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Squirrelly

By on November 9, 2011 in Hinky History, Odd Science

I'm in UR garden, plotting UR demiseIt is the Season of the Doom. The days darken. Temperatures drop. And the Black Rodents of London are out for blood. Or nuts, at the very least.

I remember reading once that the term “squirrelly” was coined during the pioneer days, and it was used to describe homesteaders who had been forced to live on a diet of squirrel. I believe the explanation was that squirrel meat is almost all protein so the complete lack of fat caused the rodent-munching pioneers’ brains to misfire, causing them to say things like: “rasfram, gfrrnarlgm chagnm, ghum!” as though everyone could understand it. Though it may just have been the taste of tree rat drove them mad.

Another explanation would be to watch their behaviour during the month of November, right before the snow flies. Not that they aren’t devilishly clever too: man’s greatest enemy. [clip here if the embeddy thing doesn’t work]

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Alltop is also all protein. Thanks to No-Frills Marilyn for the LOLSQUIRREL. Originally published November, 2008.

And how would you like your Marcel Duchamp prepared sir?

By on November 8, 2011 in But is it art?, Odd Science

Marcel Duchamp -- beaker meatSomeday, thanks to science and human perversity, we will be able to eat people without suffering the pangs of guilt that we have contributed to someone’s murder. Sure, we’ll have all the frisson of the ultimate taboo to spice up our night out, but we will be able to do so without fear of prosecution, opprobrium, or recurring nightmares.

This is just one of the many things we have to look forward to with the invention of in-vitro meat. You know, beaker bacon, Frankenburger, tank steak, cloned cutlets — whatever fun name you can come up with to describe meat that has been artificially grown as opposed to that taken from a living animal.

Sure, most of the in-vitro meat will be in standard form — cow, pig, lamb, etc. — but there will definitely be a niche market out there for restaurants who want to serve something a little different. If you take away the moral component, why not try eating endangered species? Hell, what about human?

I imagine there will be restaurants that specialize in celebrities — some will offer up their DNA so they can be served (I imagine anyone on a reality-type TV show would encourage the additional “exposure”), while some will jealously protect their DNA, so that they cannot be served as dinner. (I’m looking at you Royal Family.) Some eateries will cater to the literary crowd, Atwood Kebab anyone? Some will look for even more exotic sources, such as the Ancient Pharaoh Café.

Incidentally, anyone looking for a new area of law practice may want to consider this grey legal area — is one’s genetic makeup something that can be protected? I dunno, but I’d be willing to be there’s money in the litigation.

But it’s not just about creating new dining experiences, and opportunities for lawyers to make money. There are positive aspects too. I recommend you check out this H+ article about the eight ways in-vitro meat will change our lives.

And by the way, Duchamp is best served in a banana flambé, with nuts.

By all means, recommend your favourite celebrity meal, and its mode of preparation in the comments!

All alltop and humor-blogs.com ever ate was one foot! That doesn’t make them a cannibal does it? Originally published November, 2009.

Ask General Kang: Do you enjoy daylight savings time?

By on November 7, 2011 in Ask General Kang, Monkeys!

Ask General KangYes, of course. There’s nothing I enjoy more than having to reset my body’s circadian rhythms because of your human delusion that you control things. Most of you can barely operate your own crude technologies properly (put up your hands if you know how to stop your PC from launching Outlook), so I love the farce that is daylight savings time.

Ooo, look at us humans, we’re the masters of time and space. We can set the clock back. We can set it forward. We call the shots.

I haven’t seen a species as delusional since I conquered the Do These Pants Make Me Look Fat Confederation. (And yes, they did, and easily overrun by a phalanx of orangutans with particle rifles and whiffle bats.) So yes, you humans are deluded. The sun doesn’t change what it’s doing. All that happens is you either lose or gain an hour of sleep. And neither are very good. At least when I travel the circadian reset has some purpose. (Sitting on a beach or ogling Parisian women, for example.)

My understanding is that daylight savings time saves us energy

Stupid human! Studies can show whatever they want. Its origins are a freakin’ bug-collecting Kiwi, and, of course, some British twit who wanted to play golf longer into the evening. But energy use now is so distributed that it’s impossible to make that claim.

Now I’m going to go have a nap. My cat was up at its usual time — an hour before I wake for my daily calisthenics and fresh fruit enema — so I may be a little cranky.

Next time: I’m currently travelling at very close to the speed of light — does that mean I don’t have to set my clocks back?

Alltop and humor-blogs.com don’t ever sleep. Originally published November, 2009.

Smoke ’em if you got ’em

By on November 6, 2011 in General Skwib
Untitled by Foxtongue
Untitled, a photo by Foxtongue on Flickr.

This cocky little duo signifies that The Skwib will be re-running good stuff from the archives for the next few weeks, while I attempt, once again, to write 50,000 words during the month of November.

I have been successful once, but the fact that I’m already about 8,000 words on DAY 6 does not bode well.

If anyone else is engaging in the NaNoWriMo madness, and wants to be my writing buddy, I can be found on the site here.

Alltop quit smoking with cocks years ago.

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

By on November 4, 2011 in Hinky History, Skwibby fiction

Bonfire -- Guy Fawkes nightThomas Cadwell watched as the children danced around the bonfire, singing:

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A fagot of sticks to burn him.

He marked the fifth of November — as all in England did — though it was a strange kind of celebration. But he was old enough to actually remember the events they all sang about. He’d been in London when it happened; he had been just a boy, no more than five or six, visiting relatives for the opening of the parliament, and the celebrations that would accompany the long-awaited event.

Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.

Back then England had been partly Catholic, even if there were no rights for them. Not anymore.

Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!

His family couldn’t get very close to the Houses of Parliament, because of the crowds. It ended up saving Thomas’s life. The explosion had been spectacular: When the gunpowder went off, the House of Lords was reduced to rubble, killing King James and many nobles instantly. Everyone within 100 yards of the building was killed — the crowds outside, the Commons, all of the Lords — and the stained glass in Westminster Abbey shattered like the uneasy peace between Catholics and Protestants.

But the carnage was not over.

It came to light that the catastrophe was a Catholic conspiracy; the plotters tried to set Princess Elizabeth, James’s eldest daughter, on the throne. But England was having none of it. Catholics were rooted out and slaughtered, though some were allowed to convert to the Church of England.

Thomas had been one of those. In 1605 he’d only been six — younger even than the new King, Henry — and the mob that hunted down his Catholic family showed him mercy.

But not his father or mother, his brother or sisters.

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I see of no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

He knew the children dancing around the flames could not remember what happened, so he was not angry with them for starting to sing the song again, dancing now with even more fervor. Since that day, Parliament had never met again, and the King’s power in Great Britain was absolute.

A tear ran down his face, and Thomas looked away, as the children continued dancing, and singing as the flames licked the darkening sky.

A papist plot of great extent,
Blew up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:

By God’s providence they were catch’d
The Catholic treason was o’ermatched.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

Inspired by: The Gunpowder Plot | Bonfire pic by Dan Taylor. Originally published in 2006.

Ask General Kang: If a blogger blogs in the forest, and nobody is around to read it, does it exist?

By on November 3, 2011 in Ask General Kang, Monkeys!

Ask General KangI think what you’re really asking is can something exist without being perceived. Of course, in this instance, you’re forgetting that the person writing the blog — the blogger — will perceive the blog, so of course it exists.

This raises another question, though. If this fictional blogger — let’s call him Mankor the Metaphysical — is in a forest that is outside of a net connection, so Mankor has no way of publishing the blog entries to the Internet, does it exist?

I suppose if Mankor just blogs for himself, then perhaps we can answer yes to this question, because for our sad hypothetical Mankor, the act of blogging is not so much about having an audience read it, as it is of actually writing something.

On the other hand, some may argue that blogging is in essence a kind of performance — more than any kind of writing is, really — in which case, we’d have to say “no” the blog does not exist in the wilderness. It requires an audience.

On another prehensile appendage (remember, I’m an uber-chimp, so feet count) Mankor the Metaphysical may be barking mad, and believe that he has an audience, even if he doesn’t, in which case, he could well be performing his little heart out for his imaginary viewers.

On a final foot, let’s say that I have dispatched a troop of Gorilloids (armed with broadswords and wearing Fezzes) to dispatch this pesky Mankor, so he won’t be doing anything. Let alone blogging. And yes, if a blogger is hacked to pieces in a forest by a cadre of blade-wielding super-apes, there will be a sound.

It will be screaming. (And a fair amount of oo-ooo-ing from the Gorilloids.)

Next time: Did you have Theatre of Cruelty on your home world? Was it the good kind, or was it the boring French kind?