On 'zazz and facehair

I'm not sure if you received the memo, but considering there was no memo, I feel I should let you know; the world will be mine.

I know what you're thinking; "oh great, another egomaniac with delusions of grandeur spewing his/her/it's wildest dreams of conquest and domination all over the electric cesspool that is blogspot.com." And you may be right. However, all those other armchair dictators did not have the one key factor that I possess; Pistachio. Some say it is a nut. They are right. BUT THEY ARE WRONG in their assumption that a lowly nut may have sole dominion over the powerful and versatile word of... pistachio.

Pistachio evokes both Pizazz, an essential factor for any global domination movement or off-Broadway show, and Mustachio, one of the mightiest M words in existence. Let us dissect these two words, so as to gain insight in to the future dominion of man.

Pizazz: it's like pissing acid. Pizarro had Pizazz. Pizza has some pizazz, but it's diluted by all the tomato sauce. Anchovies on pizza cancels out any pizazz the pizza has built up, due to their unzazztic nature. It is the driving force behind every major success in the last 700 years. Victims of the black death lacked pizazz. The great artists of the renaissance had so much pizazz that they scooped it up with a shovel and dumped it into the Mediterranean. This 'zazz-dumping is what originally angered the World-Lobster; it hates pizazz, since pizazz poses a potent threat to the enormous arthropod's crustacean dominion (but that's a story for another day). Pizazz is also what allowed someone to write a book, publish a DVD, and become substantially wealthy claiming that there is one 'Secret' driving concept behind all human accomplishment, and that you can harness it by positive thinking. In short, pizazz is the often-alluded to "X-factor" that drives all human accomplishment, and you can harness it by sending me money. It also goes great in smoothies. I take Paypal.

Mustachio: the free dictionary defines Mustachio as "A mustache, especially a luxuriant one." Luxuriant mustaches have been scientifically proven to kick your ass. They are elegant weapons of a more civilized age, and I believe the current budget deficit is directly caused by our recent lack of mustachioed leaders. Coincidentally, spectrometer reports indicate that Barack Obama indeed possesses an ultraviolet mustachio. Hope indeed.

Anyway, I intend to seize the potentially awesome word of "Pistachio" from the public consciousness and use it as the driving force behind my Pizazztic, Mustachioed doom legions. The World-Lobster and its aquatic minions won't stand a chance.


-P to the Razz.

in the 20s, Osama bin Laden would have tied the WTC to a train track while twirling his mustache, especially a luxuriant one.

Alternate Blog/Band Names

You may not realize it, but this blog had many other candidates for the title, and each of them failed on their own merits. Coincidentally, they all make pretty awesome band names too. Presented here for your enjoyment is a comprehensive list of awesome names that failed to stand up to our rigorous review process. Use at your own risk.

Slaughter Soliloquy

His blood makes great hot choklat

Aye, Bite Me, Ye Rodents

Raging Inflection

Kratos' Big Adventure

Shifty McDoctor and the Fudding Elmers

All-seeing Shiva and the Reluctant Oppenheimers

Rad Ways to Make Yourself Cool

Engineers of Entropy

Baleful, Odious Syrup

I'm Watching You Through the Monitor

Rigor Mortis is my Viagra

Dresden Codak... damnit

Salmonella Cupcakes

Orville Rickenbacker's Gourmet Face-rocking

Reddit, Digg it, Whore it

Cool Ways to Make Yourself Rad

They Might be Giants... damnit

You Looked Better on the Internet

Lichtenstein? I hardly Knowenstein!

Snuffleuphagus' Worst Nightmare

Methane Jim and Dead Canaries

My Life is Over and You Can Too

If You're Deaf, Turn It Up.

Juniper Grenades

Cheese Frieze

The Commoner Sense... damnit

Cool Ways to Make Yourself Rad

Fox News... damnit



-P. to the Razz

It's true. Look it up on Wikipedia.

Here's the gameplan

In the fourth dimension of time, a man’s life is but a spark in the dark from a wet lighter, or a match blown out in the wind. The great pharaohs of Egypt recognized that the scope of existence is far greater than the world as it is, although they saw the greater vista of existence as extending in to the metaphysical realm of the afterlife. My impact on the general scheme of things shall last long after I die, though. In a way, my afterlife is the afterimage I will burn on this world, and the psyche of its inhabitants.

In my lifetime, I shall oversee the construction of a ziggurat. A majestic pyramid of finely etched titanium, towering thousands of feet in the air, will loom over the bustling urban hive of Detroit, a potent symbol of both my commitment to my own longevity and a clever satire on the amount of effort and resources people spend on massive titanium pyramids. Deep within the metal sarcophagus, my body shall lie sealed in an airtight chamber. My embalmed corpse shall be staring directly up at a larger timer on the ceiling with big red numbers, because it is hard for the dead to observe what is right in front of them. Ten years the clock will count down, and on the tenth anniversary of my incarceration a deep rumbling with disturb the weary citizens of Detroit. The ground will shake, glass will shatter, and temporary anarchy will herald the ultimate purpose of that great iron mountain towering over the common man. Amid the chaos, the structure at the epicenter of the quake will tip its hand; Massive rocket boosters will engage and lift the entire structure out of the ground and in to the stratosphere. By the time exhaust from the titanic rockets dissipates, my own personal Tower of Babel will be a point of light in the distance.

News shall spread worldwide of the sudden and surprising liftoff of the sepulcher. Conspiracies will quickly be formed, and ridiculous theories shall come soon after. The launch of the man-made metal mountain eventually will become a piece of world history, iconic in the grand course of things. Millions of T-shirts with the silhouette of my rocket-myd will fly off of retail shelves, and in a suburb of Toronto, 4 teenagers will start a short-lived band called "Mr. Ryan's Space Rapture," although there will be some confusion among the group as to whether their name comes from the majestic ziggurocket or the game Bioshock. Millennia pass, records of the event will be destroyed, and skewed. Within a scant few thousand years, the space pyramid will become legend . Legends shall beget stories, shall beget fables, beget New York Times bestsellers, beget legends again. Eventually, the pyramiggurocketower fades from all sentient thought. Within the relatively (very relatively) short duration of several eons, all trace of the great ziggurat is gone.

During this time, however, the metal meteor will have orbited the stars on a solitary pilgrimage, eventually coming home to a civilization that has no previous knowledge of it. When a large flaming mass hurtles in to Earth’s atmosphere and hurtles in to the ground, leaving a gaping crater, it will have a reception of mixed fear and awe; a tremendous time-lapsed gift from God. The tomb becomes an almost mythical object. Upon investigation and exploration through its vast galleries and pitfalls, the searchers/looters will find my corpse, perfectly preserved, with a great, big, smug, rictus smile.

F*ck scattering ashes.