Bright-ass day

I absolutely love that Four Loko proudly displays, in bold print right on the can, that it contains FD&C Red #40. It's a proud corn-based alcohol psyche-em-up, and I'd be sad to see it go. Waking up near its empty aluminum husk gives the day a special flavor. The sun is low and bright, the air crispy, the leftover beer oh-so-tasty. It'd be sad to see it go.

What the fuck, donuts?

Donuts are castrated pastries. That hole is unjustified in my eyes! >:(

EDIT: Damnit Krispy Kreme, I can't stay mad at you. Except when you annhilate ecosystems with fatty dumpage, but EVEN THEN...

Sakartvelo

This is simplified to the point of being criminal.

Aiight, so the Soviet Union crushes itself under its own weight like an oppressive beached sperm whale. Georgia, formerly a primary tourism location in the Soviet days, is free. It is not entirely together though; within the borders of Georgia are 3 autonomous republics. These are South Ossetia, Abkhazia, and Adjara. These are in large part artificial creations to keep Georgia under control.
Abkhazians make up only about 20% of the population in Abkhazia, yet they dominate the parliament and enjoy much support from the Russians today.
Anyhow, Gamsakhurdia, the son of a famous Georgian writer, takes power. Corruption is rampant. Shevardnadze, one of the former top Soviets, takes power. Corruption is rampant.
In 2003, protests mount and Saakashvili takes power in the bloodless "Rose Revolution." He changes the Georgian flag and promises to move things in a new direction. 6 years later, public opinion in Georgia is largely against him.

You'd like a title to this post, wouldn't you?

Some people laid a crown of thorns upon my head today. No lie. Actually, that is a lie. It happened fuckin' months ago, in Richmond. Now I'm in Tbilisi. Breakdown of the history of the Caucasus impending. At some point.
Comparisons (its a huge logical gap for all of them. Feel free to add your own in the comments. The more obscure the better):

Diogenes = GG Allin

300 Argavi = Spartans at Thermopylae

Irakle II = Blackbeard (Both got wounded a bunch and kept fighting)

