirection). "Right... so you became an artist... how did that go?" Shenvar explained his breakdown with as many feeble excuses and as much blame reassignment as a typical human would. The other officer speaks, with careful wording that betrays no sarcasm or personal bias. "Mr. Shenvar, you show some of the standard signs of any of the many regulars we pick up. However even a cursory investigation into your recent past would indicate that you can be hiding something. While your appearance and behavior match the profile, you are not an addict and you are far from hopeless." The other officer lets his emotions get the best of him, "Maybe you think we should stay out of your head, Shenvar. Maybe you think this is none of our business and we are just another 'waste of your precious time'. But we don't like people disturbing the public, Mr. Springs. Especially in such vile and completely unprovoked ways." The more articulate officer takes over in a rehearsed manner, "We want to cross examine you, and probably conduct some psychological tests before we consider releasing you." As soon as the officer told Shenver he was suspected of hiding something, he started processing at full capacity, he was using all available resources to find the a way to continue his mission. He had to convince them that he was just a business man who lost touch with reality... an artist who glowed too brightly and burnt out... a homeless person who is not a menace but merely a quirky nuisance... he gathers his data, and knows there is only one thing that no robot on a mission would ever do. He gazes blankly over both officers' shoulders, aligns his eyebrows and says, "I am Shenvar, an android from the future gathering data for a cause that I have not been programmed to be aware of." The officers look at each other, and the less articulate one says, "Umm, you are definitely not-" but the other one stops him and asks, "So what have you observed so far?" Shenvar is relieved, they think they are just playing along. He makes a few nonsense observations, like "You rely on positive feedback instead of tangible rewards" and "Many of you spend over 3 hours per day listening to music when absorbing every note and sound in one simultaneous impulse would be more efficient". The more impulsive officer says, "Well, be that as it may, we still need to-" "That won't be necessary", the other officer interrupts. "You are free to go, Mr. Springs. There is a shelter on 12th and Bixby, just three blocks east. Tell Karla I sent you, she'll make sure you're taken care of. Please stay there until you can gather yourself. And don't end up in this room again."
TO BE CONTINUED...
Crossing through an indistinct park in a small metropolis on a particularly hot day, he studies how often people drink of their water bottles and for how long. He pays attention to everybody in equal divisions of time, with that figure changing each time a new person takes out a water bottle, causing him to make calculated glances at the other water drinkers. He takes a 45 minute sample and purchases an average sized water bottle. He is equipped with such fine modern programming that rather than ask for a 23.375 OZ bottle, he simply picks up the closest size he could find in a popular brand. He pays with two one-dollar bills even though he had exact change easily accessible in his pocket, save for picking through a few extraneous coins. He opens the water before leaving the store and starts his sip intervals. He crosses the park using the third most efficient path and checks out some girls, but tries not to get caught, but lets himself get caught and pulls his lips into his teeth as he looks away sheepishly in the exact 180 degree opposite direction. Perfection achieved. In his crisp shirt and tie, it would only be natural that he has a job... but where? It is approaching mid-morning, so there can only be a few reasons for why he is not in an office, ie that he may be on a coffee break or on his way to an appointment. He must always consider what the most unfavorable and judgmental mind would assess. He has recognized 6 people who have crossed his path more than once today. What if they noticed him... what could they be potentially thinking? He can't continue walking around without direction. On the other hand, if he gets a job he will be under supervision and surveillance. That won't do either, there is a risk he will be discovered that way. While he is confident in his evasive tactics and the flawlessness of his design, he sees no reason to risk the primary objective failure. He chooses a middle ground, which is to apply for jobs and interview for them, then if he is offered a job, he simply declines it, stating (if asked) that he was offered another position elsewhere. He produces a competent resume and starts dropping it off at different offices around the city. He makes this part of a daily routine, with carefully considered meals and scheduled appearances for the "regulars". He keeps a list of "regulars" who pass him every weekday, and he makes it his business to be sure to see them and give just the right amount of social recognition, whether it is a tight-lipped ambiguous passing smile or a short conversation in line for pastry. He keeps up with current events specifically for these brief recurring exchanges.
