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Old Man in Spaaaaace!

By on August 21, 2008 in Odd Science, Parody & Satire, Skwibby fiction

an old man going to marsThe boomers has screwed him again — not Buck Bannister specifically — but they’d screwed him and everyone else who wasn’t part of their generation.

True to form, the baby boomers continued to steal the limelight from younger generations. Once again they had set the tone of the zeitgeist, and this time, it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t the 70s drug-and-sex craze, or 80s consumerism, or the “old people are cool” campaign of the early teens. No, this time they’d stolen the thunder under the auspices of self-sacrifice.

Buck floated in the space station, and looked at the giant craft that was minutes from departure. It was going to Mars. He should be on it, not the geriatric boomers that waited for the “launch” to begin.

Buck had helped build the thing, clocking the most hours in space since the Russian Mir program. That had actually hurt his chances of getting on the Methuselah mission, even though he knew the ship better than anyone else.

It was all a problem of cosmic radiation. The more you got, the higher your chances of getting cancer, developing cataracts, having children with birth defects, and other problems. It was okay to spend some time in orbit, but long-distance space travel?

The trip to Mars was a one-in-ten chance of developing cancer in twenty years. Buck liked those odds, but the authorities (baby boomers all) didn’t. The only people they were willing to send were those who were so old, their chances of living another twenty years were pretty slim.

So the first humans on Mars would be in their 90s.

The Methuselah’s engines lit up, and they were off. The sound of Buck’s teeth grinding filled the space station, as he watched the start of the last great adventure that would take place in his lifetime.

Yep, the boomers had done it to Buck again.

The science:
Cosmic rays may prevent long-haul space travel. Other spacey humor here and here.

Eventually, we all scream for ice cream

By on August 19, 2008 in Skwibby fiction

Bob Johnson, soda jerker extraordinaryBob Johnson was never going to understand the intricacies of the HR field, at least, not the way it was practiced at the Good Humor Corporation.

They’d hired him to sell ice cream to kids. He was good at it, a master soda jerk. Bob had served seven tours of duty at the Peasquaddy Ice Cream and Soda Emporium, through all kinds of heat waves, ice shortages and numerous frozen-treat fads. (He was still talking with his therapist about the awful ten days of the Liver Frappe madness.)

There was practically nothing he couldn’t handle when it came to selling ice cream and soda.

So why the hell were they making him service their time machine?

Find other talented jerks at humor-blogs.com and alltop. And … Live from New York, the incredibly mental Carnival of the Insanities!

Carnival of Satire (#104)

By on August 14, 2008 in Carnival of Satire

Carnival of Satire

Sometimes, love just isn’t enough, and sometimes it leads us astray. Dereck shares a touching good-bye note to a Dear Cubicle.

Speaking of heart-felt good-byes, Madeleine Begun Kane has another kind of My “Dear John” Letter.

GrrlScientist loves dinosaurs, and was inspired by the recent unveiling of the Tarbosaurus in Japan to created this cartoon of a Vintage Blasphemy .

Sustainable Blogger believes Google has the solution to Wikichaos in: Google Knol: A return to order.

Aprameya has an elementary parody of Holmes and Watson.

Politics

Free-Ass. Press has the scoop on McCain’s breakthrough announcement of his Walking Mate.

Don, CEO of Donco, has a better solution for who to elect as the next US President in: Obama – McCain. The Choice is Clear.

But what kind of prayer would Don, CEO of Donco, leave at the Wailing Wall? Allen in Fort Worth has the actual text of Barack Obama’s Prayer At The Western Wall In Jerusalem.

Sammy Benoit presents Barack Obama’s UNPUBLISHED Energy Solutions.

Satire Patch presents A ROMAN BARACK OBAMA?

In this edition’s non-satire slot, Rickey Henderson relates the adventure of his beard in this poignant post, Farewell, Whiskers of Glory. Don’t worry, he still has the cheesy stache.

And to take us out on with a touch of the old video, GrrlScientist unearthed this gem: The Canadians Apologize to America. It may be a little old, but the sentiments remain the same:

YouTube Preview Image

And that’s it for the 104th edition. I think we’ll be moving to a monthly schedule from here on out. Thanks to these fine folks for helping us with webby-stuff: the Blog Carnival for their form; and the listings at the Ubercarnival, Ferdy’s permanent floating ping festival, and for the listings at the Blog Carnival too. Also, you may find some satire here if you poke around a bit. Here too.

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Professor Quippy: I find your prose disgusting!

By on August 13, 2008 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction

Professor Quippy

Warning: certain parts of this blog post may make you feel extremely squiffy.

Intrepid researchers at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands have discovered a way to make you feel like throwing up in your mouth — a lot.

Mbemba Jabbi and colleagues are interested in knowing if reading about something can cause you to feel a realistic emotion. Previous studies have shown the same regions of the brain that are activated when we experience a strong emotion such as delight, pain or disgust are activated when we watch someone experience the emotion. And as it turns out, the anterior insula and adjacent frontal operculum, (known to hipster neurologists as the IFO and generally acknowledged as the sexiest part of the brain) are also ignited like a million tiny pinpricks of putrescence when we read.

The sadistic Dutch researchers decided to focus on the emotion of disgust, presumably because it was cheaper and easier to gross people out than make them feel good (they revered to it as the “Jackassilization Effect”).

After placing quinine and dog turds on the tongues of the 12 grad students who “volunteered” for the experiments — the disgusting taste definitely lit up the sexy IFO — they moved onto prose. Their selected text (and no, it wasn’t one of Dr. