Archive for the ‘Super Intellectual Essays’ Category

This week the space ‘scientists’ at NASA successfully spent a shitload of money to take pictures of a thing three billion miles away from us. I’m told this is a great moment in history. For ‘science’ (i.e., for no reason other than some Poindexter had nothing better to do — how about curing cancer, asshole?). Anyway like all nerds, these ones got all squealy and giggly and have gone apeshit on Pluto’s icy ass like it’s something from friggin’ Star Wars (And don’t shout Hoth at me, you fucking nerds). They’ve named regions crap like Balrog and Cthulhu and Mordor and other things that will never get Pluto laid again. Way to have dignity, geniuses. But before NASA can break out the Dungeons & Dragons books to name this icehole’s every hill and canyon, it’s time for America to take over and go to work.

Now that we own Pluto (vis a vis the Supreme Court in Finders v Keepers), the game has changed. We’re talking the United States owning a fucking planet, you guys. Not a comet, not a moon (already got one, bitches), not some stupid asteroid that’s susceptible to triangle spacecraft. We’ve got a planet, and it’s Pluto, full of that sweet, sweet plutonium that becomes all ours (1.21 gigawatts on tap and Silkwood showers, son). Of course, the plutonium will be mined by corporations as God intended (Gecko 3:16), so be prepared for a robust economy emboldened by the swell of off-world mining jobs and industries that support them like money order services and blade running. Sure, the plutocrats will reap vast rewards on our backs, but enough riches will trickle down that the common man will have plenty of cheap reliable plutonium to power his Nascars and reality shows and rapid food dispenseries. Plus, he gets to go to space and maybe get powers from cosmic ray bombardment (watch out for facehuggers). Not too shabby.

The next step after we’ve successfully gutted Pluto of its resources? Flip that motherfucker. This fly-by has generated all kinds of buzz and the market is talking (Ceres who?). Sure, it’s in a crappy neighborhood (Oort cloud adjacent) and needs some upgrades (breathable atmosphere), but it’s free of impact craters, has a quaint ice mountain range, and features an antique radiation heating system. We can gentrify the shit out of it. And by that time, New Horizons should be laying claim to Planet X for us.

Alleged ‘scientists’ have found that bears, yeah bears, have begun living in the Chernobyl Nuclear Exclusion Zone, which you may (but probably don’t, kids) remember from the time it shat radiation all over the Ukraine and gave Finland contact cancer. Up ’til now, Chernobyl has just been a human-shunned wasteland of wacky, tumor-filled animals too stupid to read caution signs, but now that fun has come to an abrupt end (like the Pope showing up at your bachelor party) ’cause friggin’ bears have migrated there to soak up sweet Ukraine millirems. Some people might call this a tragic example of the perils of Nature’s indifference to Man or a reminder that we are the custodians of our world, but those people are idiots because realists recognize it for what it is: Armageddon (with bears). Because bears plus radiation plus the fucking Russians equals Communist Ursus Super Soldier Program for the Crushing of America All Time.

"Now watch closely. I will show you how to kill this animal with one swift motion."

“Now watch closely. I will show you how to kill this animal with one swift motion.”

It’s no coincidence we’re finding this out now. Suddenly, the Russians invasion of Ukrainian territories in the face of outrage from the international community and native protests of “I come from Ukraine, you not say Ukraine is weak” makes sense. The Russians are out to capture these radioactive bears for military purposes (way better than U.S. Navy military porpoises). The Russians have been all about the bear since way back. Bears have been a long-time symbol of Russian strength and vodka tolerance, from the popular images of circus bears on unicycles to Ronald Reagan’s famous “There is a bear shitting in the woods” re-election ad up to the election of Dmitry Medvedev (80% of Russian voters thought he might have been an actual bear named Dmitry). And the bear has not been excluded from the Russian campaign to destroy capitalism and all it stands for (you really have no idea what the hell I’m talking about do you, kids?). This grizzly lust for bear superiority goes back to the time of Vladimir Lenin, when the Soviet Ursus Program became a national priority with Lenin himself saying, “Give us the bear for eight years, and it will be a Bolshevik forever.” In the nineteen-twenties, Russian ‘scientist’ Sergei Bryukhonenko experimented with reanimating dead dogs and their various parts and organs (seriously, this happened) with the final goal being the creation of an army of reanimated zombie bears conditioned by Ivan Pavlov to be loyal to Stalin through the use of food and prosthetic mustaches. When this failed, Cold War-era Ruskie ‘scientists’ tripping balls on LSD used the Ivanov experiment notes to create hybrid bear/human soldiers to serve the proletariat interest. The only viable product of these procedures, however, was Misha the bear, who was subsequently trained by the KGB to kill and eat President Jimmy Carter at the 1980 Moscow Olympic games, leading to the U.S.-led boycott of the games (thank you, Freedom of Information Act). The scheme and program were briefly revived in the 2000s, tripling down to create codenames the Hare, the Polar Bear, and the Leopard for the GRU, but, once again, our president’s team manufactured a reason for him not to attend the Russia-hosted games (better luck next time, babushka fuckers!).

So, being that the only successes of the Soviet bear soldier program have been cute animals double-tapped for their failures in shallow graves after closing ceremonies, what do we have to worry about if the Russians get their hands on these new radiation-mutated bears at Chernobyl? Surely, their Soviet incompetence will just squander this opportunity as well, right (don’t tell Putin I said that)? Well, here’s the problem. There’s evidence that birds in the Exclusion Zone are beginning to adapt to the high levels of radiation and even thrive on it (you can already fly, birds, stop rubbing our noses in how awesome you are). What does this mean? Simply that nature finds a way? No, dickbag, it means that there are Ukrainian birds that are now invulnerable to nuclear strikes. And if a damn hollow-boned tree rat can adapt that way, so can a bear who’s way higher up the food chain (now THAT’S science). Nuclear-proof mutated superbears would make the entire U.S. nuclear stockpile irrelevant, and then we’d all just be sitting on tons and tons of lethal nuclear material for no damn reason, and that’s not my America, jack.

This shocking revelation should be a wake up call for our country. Do you want our boys in uniform going toe-to-toe with radioactive superbears that may or may not have hulking capabilities? If you’re like me, you do not want that, not in a million years (when we’ve evolved to thought carrier waves and make babies by sexy, sexy stereophonic reproduction). I did a mock-up sketch of what one of these creatures would look like to scare all of you but promptly fear-vomited all over it, so you’ll just have to use your imaginations. The bottom line is if we don’t do something about this, that cocky s.o.b. Putin (DO NOT tell him I called him an s.o.b.) will conquer this country, and I won’t tolerate a head of state who can’t keep his damn shirt on when there’s a camera around. My plan to combat this is as follows: shove the entire San Diego Zoo into the old Nevada Proving Grounds. With three hundred megacuries of leftover radiation, it dwarfs the fifty megacuries of Chernobyl (U-S-A! U-S-A!), and that means it’ll really get some weird shit going fast. Bat-eared foxes that kill with math, psychic anacondas, poison dart frogs firing forty darts a minute with acid for blood. How can we lose? Of course, there’s the chance that these aberrant nuclear horrors spawned from desert testing could turn on the populace (someone should make a movie about that), but it’s a chance we’ll have to take. The Russians are doing it, guys, and if it’s good enough for the Reds, it’s good enough for the Red(s), White(s), and Blue(s).

Not on my watch, Ivan.

Not on my watch, Ivan.

This is at least as accurate as anything you see on Walking With Dinosaurs.

This is at least as accurate as anything you see on Walking with Dinosaurs.

Maybe you didn’t know this, but Paleontology is 99% guesswork (+ or – 3%). These jackholes dig up bones out of the ground, glue them together in an order that makes sense only to them, then concoct some story about what this animal was like based on its body shape (paleontologists: just like Mean Girls). What color are dinosaurs? Fucking flip a coin, man, nobody knows. Probably green. Lizards are green, right? Fuck it, make ’em green. Shit like this is standard operating procedure in paleontology, and that’s when it’s functioning like it’s supposed to, much less when you’re talking the hoaxes like taping a lizard tail onto a chicken skeleton and saying it’s a new kind of dinosaur, which I am totally not making up. There is shit going down in that field of study every day that you don’t know about and not just because you’re stupid (you’re probably not). The reason you don’t know about these mistruths and power-drunk antics? Big Museum shells out a lot of money to keep you in the dark. That’s right, America, those boring buildings that collect government subsidies and gift shop money are perpetrating lies all over you (small, placard text lies). It’s all part of a conspiracy by the dinosaur industry, Big Museum, and the animatronic mafia (the ones who really killed Jim Henson), and it’s been going on for a while.

This crap started in the 19th Century during what was called the Bone Wars. Back then, it was a bleak time. Scientific hoaxes were frequent, scientists lived like warlords, and Thomas Edison fought against Nikolai Tesla’s army of war elephants by electrocuting them willy-nilly all over the place. Two science tyrants, Othniel Chuck Marsh and Edward “The Drinker” Cope, wanted to get all up in that untapped fossil money (The Academy of Natural Sciences was making it rain, yo). Their armies battled each other across the American West, staging bloody raids to steal dinosaur skeletons that left thousands dead. In their rush for that sweet cash from Big Museum, these men slapped together random bone pieces, threw some Latin around, called the other guy’s work ‘thoughtless bullshit,’ then adjourned to their harems. The public, however, were none the wiser to their lies, suffering through a Dust Bowl caused by all the fossil digging. The damage done to Science by Marsh and Cope’s ceaseless bloodshed was incalculable, and knowledge became jealously hoarded by shadowy sects until Albert Einstein consolidated power to bring the one true Science back to the people like a crazy-haired Prometheus.

During WWII, this is what paleontologists said Stegosaurus looked like. They also said he bought war bonds and recycled his scrap.

During WWII, this is what paleontologists said Stegosaurus looked like. They also said he bought war bonds and recycled his scrap.

Much of what we take for granted about dinosaurs is the result of this bone race. Take Triceratops, for example (widely accepted as the best dinosaur by intelligent people). It’s come to light now that specimens found are probably just the juvenile form of the Torosaurus rather than a separate species as previously thought. But because paying customer don’t know what the hell a Torosaurus is, that sumbitch got aced out of the books and forcibly re-assigned as adult Triceratops (he still feels like a Torosaurus inside). Why? Because Steven Speilberg’s got a fucking warehouse full of Cera merchandise he’s still trying to get rid of, and if you don’t think he’s the mouthpiece for the dinosaur industry, I’d like to introduce you to a little film you might’ve heard of called We’re Back. And don’t even get me started on Stegosaurus. That fat, plated bitch is all hearsay and conjecture, and I don’t pay good money to go see conjecture at the museum (unless it’s at The National Conjecture Museum – your tax dollars at work).

And as if all that’s not enough, now paleontologists are taking away all the cool shit about dinosaurs that they flat-out made up to get fossil groupies (known in the industry as “lissoirs” ’cause they polish that bone, son). Those awesome horns some dinosaurs have? Probably just for mating displays (the dino version of skinny jeans) rather than awesome Saturday Night Ass-Kicking at the tar pits. Tyrannosaurus, Latin for ‘King Fuck of Balls Mountain,’ might’ve had furry, baby bird-like feathers on it until maturing (between that and the tiny arms, very self-conscious teen years). Contrary to what we were told, bigger dinosaurs didn’t, in fact, have a brain up their asses (unlike paleontologists – burn!). And the let-downs just keep coming.

We’ve been told for years by Big Museum that dinosaurs were the end-all be-all of animal coolness in the name of selling us overpriced tickets to go read some shit on a wall that we could read on the Internet (maybe in a book?). Slowly, though, the depth of the dinosaur industry’s reckless lies is showing, and we’re starting to learn that dinosaurs pretty much just got the vapors at the sight of a mammal and slap-fought each other for food (then cried themselves sick about it for days). The majesty of these creatures is gone because it never really existed, it was all manufactured for the poon-tang and money that all paleontologists crave single-mindedly. What is there left for children to believe in? Nothing, that’s what (don’t tell them that). I don’t know who should be held accountable for this fraud because apparently John Hammond is fictitious, but I’ve got some pikes sharpened and ready. It’d be pretty cool if one of you dirt-diggers volunteered to be made an example of. For Science. The Science of Vengeance.

According to somebody in England, wild Bumblebees are getting deadly viruses and infections from domesticated Honey Bees, so much so that it’s starting to cut into the bee population. This is serious. Pollination is how food is made (just plants, though, not delicious meat). Diseased bees puts our food in jeopardy, and since we can’t count on lazy-ass flowers to pollinate themselves and migrant workers are not a viable long-term solution, we need those bees. But bees, apparently, need to go out pollinating all over the place with other bees after a long day at the hive or whatever. It’s a part of their culture, and, unfortunately, they have no other alternative. It’s not like they can get drunk and play X-Box all night, and my own solution, Bee-Boys and Bee-Girls Clubs of America, is floundering (the Kickstarter has been disappointingly slow). So the next best thing is to educate the Bumblebee population on how to protect themselves. Otherwise, we’re talking epidemic-level BVD, and nobody wants to see a gaunt Honey Nut Cheerios mascot reveal on TV that he contracted BAIDS from Barry Benson or something. Yes, I used Bee-AIDS as an example because this is not an issue to make light of by making jokes about, like, Hepatitis ‘Bee’ or something. Grow up, you guys, this is serious.

As a public service, here are some safety tips for you wild Bumblebees. Pay attention.

Abstinence is the best prevention – I know you’ve got that itch of being with a Honey Bee that you want to scratch, but is it worth the risk? With the Internet around, you can safely satisfy those urges by yourself (sample searches: Queen Honey Bee, Honey Bees on Flowers, and, if you’re open-minded and into it, Honey Bees Flying). I know it’s not the same, but it’s the smart thing to do. Besides, you’ve built the experience of being with a Honey Bee up so much in your fantasies that the reality can’t possibly live up to it. You put it on a pedestal, admit it.

Stick to your own kind – This one is going to be controversial. I know we’re living in a progressive time, but it’s just a fact that other Bumblebees are less risky for you to be with than those filthy Honey Bees. I don’t care how fine that Honey Bee is or how much she’s twerking her abdomen at you, you don’t know where she’s been. And I know, she’s from that colony your friend Mark told you is full of girls who are dtf, but that’s the point. She’s got mileage on her, bro. And she’s probably crazy, too. And, ladies, that Honey Bee guy *does not* know the queen and *cannot* get you in to meet her if you show him you’re cool. He is also *not* worker caste, he’s a friggin’ drone. He’s lying to you. He doesn’t do charity work for larva, either. Look at him, he’s skeezy as hell; don’t be stupid. Why not go out with one of those nice Bumblebees you see at church on Sunday instead?

Life is short – You guys only live about three weeks, and most of that is working at the hive. That’s not a long time. Sure, you’re out there smelling the roses all day, but three weeks isn’t even long enough to binge-watch all of Breaking Bad after work. Why shave days off of your lifespan and severely reduce the quality of the days you have left with an incurable virus you got from some dirty, dirty Honey Bee? That Honey Bee’s not going to stick around when you get sick. Is that what you think? God help you if it is because that Honey Bee will find somebody else. That Honey Bee doesn’t care about you. You will die alone. And unloved. Bleak shit.

In closing, wild Bumblebees, just remember that every stigma or stamen you touch isn’t a virgin like they say they are. They’ve pollinated before, and when they pollinate with you, you’re pollinating with every bee they’ve been with. And a lot of those bees are Honey Bees because that flower is a freak. Also remember that any honey bee that tells you they’re clean is a liar. Their shit is rotten. Sure, they look so sweet and tempting and the fact that you’re being told not get with them makes it all the more alluring, and Mark says that Honey Bees are just . . . different from the bees you’re used to going with, but don’t do it. Leave that honey bee alone. You are forbidden from ever seeing a Honey Bee again. FORBIDDEN.

There. That should take care of it. You’re welcome, Science.

Mr. President,

It was reported recently that it is feasible for NASA to put a man on Mars in the 2030s provided it has its funding restored. Currently, their funding is frozen, a necessary evil in a time of economic hardship. We are, however, recovering. Mr. President. Space travel is again something we can and should get behind. I urge you to fight for this funding reallocation to come to pass. The potential for setting back mankind if we do not is simply too great. I’m talking, of course, about a possible Chinese-Martian alliance.

. . .

I’m assuming the cold chill that’s gone down your spine has now passed, so I’ll continue. The Chinese National Space Administration already landed an unmanned craft on the moon last month. It’s suggested that they are presently considering sending a manned follow-up. But don’t think they’ll stop there. The moon will be but a stepping stone to Mars, and should we let the Chinese get there before we do, the ramifications will be dire. The Chinese already own, like, half of our asses through national debt. They make at least half the stuff our asses buy. By transitive properties, Mr. President, China owns our entire ass, and part of that ass is on your watch. We cannot afford to sacrifice Mars’ ass, too.

Lest you worry about funding for these ventures, expansion to Mars will be a solution to much of our financial troubles as well as a boon to American industry. We can treat the planet as every country has historically treated their colonies: just take all the resources for ourselves with the, preferably but not necessarily, willing help of the native peoples. We can probably get Olympus Mons for, like, an iPod or something. Then, boom, cut the top off that sucker and mine the shit out of it. Instant Martian Gold Rush. And if we don’t get those sweet, sweet alien resources, someone else will. Spoiler alert: I’m talkin’ China. We can’t afford to let them dominate us on this like it’s an Olympic gymnast competition. Also, getting to Mars first will deal a mighty blow to the Chinese economy. With all those tentacles, Martian children are probably way more dexterous than Asian children. We can move all our sweatshop jobs overspace and tell China to suck it.

Mars = Get Paid

Something else that should turn your shit blue, Mr. President, is the thought of the Chinese getting their hands on Martian technology. I don’t know about you, but I can’t sleep at night thinking about armies of star and sickle tripods invading California. Literally, I haven’t slept in days. And the Chinese won’t stop there. They’re an industrious people. They build entire cities they don’t even need just for the hell of it. Imagine if they were to add the knowledge of Martian canal building and face-carving to their incredible wall-building and railroad-building skills. They would become unstoppable. This cannot come to pass.

Mr. President, these are only a few of the many salient points in this debate. There are a wide range of social and cultural implications. For example, I don’t want my great-great-great-great grandchildren living in rice paper condos in New Shishi City celebrating the year of the Martian iguana. That’s bullshit and, frankly, pretty thoughtless of you. American ideals should not be confined to only being spread successfully and without incident to places like Iraq, Afghanistan, and Vietnam. The warring Barsoom tribes of the Martian people cry out for the strong hand of Democracy to guide them. And if you don’t do something about this, we’ll be calling Mars the Red Planet for a whole other reason.

Because (pause for effect) Communism.

Sincerely,

R. D. Harless

Something has come to my attention that’s a cause for alarm (for me and now, transitively, for you). I suddenly realized I wrote a book without crowd-funding it first. I can only plead negligence for this oversight. I honestly knew about Kickstarter before publishing They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy, but I wantonly ignored it and, by extension, denied all you the opportunity to fund something that a stranger wanted to make money off of (my heart is black like the other end of a white hole). I can only offer my most profusest apologies for ignoring all of you and your sweet, sweet disposable income.

So, with that in mind, I’m announcing a retroactive Kickstarter campaign for They Tell Me I’m The Bad Guy. Now you can genuinely feel like money you spend is worth something and won’t just turn to shit and garbage like it does when you buy food and clothing. All funds raised will go toward defraying the costs of the book’s production, costs that include but are not limited to: setting up this website, buying advertisement on Goodreads, tendon stress in fingers caused by frequent typing, incurred wear and tear on my imagination, $.53/minute compensation for time spent staring at the wall trying to come up with plot points and words I wanted to use that were on the tip of my tongue, incurred wear and tear on my computer’s Backspace key, defrayment of monies spent on brown liquor consumption to combat writer’s block, mileage reimbursement for all the times I was thinking about dialog and plotting instead of safely driving a one-ton metal battering ram through traffic, and a nickel for every time my wife tuned out of the conversation because I was talking about writing because I want to show her how many damned nickels that is.

For your pledge to this campaign, I will, of course, offer rewards. For $150 (minimum pledge amount), I will fondly recall whenever asked that you were the inspiration for the character of Donnie, and that up to one of your friends or loved ones were the inspiration for Will. For the next level pledge ($18,000), I will help you fill out the paperwork necessary to legally change your name to one of the characters in the book, thereby effectively giving you a character named after you. For a gold level pledge ($100K in fat stacks), there are no rules. Anything goes. Anything. Goes. Wink. Wink. (Gimp mask)

Thank you in advance to all those who will pledge their support. I’m currently deep in the edits of what will be my second book and have already begun plotting the sequel to Donnie’s story. I hope you’ll be generous in your donations for the original and remember to keep donating when the sequel is completed. Because if you ever want to read it, my demands are $250,000 in unmarked bills and a chartered airplane to South America (Kickstarter page for that will be up soon).

Thanks to a movie now in theaters (Skylincoln or something), interest in our 16th President has grown 7000% in just two months. Those numbers are shocking and would be even more so had I not made them up. Consequently, Abraham Lincoln’s name is getting slapped onto all kinds of television shows and internet articles in empty attempts to generate profit, ratings, and web hits. It is my opinion that this exploitation of his life and untimely death ultimately cheapens us as a country and spits on his grave of a great man for money and attention. It is borderline desecration and would not have found favor with such a humble man from such humble beginnings . . .

Lincoln: Portrait of a President: In Words, Not Pictures:

Abraham Lincoln was born in a hollow log in Cabin, Illinois. He grew to manhood under the yoke of poverty, having only an ax and faithful blue ox, Babe. Lincoln held many jobs and was held in high esteem for his hard-working attitude. But when Babe died from the ox flu, Lincoln wrote in a letter to friend Joshua Speed, “… [I] have no more use for the soul my companion’s departure has left withered in me…” Despondent and inconsolable, Lincoln became a lawyer and, later, a politician.

The original opening of Gettysburg Address was to be 'Haters can't see me/Bitches want my jock,' but Lincoln felt the solemnity of the occasion instead called for a math problem.

The original opening of Gettysburg Address was to be ‘Haters can’t see me/Bitches want my jock,’ but Lincoln felt the solemnity of the occasion instead called for a math problem.

In politics, however, he found renewed purpose. Lincoln’s keen, affable mind and gift for clever story-telling were put to use in Congress, where the president not only garnered respect and admiration from colleagues, but a collection of nicknames like “The Rail-Splitter” for his early job splitting rails, “Uncle Abe” for his friendly demeanor, and “The Ancient One” for his worship of Y’golonac the Defiler. On his first bid for the White House, Lincoln won a landslide electoral victory. But while the newly-elected president had proponents in Washington and throughout the country, his election did provoke controversy in some corners. For example, it’s alleged by many modern historians that Lincoln, a married man, may have engaged in a homosexual relationship with friend Joshua Speed, and that the resulting gay panic was one of the major contributing factors to Southern Secession. Even Lincoln’s wife Mary Todd, perhaps also suffering from gay panic, drew criticism for spending what some felt was an excessive amount of the country’s money on renovations and improvements to the White House. When questioned on the matter by a reporter, the always sharp-tongued Lincoln replied, “Women be shopping.”

Soon after the Illinois lawyer took office, the Union split. Southerners who had vowed to relocate to Europe or Canada were he elected decided to just make their own country so they didn’t have to move. The Civil War began in earnest not two months into Lincoln’s term in office. Though he projected confidence to the public, years after his death, close friends would reveal that the president was in fact not fond of the war. Despite this aversion, Lincoln ran a successful war presidency that ultimately pulled the Union back together even with his absence at an unknown point post-Gettysburg when he aided two young time-travellers in saving the very future of human civilization (these were not, however, the same time-travellers who prevented his assassination by John Brown’s men prior to the Civil War).

Tragically, these dick time-travellers did not give Lincoln any warning of the violence that would befall him. After the South’s surrender at Appomatox, the president was assassinated by noted American leading man John Wilkes Booth, the first actor to inject himself into politics because he felt his views were ‘important’ (also originator of the industry term ‘headshot’). Lincoln’s murder shocked a populace that still had the horrors of war fresh in its mind, and at least half the nation mourned his passing. Upon his death, he was succeeded by his then Vice President, Andrew Johnson, who narrowly escaped impeachment and then died (way to reach for the stars).

President Lincoln would die unaware of the length and breadth of his achievements but hoping that he had put his country back onto a path that cherished freedom. It is unlikely he ever imagined himself one day being so revered as to be memorialized forever next to our greatest presidents (also Teddy Roosevelt), being the first president to have his likeness on U.S. currency, having a clone that would hook up with Cleopatra, or that a Lincoln android would help the crew of a mining spaceship escape space-execution by a robot (space) Caligula. And while these four things alone would be enough to transform any ordinary man into a figure of legend, they are only bullet points in the mind-blowing legacy of a President ahead of his time.

Nine inches. Honest.

Yes, I’m as shocked by this as you are, mainly because I didn’t know Canada had the Internet. Strangely enough, I see a lot of hits on my site from the Great (debatable) White (racist) North (they are, in fact, north of me). I’m not sure why, but I can only assume my once-passionate love for the Red Green Show somehow comes through in my writing. So, in tribute to our Canadian cousins, here is a timeline of canuck facts to educate and enlighten your American asses:

– The first Canadians cross over from Asia via the Bering Sea land bridge. Weak Canadian immigration policies at their finest.

– Canadian Indians do their thing for a while. Invent syrup and hockey (both originally derived from baby seals). Maple leaf is deified.

– Europeans come along and shit gets real complicated, real fast. I think Canada is still part of England or something; they like the Queen a lot, at any rate, which I don’t get. I don’t have pictures of the Queen in my house since we kicked her to the curb in Revolution Days. Canadians = Redcoat Sympathizers

– Newfoundland is formed. Trouble starts brewing.

– My Acadian ancestors are kicked out of Canada. Canadians = Buncha Bitches

– 1776: Canada takes backseat to the U.S.A., where it remains to this day.

– Custody of the Great Lakes region is worked out. We get Lake Michigan, they get Georgian Bay. Lakes Superior, Huron, Ontario, and Erie are with Canada on weekdays and with the U.S. on weekends and three weeks out of the summer. Holidays are alternated. We’re cool with it, though, because we get to be the ‘fun’ country.

– 1864: Canada copies the American South and confederates.

– Sometime around the turn of the century, I guess, Wolverine is born.

– Canada enters WWII before the U.S. does. Thanks for making us look bad, dicks.

– Canada combats Beatlemania with Trudeaumania. Though fervent in their enthusiasm, the trend does not catch on outside the country, although a U.S. version is made in 2008 starring Barack Obama.

– Toronto finally succeeds in becoming the clean, boring version of New York City. Way to go, guys.

– Late 20th Century: Celine Dion, Mike Meyers, Kids in hallways, drunk guys in earflaps. Due South star Paul Gross makes me question my sexuality for a couple of confusing years.

There. You’re welcome, Canada. I think we’re now all a little more comfortable with the thought of your weird country being right beside ours and your people’s ability to look just like one of us (like The Thing). As payment for this public service, you can mail my father some twenty-sixers of Canadian Mist, and I will take a moose head of whatever size you have lying around. I assume you guys have a postal service. Probably a ‘Royal Canadian’ one or something.

First step toward the extinction of mankind: Magic Legs.

First step toward the extinction of mankind: Magic Legs.

“Scientists,” the people who brought you such discoveries as Phlogistons and the planet Vulcan, have come up with their latest so-called boon to mankind: robots that move like we do. On feet, knees, legs, and other miscellanea. Forget the days when you could easily confine your Roomba in a vacant bedroom where it would bang around in a bloodthirsty rage (true story). Thanks to “Scientists,” these fuckers will now be all terrain.

These “Scientists,” people driven by sadistic urges and childhood traumas to create technology and concepts that shatter the world view of a populace they loathe, would have you believe that creating human-like devices to do menial jobs in the middle of an economic crisis is a good thing. Tell that to the guy who used to put on car doors on the Ford assembly line (you can’t; the robots already killed him) or the guy who used to tell people to press 1 for customer service (you can’t; he probably didn’t exist). People gotta eat. Robots don’t. Give a robot my job, and what’s he going to spend all that disposable income on? Robot porn and getting blasted on Duracells. This is allegedly progress.

So, everybody grab your ankles and say “Thanks, Scientists!” Thanks for the next phase in derailing human civilization, as if a thousand TV channels and texting weren’t enough. In ten years, we can all look out of our liquid nutrient cocoons at a new Mt. Rushmore of Johnny Five, Hal, a fucking Dalek or something, and that creepy abomination from iRobot.

Uncanny Valley, my ass. Just look at this thing. Nightmare in a can.

Uncanny Valley, my ass. Just look at this thing. Nightmare in a can.

Dade County Sheriff Deputies unable to cope with the stress of zombie apocalypse, befriend undead attackers.

Dade County Sheriff Deputies unable to cope with the stress of zombie apocalypse, befriend undead attackers.

Seriously. Just what the fuck, man. If you’re like me, you’ve been preparing your family to survive underground through the December apocalypse the Mayans will bring upon us “With great revenge and furious anger” — Montezuma 3:16. Out of the blue, however, the apocalypse has come 6 months early in the form of Gulf Coast Zombie Armageddon 2012: Assignment Miami Beach. Those trick-ass Mayans got the jump on us, and nobody paid attention to George Romero’s Reefer Madness-style cautionary tales. As a result, we’ve been caught flat-footed, and I’m in full-on Doomsday Crisis Mode (different vest than prep mode) awaiting the inevitable collapse of society. The CDC says there is no zombie outbreak, but don’t trust them. This is the same government responsible for MK Ultra and chasing a bunch of kids at gunpoint to capture a defenseless asexual alien. So it’s up to us to prevent a Mad Max-ish future but with zombies and hybrids instead of muscle cars and Masters and/or Blasters. To this end, I’ve adopted the following modus operandi (Latin for ‘Take Care of Business’). Fair warning:

1) No Shambling in my vicinity. You’re asking for a headshot because I will not ask questions. I don’t converse with the dead unless it’s through approved channels like gypsies or TV static.

2) If I even suspect you’ve been bitten, be prepared to get a headshot. Immediate family members will be given a running start.

3) I will leave your ass behind. I don’t know if zombies can smell blood. My gut says they can, so you’re one paper cut away from being an ejected party member.

4) Do not play pranks or try to surprise me. There are fucking zombies out there; that shit’s not funny anymore.

5) No more baths, no more salt. Period.

I highly suggest you all update your Zombie Emergency Preparedness Home Handbooks and desecrate as many Mayan ruins as you can in retaliation for this and the last Indiana Jones movie. If you don’t, those smug, asshole, dead Mayans win.

Some trick-ass Mayan

Some trick-ass Mayan