After a few months of water bottles, pastry, short conversations, and job interviews, he has intrigued certain potential employers. A few interested parties follow up weeks after he declined their initial job offer; they ask of him what company he was working for and what his position was, ostensibly so they could make a counter-offer. He had created a fictitious company for just this situation, for which he was a territory account manager. A few of the recruiters did some research and found out that the company did not exist. As more and more of them discovered this, it was inevitable that a few of them would talk about the "strange man" with the "fake company" who "turned down a decent position". A few of them even noticed him on the streets, but there was no confrontation. Months went by, then one day he ran into one of them at a cafe. He would rather have ignored her, but that would seem suspicious. A few pleasantries into the conversation, she let out that "the position you were inquiring about is no longer available" with no segue whatsoever. She said that because she was nervous that this strange person would bring up the subject and more than anything else she wanted to prevent that. Shenvar connected the dots and knew it was time to make drastic changes before further suspicion is aroused. His first move was to instantly verify his non-robot status with the woman at the cafe, who could potentially put the pieces together. He achieves this by talking about himself in ways that she couldn't possibly be interested in or relate to, featuring a languorous narrative of how somebody once paid a great complimented to his DVD collection, and then he sealed the deal by saying that he feels like he can tell her anything and that "this was fun"; then he asked if she "wanted to go out sometime?" The fact that she said yes was completely unexpected, but it clearly indicated that she no longer considered him a potential robot.
He then did a comprehensive image overhaul, deciding to leave the corporate world behind to become an artist who sells his work on the street. To this end he procured three stained folding tables and started rapidly creating slightly flawed, potentially meaningful art. At first he took trips to museums and galleries for a creative starting point and he would imitate the art on display. Once he recognized a few patterns, he imitated the artist's inspirations as well, creating images of simple beauty as well as some subversive and controversial images that were only subversive and controversial because of social hypocrisy. His table was set in a different spot every day, but it was always somewhere near a certain area just outside of the bad part of town where all the other artists had shops and tables and kiosks. Imitating their habits was very easy because they all had different habits. The only rule is that whatever your habits are, have a detailed explanation for them. For example, he drank coffee from the same pushcart every day exclusively because the damaged rear left wheel reminds him of a Radio Flyer wagon he had as a child. As soon as the operator got around to fixing the wheel, he went to another pushcart and broke one of the wheels. People would stop and ask him about his work and he would say wise yet cryptic or awkwardly phrased things, things with an implied sensitivity to life and collective wisdom that no robot would waste their time on. As his work became more popular, he drew from a larger pool of inspiration. He also raised the price the way any human would. After a few months of changing coffee vendors, making up childhood memories, summarizing deep philosophical debates and social issues with unexpected sentences that describe his paintings of unexpected objects doing unexpected things, and raising prices, Shenvar had generated quite a bit of hype. Unwanted hype. Questions were being asked, and someone was bound to ask the right ones to blow his cover. So he does the most human thing he can think of.
He stages a few highly visible panic attacks, then loses his mind from all the pressure and ends up living on the streets. This seems to be the best decision he ever made as far as his primary objective. He still has plenty of money stored in various places, so he keeps reasonably clean. He goes to bars and tells a different set of stories every time (often to the same people) of how the world has failed him. Since he is no longer accountable for his behavior, he can be as inconsistent and weird as he wants. He tells elaborate stories about surviving wars that happened decades or even centuries before he existed, or being cheated on and deceived by celebrities that obviously had nothing to do with him, or being used by debutantes from completely fabricated families who made their wealth in really absurd trades. As with his other endeavors, Shenvar's success lead to attention, but as a homeless person this wasn't much of a liability.
