not getting eaten

Designer Ze Frank has a creative way of dealing with those annoying client emails that he has to answer politely, and dare we say, with a certain amount of unctuousness. The customer is always right, but this kind of constant kowtowing can cause anger to build up, and eventually, something bad will happen. You know, an event that involves sniper rifles and bell-towers, or epic schnapps benders that end with you found dead and naked (not necessarily in that order) somewhere in Tijuana. Or, it might just develop into an internal time bomb [youtube clip].

But wait, Ze has found a way to write those cringing, polite emails without a Vesuvius of Rage building inside your brain. Just mentally replace the punctuation with your own set of phrases that will make you feel like you’re saying what you really mean. Click on the image or here to go see Ze’s (older but still funny) presentation:

Everyone always says what they mean at humor-blogs.com and alltop too.

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Having settled the issue of if the members of the Thunka Grunka tribe had free will or not, Thag settled back into life with his tribe.

For once, it was almost peaceful. He and his new mate, Twigla, were happy. Thag enjoyed the prestige and respect everyone gave him for leading the hunters so well. (Not to mention how they grokked his cave paintings and practically worshiped his beer.)

He and the other decent hunter, Fonzag, were in the process of training a new generation of young men. But they were having problems with Donjuag.

Donjuag was the son of Gnock, whom Thag had been unable to save from cave lions, so he felt even more responsibility. But Donjuag was a moody fellow. Unpredictable. He was also in love with Fonzag’s mate, the luscious Vunga.

“Heyyyyyy,” Fonzag said to Thag, as they walked out to their hunting grounds. “He’s being uncool with my lady.”

“Him not do anything,” Thag told Fonzag. “Him just infatuated.”

Donjuag ran by, his spear held high above his head, whooping with excitement.

“What him do?”

“Thag, that cat is full of energy,” Fonzag explained. “He’s not sleeping well either, at least that’s what his mom said.”

“Him crazy,” Thag said while Donjuag finished his sprint with a forward flip. The young hunter over-rotated and did a face plant. Thag laughed. “Donjuag funny.”

Donjuag, undeterred, got up, and did a back flip, whooping with delight.

Fonzag looked on, worried. Thag slapped his diminutive friend on the back (careful not to touch Fonzag’s ridiculous hair) and said, “Fonzag not worry. We wear Donjuag out on trail. Him too tired to pitch woo at Vunga.”

Donjuag started running again, landing a forward flip this time, and Fonzag grunted. “I don’t know, he’s got a lot of energy.”

New Scientist: Puppy love makes teenagers lose the plot. Photo by esterase. Look here for humorists with too much energy.

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Every morning before they started the hunt, Thag would sit down away from the others, close his eyes, and listen to the wind. It was more than that, but that is what he told the other hunters. Really what he did was sit, and let his mind go blank.

At first it would be filled with thoughts and concerns — mostly about Onga, his mate, and his running feud with that phallus-with-ears shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother. He would not concentrate on those thoughts, but let them wash away, and eventually, his mind would loosen, and he could hear the wind distinctly; its whooshes and gusts, its whispers, and then the smells would come to him.

This morning ritual heightened his ability to sense the prey.

In stark contrast to Thag, Gnock had another way of preparing for the hunt. This ritual involved a lot of shouting, and banging the shaft of his wooden spear against his head, numbing himself to pain, and more importantly, fear.

Gnock had been doing this since his brother Grunk had been killed by the wooly rhino.

One morning, Thag came back from his meditation earlier than usual, and told the other hunters: “go higher ground, upwind. Smell cave lions. Many.”

“Many hunting us?” asked Vlog, one of the sharpest hunters.

“Un,” Thag confirmed.

This was bad news indeed. Cave lions did not normally travel in groups, and they would not fear the humans if they had numbers on their side.

“Much goodly!” Gnock, who had stopped bashing his melon long enough to hear this news, said.

“You mammoth gas sniffing?” Vlog asked Gnock.

Gnock just grinned insanely, and said, “hunt us cave lion!” Then he started shouting: “here cave lion. Lion, lion, liiiiiii-on!”

“Gnock be quiet,” Vlog hissed.

Gnock ignored the sensible suggested: “Lion, lion, liiiiiii-on!”

Thag had been meditating, but if anything it made his reaction quicker. He used his own spear to whack Gnock on the back of the head, much harder than Gnock had been doing to himself.

The shouting stopped, but the trouble was just starting. The wind stopped blowing for a moment, and Thag heard something. He told the others: “they come. Climb trees.”

Vlog looked at Gnock and said, “what him?”

Thag looked down sadly at Gnock, and just shook his head. “Not time carry up tree.”

Scientific evidence: Meditation builds up the brain | Gene turnoff makes meek mice fearless. Other head-knockers here.

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It had been an unlucky hunting season.

First of all, their big man, Grunk, got himself gored by a woolly rhinoceros in the first week of the expedition.

Grunk — always the big swinging dick that Grunk — had tried to stab it in the eye instead of dodging to the side. Still, if he’d been successful, that would have been sweet. They could have ended the trip right there. The jackpot. Instead they had to chase the rhino until Grunk’s massive bulk finally fell off the horn.

After Grunk’s wipe out, morale was low. Their youngest and cockiest hunter, Mrog, made the somewhat risky decision to prove to the others that the Thunka Grunka clan still had the moxy to take down any prey they wanted. Including cave lions.

Yep, Mrog had been an idiot. It was probably best that he hadn’t had a chance to mate before he became cat food.

That just left Thag as the only other hunter with an ounce of creativity or ambition. After all, if they came back to the Grunka village without a shitload of meat, his mate Onga would be sharing slappies with that bastard shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother the next time he went out hunting for sure. Especially since their last fight and the total failure of the shalli whacker.

So when they saw it, Thag knew they just had to take it down. It was the fabled unicorn — basically a tall woolly rhino with twice the speed, and twice the horn.

Remembering Grunk, the other hunters were keen to just let it go on its way, but Thag said no, they should risk it, but no hot-dogging. They would work as a team.

Later, Thag would remember that as the defining moment of his life, and always told the youngsters to take risks, but calculated risks.

It didn’t solve the problem with Onga though.

Inspired by:
Elasmotherium | Too scared to be a millionaire? | Other horny creatures.

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Thag was preparing himself for a long hunting trip.

He’d already sharpened his fire-hardened spear, and collected fresh grasses for insulating his clothes and moccasins. The last thing he needed to do was cut himself a fresh set of knives for skinning the many mammoth that he would no doubt catch. (Well, him and the other guys.)

But he was worried. As he knapped a piece of shalli — the name they gave to their local flint — slowly breaking off flakes to create a sharp knife, he thought about the problem.

He’d seen the way that his mate, Onga, had been eyeballing the shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother.

He wasn’t supposed to think of Onga as his, per se, but there was just something so creepy about Weasel. The thought of Onga doing it with the gimpy medicine man made him itch with annoyance.

“Shit,” he said as he broke his skinning knife in two.

He looked at the siltstone he’d been using to knap the knife. It was long, tubular, polished smooth. He took the shard of knife and etched a ring around the top of it.

Yes, that looked about right. He would give it to Onga as a Parting Gift. Perhaps that would keep her distracted enough to forget the dubious pleasures of Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother.

And if it didn’t work out, it would still be a tremendous shalli whacker.

The archaeological evidence: ancient phallus unearthed in cave. You may also enjoy the primitive humor-knapping of these folks. The next chapter in the Thag Saga.

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When her friends invited her to the Harry Harrison Make Room! Make Room! Noodle Bar, Stacy expected a fun night out. Perhaps they would drink too much sake, eat some noodles tinted with green dye (that they would jokingly call “soylent green”) and forget about the tiny zombies rampaging through the city.

To her horror, she was presented with tofu.

More terrifying tofu here. Thanks to Betenoir for the photo.

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Do you mean the form of punctuation, or what happens to your lower intestines after you’ve eaten improperly prepared Thringian Gitworm sashimi?

Because if you’ve eaten bad ThriGit sashimi, and its still-living spawn are now luncheoning on your colon, then yes, that is something to be feared; it may even be horrifying.

If you are talking about the form of punctuation, then you are wise to be fearful. Back on Planet Neecknaw, I had a crack brigade of battle-ready gorilloids, armed only with copies of Fowler’s Modern English Usage and their intimate understanding of advanced punctuation warfare. You’ve never seen anything as terrifying as a gorilloid demonstrating an impeccable use of the semi-colon.

(Unless you’ve visited a ThriGit recovery ward.)

Next time: What’s the best way to stop Cerebral Space Weasels from nesting in one’s duodenum?

Question via Neatorama: The Usage of Semicolon is Confusing; Most People Are Afraid of It. Humor-blogs.com is also unafraid of the semicolon; we just don’t know how to use it.

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From the hilarious xkcd.com. He should definitely join humor-blogs.com.

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Don’t miss the Super-Duper (Tuesday) Carnival of the Insanities.

While we’re talking insanity, you should go visit this website, which is probably the most shoddily built thing ever. (Thanks to the Mistress of the Singularities, editor of Abyss & Apex, for finding this. You may want to check out the new issue of A&A too.)

The Carnival of the Godless is always entertaining, and finally, this video is also a gem, raising the question, has Google Maps gone too far?

We should probably keep a close eye on these people too.

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Dr. Ganglia Intrusion Finger did not inspire confidence.

He had an impeccable bedside manner and a truly impressive CV. He’d graduated first in his class, and then gone on to study experimental neurosurgery at John Hopkins before ultimately deciding that he “wanted to practice ‘real medicine’ and not be a simple ‘meat mechanic’.”

Of course, Dr. Finger was being somewhat disingenuous when he said so; his nurse practitioner and general manager always took some care with new patents to explain about his failed attempt to do a right hemispherectomy on himself to “take the edge off.”

Sure. The hat was distracting. Not to mention odoriferous. And yes, the lit match was a worry, but his practice was in Ontario, so most of his patients were just happy to have any family doctor at all.

Photo Credit: Bolandrotor. Also not qualified to practice medicine. Do you have a family doctor, ’cause I’ve heard Dr. Finger is still accepting patients.

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Researchers at the Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh are trying to kill us all!

Seriously, they are excited about a project they’re working on, the goal of which is to create “swarms of microscopic robots capable of morphing into virtually any form by clinging together.”

Seth Goldstein, who leads the research project says the goal is a distant one.

Seth, Seth, Seth, have you never read any science fiction? This little science project can only end one of three ways:

1. you won’t be successful
2. the tiny robots will start replicating themselves mindlessly, eating all living matter on Earth and covering it with gray goo similar to the kind found in Cloris Leachman’s strainer baskets
3. the tiny robots will become self-aware, impersonate the human form, and proceed to run amok, destroying human civilization in an orgy of dispassionate, logical carnage (probably by turning their arms into broadswords and engaging in a grand human decranialization project).

According to the New Scientist:

Ultimately, Goldstein believes his claytronic robots may one day achieve this [higher intelligence], and much more: “I’ll be done when we produce something that can pass a Turing test face-to-face,” he says. “You won’t know if you’re shaking hands with me or a claytronics copy of me.”

Personally, I’m pulling for #1. No offense Seth.

Mark’s short story, Hounding Manny, (originally published in Oceans of the Mind, Fall 2002) is a touching childhood romp about the moon, bullying and gray goo. More romping (both gooey and childish) may be found at here.

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Germanicus presents “On Campaign with My Three-Year-Old Son” (circa 15 AD) –> slide 4

• Put him in miniature set of armor
• Army mascot
• They call him “Little soldier’s boots” (Caligula)
• Isn’t he adorable?

Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus (Caligula) presents “A normal childhood” (circa 35 AD) –> Slide 3

After father Germanicus died:

• lived with mother until the Emperor Tiberius (adoptive grandfather) banished her
• lived with adoptive great-grandmother (Livia) until she died
• brother Nero died in exile
• brother Drussus died in prison (either from eating bedding or starvation)
• went to live with Tiberius on Capri
• good times!

Pullox the fishmonger presents “A good start” (circa 37 AD) –> Only slide

• Lots of gladiatorial games
• Animals sacrificed
• He’s the son Germanicus (great general that)
• And let’s face it, after Tiberius anyone looks good!

Lollia Paulina presents “Something’s not right with that man” (circa 38 AD) –> Slide 12

• My husband the Emperor has been acting odd since he got sick
• I can live with the whoring
• Excessive killings
• But I really wish he’d stop insisting I call him “Hercules”.

Julia Agrippina (the younger) presents “My brother is a mad, mad pig” (circa 40 AD) –> Slide 2

• Has sex with me, Drusilla and Livilla
• Then declared us Vestal Virgins
• Also, he thinks he’s a god
• Dresses up like Hercules, Apollo and Venus.

Caligula presents “I’m not crazy” (circa 40 AD) –> Last slide

• I only kill people when they upset me
• Like, when they call me “little boots”
• I really hate that
• Besides, I’m a bunch of Gods, so I can do what I want
• Now, I’m going to make my horse a Senator.

Cassius Chaerea of the Praetorian Guard presents “He’s gotta go” (41 AD) –> Slide two

• He calls me “noodle dick”
• (It’s a war wound and I can’t help it)
• Luckily, there are lots of other groups that want him dead too.

Anniversary of Caligula’s death: January 24. Here is a group that has not slept with their sisters. Photo credit: mharrsch.

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You humans still have primitive brains, so I will try to be understanding about this need of yours to panic.

One of your wisest humans wrote a book, upon the cover of which was the phrase “DON’T PANIC”. This is excellent advice, and the first thing you must learn if you ever hope to:

• evolve
• dabble in intergalactic travel
• keep your portfolio intact in times of irrational exuberance and abject, lower-primate, the-leopard-is-going-to-eat-me moments of dread.

At this moment of your insignificant planet’s history, you have given a large part of efforts to an institution which (and let’s not gild the lily on this one) runs on the base emotions of greed and fear. So, on occasion, you will have to face the fear. But those of you who rise above it, who listen to the wisdom of your great prophet, will evolve.

But I suspect that not enough of you will get there before my armada arrives with its legions of uber-chimps, armed with hyper-kazoos and tutus.

Then what?

Then it’s time for you to panic.

Next time: What does it mean when your cat beats you at chess? And should he be able to levitate like that?

More reasons not to panic here.

(Photo credit: Marvin (PA))

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