Mile = 1.6 kilometers

Henry Fords Secret Timewar, pt 3

"Ugh, it looks like the bastard child of a facehugger and a stack of flapjacks," muttered the Man Formerly with Money, inching forward towards a wriggling trilobite with his newly carved spear. The seated Walter Balpherfarthing replied with nothing. His head hung between his knees, and his eyes were visibly sunken; the eyes of a man who has seen more than he ever wanted in his lifetime.
The trilobite scurried and twisted on the side of a rock wall to avoid the aggression of his pointed stick, but to no avail. Money evenly skewered the arthropod, and turned back to their makeshift shelter to prepare a cooking fire while the creature writhed in its spastic death throes. "And to think, this place won't see anything else as fucked up as that until this spot is chosen by old Henry to be his own personal prison camp god-knows-how many years in the future."
Walter raised his weary gaze once more to survey the prison camp. It was ingeniously simple: a dead-end canyon with only one way out, guarded by two spider-legged 20 foot walkers. These mechanical guards generally sat perfectly still until one of their roughly 200 prisoners attempted to leave a pre-determined area. The precise location of this invisible line in the sand was only known to the guards, but the bullet-riddled bodies of previous would-be escapees gave the remaining prisoners a rough idea of the limits of their enclosure.
The trilobite Money skewered sizzled in its shell over the tiny fire. A slight clicking sound accompanied Walters glance towards the meal. "Smells good, don't it?" Said Money, a weary grin spreading across his face. "Not really." replied Walter.
"Eh, you do what you can." Money lifted the steaming arthropod off the fire, broke off a limb, scooped out the gooey muscle, took a bite., and winced. "Euuggh. You should eat some of this, I sure as hell don't want to finish it."
Walter mechanically turned and reached in to the fire, ripping off a chunk. The flames licked at his skin, spreading blisters across his hand. Walter hesitated with his arm in the fire and watched the upper layer of his dermis boil off, exposing a network of fine metal wires and plating. Money looked away.
"Shit, man, I know it sucks being trapped millions of years in the past in some eon I never cared enough about to learn the name of, but seriously. You're going to make me lose my disgusting lunch. Besides, people'll look at you like a freak when we get out of here if you start going all Terminator..." Money found his rambling cut short by Walters blank stare. "Goddamn you're creepy."
"We're not done yet."
"huh?"
"We're still here. Ford could have killed us, but instead he strands us nowhere in time and leaves two automated guards to watch over all his deadliest enemies. We will get out of here, or at least someone will. We still have a role to play in his schemes."
"I guess so. C'mon, eat your bug thing. You're starting to lose it. Destiny, shit. As far as I'm concerned, destiny, or fate, or god, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, got royally fucked up as soon as that crazy anti-semetic bastard sent his whole fuckin factory hurtling through time to conquer the world."
"I won't have a part in whatever he is going to do, although I doubt I will have a choice. You probably don't either. I'm going to do something now. Act as you will."
"You do that."
Walter got up, and walked toward the perimeter and the two towering sentinels, their unthinking machineguns at the ready. He walked past small huddles of destitute people stranded from all over time; those who fought against the Ford takeover and were considered too important to simply snuff out. Some had been there for weeks, some months, some years. Every now and then, through desperation or depression, one of them would make an attempt to escape, only to meet death by the bullets of their jailors or the force of gravity, for those who attempted to climb the vertical canyon wall. Had they escaped their enclosure, the fugitives would face a fairly hopeless situation anyway. No human would exist for millions of years, so even if the harsh environment of primordial earth did not finish them off, their efforts would surely be in vain.
Walter knew all this, yet still he walked. He was not desperate, for desperation seemed a useless emotion to him now. He was not depressed, since for the first time in a long while he felt he was serving some larger purpose. A cog in the machine. The walk to the perimeter was at once the longest and the shortest stroll he had ever taken. He felt the whirr of the actuator in his heel with each and every step, the minute clicking signalling the focus of his cybernetic retinas. Before he knew it, the array of dead bodies splayed out directly in front of him. "Henry, I'm glad you trusted me." He took a step. "You bastard."
The red optic lens of the metal spider-walker widened, then tightened to a pinprick focused on its quarry. Within a millisecond, its companion registered the threat and each brought its guns to bear. Abruptly, the firing started. Bullets punched in to Walter, tearing apart his flesh yet he kept his advance. Rounds started deflecting off his metallic inner body, even as his advance was slowed by the withering fire. Walter sped up to a run directy at his adversaries. The advanced tracking systems maintained fire on him even as he made it to the walkers. Systems failing and bleeding blood and oil from several dozen wounds, Walter furiously slammed in to the machine gun of one of the walkers, bending the barrel and ruining the fire mechanism. Obliviously, the machine kept firing and destroyed its own armament. Unthinking, the machine kept pointing its broken weapon at Walter in vain. The other, sensing in its binary mind that something had gone wrong, began to back up, but to no avail. Walter blew out the hydraulic systems in his legs, launching himself through the air at the remaining walker. Walter landed a tremendous punch directly in the ocular receptor of the walker, and his fist broke through the red plexiglass straight through to the brain of the machine.
The mechanical spider stumbled around furiously, running through every routine in its archive in a desperate attempt to gain control of its systems.
"Come on, show me what I want" Walter hissed through his broken vocoder. Life, or whatever version of mechanical half-life Walter had been subjected to, slipped out of him like a raft floating down a cool river. His cyborg corpse fell off of the spider, its mission accomplished.
At last, the machine triggered its time-portal mechanism, albeit heavily damaged.
A prismatic glowing sphere exploded from the chassis of the machine, and grew rapidly to envelop the whole canyon.

Money suddenly found himself in a sparsely furnished, windowless office, standing in front of a large stained oaken desk with what looked like a DAMN comfortable chair behind it. He still had a section of trilobite impaled on his stick, and its juices were staining the hardwood floor. He mouthed the words "What the fuck," but his heart really wasn't in it. Nothing was WTF to him anymore. Through the wall he heard gunshots and screaming. "What did you do, walter?" he asked himself rhetorically. Without warning, the door swung open. A man wearing an old-fashioned suit stood in the doorway, eyes wide.
"What are you doing here? How did you get here?" the man demanded.
"...Ford, I presume?"
"GUARDS!"
Money man lunged at the time-traveling tyrant, and kebbabed him under the trilobite with his makeshift spear. Seconds later, a well dressed cyborg burst in to the room and gunned Money down. Bleeding out, Henry Ford crawled over to his desk. "So close. I was so damn close." He reached under a drawer and felt around for his panic button. "Its probably better this way." He pushed the button. The temporal disruption engines at the heart of Ford's flying Factory-city revved to life one last time.

Henry Ford sat in his office in 1914, overlooking a personal memo. On the piece of paper was a list. Henry silently crossed out "Time travel," and went down to the next item, "Livable wage."
"It's worth a shot." he intoned to nobody in particular. A young Walter Balpherfarthing opened the door to his office.
"You wanted to see me sir?"
"Oh? ah, um, nevermind. Carry on."
"um, okay sir." The young man left.
Ford put his list away for the time being, got up, turned off the lights, and decided he would take a personal day.

Thus did Henry Ford conquer the world, only not really.

If you read all that (much less understood it), you are a hero.

-p to the raz

Become the star of your own life!

Do you feel the world revolves around you? Do you feel the world should revolve around you?

Are you the troglodyte at the center of the earth who feeds on global nausea? (Don't worry, the creature glutted itself on the international release of Epic Movie; he's sleeping it off.)

If you answered yes to any of those first two questions, it is your lucky day!
If you answered yes to the last one, know that your insidious troglo-reich shall fall. Soon, my toadish nemesis. Soon.

MOVING on, if you don't get enough attention, we here at the Worcheshire Group have devised a convenient solution for all your psychological needy... needs. Experience the raw intensity of the Undivided Attentiontm of one of our highly trained agents today!

This man will stare you the hell down

$75/half hour

$125/hour

$200/Aggressive shouting

You've tried attention whore. Now be an attention john.



No trogs.

It's Gonna be a Long Winter.

Or, Henry Fords Secret Timewar pt 2

On bad nights the light pollution from New York across the river blots out the whole damn sky. It just hangs there like a false dawn.


A short beeping punched through the distant ambient din. Hot tobacco smoke glided down the cigarette, through the filter and into the bloodstream of a man sitting on a dew-gilded park bench. A man whose heavy, fatigued eyes and weary armani suit which had just begun to fray betrayed to the casual onlooker a man recently befriended by sleep deprivation. "My watch works," he mumbled to no one in particular "6:30, gota work." . A large family could survive for a year on the difference between what he was worth one shitty week ago. The sweet pipe dreams of deep slumber avoided him and let him hang out to dry in the cold pre dawn air of this barren and alien morning.

The money man's shellshocked stupor was interrupted by the rather large time rift tearing reality a new one roughly 400 feet away to his left. "How's psychiatric care in Canada?" He shouted to the goliath armor plated arachnoid mechanism crowned with two crackling, lightning-spitting tesla coils, a massive gyroscope, and an open cockpit housing a man with a finely waxed moustache, whose features were partly obscured by a large pair of goggles and whose head was wrapped in a leather cap.

"Huh. The new hybrid SUV." Money man offered to the river. "Buy American." The clanking electrical time walker strode swiftly down the banks of the river, expanding the rift and making way for larger, more shadowy shapes and figures formlessly shifting in the glittering scar. It struck the money man as quite a beautiful display. "The greatest things in life are free." The Ford logo situated on the front of the machine glittered in the surreal, apocalyptic light display. Nothing surprised the money man any more. "It's about damn time."

On Pyrates

Submission I did for Take180.com. Chekkit

Before you ask about the picture (you were going to ask), know this: there are only about 5 pictures that come stock on the site, and all are banal as sin, perhaps to a degree that implies very bland evil.

Warstorming

It was a dark and stormy night. The router had a machine coded name no mortal man could pronounce, but its invisible signal swept over the wet, dirty alleys and through the thin walls of my apartment to carry me… information.

I’M HEISTIN INTERNET MUFUGGAS! ANOTHER BINARY SOLO, BECAUSE ITS FREEEEEEEEEE101001010101010101101001001001001001

Alas, another night, like, even more dark and stormy, maybe even hurricaney, is upon me (for serious)(y’all); the lights flicker with the local power fluctuations. Distant thunder rolls heavy across the cityscape and shake the doorframe as the sound from each and every single solitary droplet echoes faintly in my ears. This room is a cage rocking in a storm, and I need to internet. My rusty pirate rig opens up all channels, and there it is beaming like sunshine: Local Area Network FZ5524347929801-ba. I order my comp to connect, that I may be entertained, but something’s wrong…

No bounty is returned from my Google search. Even the server to my homepage cannot be found. Little AIM is struggling too. Say it aint so, FZ5524347929801-ba. Your security protocol is a heartbreaker. A little popup message on my disappointed screen informs me of what I already know.

I guess its Diablo tonight.