Then one afternoon something very unlikely happened: a few people recognized him from his previous occupations. Pretty soon a small crowd was asking him questions about who he truly was, why such an employable and educated business person is living on the streets, or why he gave up art when he had such passion and talent... there was a certain malice in their tones, a few strong implications that he is wasting his talents. People were ganging up on him with questions, some of them were telling him off, calling him a lazy fraud of a panhandler. His alibis are colliding and his true identity is on the verge of exposure by process elimination. He goes through a list of his options, and decides to unleash the most human action in his programming, a last-ditch self-destruct button he kept in a glass enclosure. Something that would irrefutably prove to this crowd that Shenvar is a human being, not a robot. His back against a wall, with militaristic efficiency, he unzips his pants and starts calmly masturbating. He starts out slow, then he starts scanning the crowd for "inspiration". He stares down every attractive woman he can make eye contact with. He flaunts his repulsive humanity to everyone, and they are certainly repulsed.
Before Shenvar can pay his fine and leave the municipal building, they want to ask him a few questions. He is seated in the interrogation room and two officers enter, trying to affect an air of confidence. They start out pretending like they haven't read his paperwork yet and would do that as they questioned him, and they want him to know that his future and freedom are really at the hands of their interpretation of these pages and his cooperation. "Mr. Shenvar Springs, you are a mysterious figure I must say." This is not what Shenvar wants to hear. "You had your name changed 2 years ago, and since then you haven't held a job for more than a few months... why is this?" Guided by popular self-help books and magazine articles he gives the healthiest human response he could think of, that he simply likes to reinvent himself. "Well more power to you and all that, but... we did a little background check, made some phone calls... wanna tell us how your job search went last year?" Shenvar said it was fruitless, none of the positions offered to him were good enough (adding a little conceit and indignation for misdirection). "Right... so you became an artist... how did that go?" Shenvar explained his breakdown with as many feeble excuses and as much blame reassignment as a typical human would. The other officer speaks, with careful wording that betrays no sarcasm or personal bias. "Mr. Shenvar, you show some of the standard signs of any of the many regulars we pick up. However even a cursory investigation into your recent past would indicate that you can be hiding something. While your appearance and behavior match the profile, you are not an addict and you are far from hopeless." The other officer lets his emotions get the best of him, "Maybe you think we should stay out of your head, Shenvar. Maybe you think this is none of our business and we are just another 'waste of your precious time'. But we don't like people disturbing the public, Mr. Springs. Especially in such vile and completely unprovoked ways." The more articulate officer takes over in a rehearsed manner, "We want to cross examine you, and probably conduct some psychological tests before we consider releasing you." As soon as the officer told Shenver he was suspected of hiding something, he started processing at full capacity, he was using all available resources to find the a way to continue his mission. He had to convince them that he was just a business man who lost touch with reality... an artist who glowed too brightly and burnt out... a homeless person who is not a menace but merely a quirky nuisance... he gathers his data, and knows there is only one thing that no robot on a mission would ever do. He gazes blankly over both officers' shoulders, aligns his eyebrows and says, "I am Shenvar, an android from the future gathering data for a cause that I have not been programmed to be aware of." The officers look at each other, and the less articulate one says, "Umm, you are definitely not-" but the other one stops him and asks, "So what have you observed so far?" Shenvar is relieved, they think they are just playing along. He makes a few nonsense observations, like "You rely on positive feedback instead of tangible rewards" and "Many of you spend over 3 hours per day listening to music when absorbing every note and sound in one simultaneous impulse would be more efficient". The more impulsive officer says, "Well, be that as it may, we still need to-" "That won't be necessary", the other officer interrupts. "You are free to go, Mr. Springs. There is a shelter on 12th and Bixby, just three blocks east. Tell Karla I sent you, she'll make sure you're taken care of. Please stay there until you can gather yourself. And don't end up in this room again."
TO BE CONTINUED...
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