CONDITIONS WORSEN

It is low, and resonant, the kind of deep sound that shakes you at the center of your being. In some far off memory, ethereal amid the general thoughts in my mind, it conjured up of visions of דג גדול and Ahab’s quarry. Thus, the aged, rusted hull heaved in defiance of an angry ocean. I dragged my wet sleeve across my eyes to get the brine out. The deck was a swamp, all foam and saltwater. The angry tide crashed in to Mr. Bosun, violently sweeping him off his feet and over the drowning starboard handrail. The remainder of the crew scrambled to get to him, tossed the bright orange life ring in to the wash… the seconds inevitably passed, conglomerating in to evil minutes, and still the bright orange ring bobbed amid the breakers. The only thing I could possibly do is hang on for dear life and sanity in the EYE OF THE STORM

DANANANANANANANANA

DANANANANA

NAAAAAAAAA-NAAAAAAAA-NA

1010101010101101000100101001100

01010

10101010100101010010101011111111100100100011111111111111111111111111111111111110

The Secret Timewar pt 1

Henry Ford and the Secret Timewar pt 1

Three inches beneath the cracked, sun-parched surface of eastern Arizona a struggle between two civilizations raged. Unnamed by human minds, unknown to the world at large, ant colony XV-473’s swarm slowly broke down the defenses of ant colony LR-198. The claustrophobic tunnels were packed to the brim with pheromone excited drones, urged by their biological prerogative to rip apart anything unfamiliar. At the core of the defending ants’ tunnel system, nestled in her royal birthing chamber, the LR Queen continued to do the only thing she could; pump out pale pupa in support of the colony’s future. On the front lines, in those dark passages and anterooms clogged with writhing, bleeding carapaces, the savage law of attrition took its toll on the defenders. Monstrous soldiers with gargantuan heads dug their massive mandibles in the thoraxes of the worker defenders, who robotically continued their failing resistance. The queen watched mutely as the invaders swarmed in to her chamber; killer drones ripping asunder all in their way as they clawed sightless under the earth to their ultimate goal. She felt them envelop her, then a sharp stabbing, then nothing. Above the surface, the world continued on, wholly ignorant of the struggle.

Twenty five feet away on a Phoenix sidewalk, an old man lays broken on the hot pavement, beaten to death by a heavy-handed metaphor. As life fled his aged frame, a flash of realization flashed in Walter Balpherfarthing’s mind; his greatest life achievement, the meat tube on a stick, had been invented all along. Corndogs, of course. No wonder I had all that Dejavu. Thus died another great inventor On that day, Walter Balpherfarthing joined the company of such greats as the creator of Gobots and that one guy who also invented the telephone; the unsung heroes of history whom I can’t look up because I don’t have an internet connection right now. Nicola Tesla would be proud.

On a sweltering summer day in 1919, an upstart young Walter Balpherfarthing strode down a busy Detroit thoroughfare with a pocket full of dreams and a head full of lint, ready to make his fortune. Nothing could break his jolly stride that hot Detroit day as he went to his new job in the factory making cars. NICE POWER! He lay in to his factory work with passion, heart, and soul. Thus, he became noticed by a twisted visionary. As Henry Ford watched over his bustling factory floor, where model Ts accumulated parts like rolling snowballs as they passed through the facility, he saw not the ongoing march of human industry. He only saw waste. Inefficiency. Underproductive bags of hemoglobin. Every element of his factory was a carefully calibrated part in the whole. Each machine, conveyor belt, and worker had their own place, an integral part of the whole, each a cell in a lumbering behemoth that poops cars. Every day, the gates of this temple to industry would swing open, and hundreds of workers would stream in, labor for eight to forty seven hours, and either die or go home. This was not enough for Ford. Every night the factory would be silent, unused. He needed a solution. He needed to run his factory at peak efficiency. He could not afford human frailty.

As the frustrated Henry Ford looked out upon the factory floor, he watched a particular workman at the plebeians assembly line station. He lay in to his work with vigor and purpose, despite the fact that his work consisted of turning a single screw, over and over again, all day. This routine was so ingrained in the workers physical and mental being that he set about it with a tireless, almost mechanical animation. Henry Ford smiled. He now knew the future of the Ford Motor Empire.

Loomings

Fear not, mindless followers, for I have not abandoned ye.

Larger post is in the works, but for now enjoy these (semi)fresh fruits from the harvest, stuffed to the bursting point with grade A kick-your-ass:

Vote For Sweden if you have not already; our future depends on it.

A lopsided exchange, if you have the time.

Finally, concerning humble rodents...

let us draw a hefty load of ambergris.

Pax

-P Razz

p.s. let me know if you can decipher my nonsense. you might win some ambergris straight from the diseased leviathan stuffed in my crawlspace.

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.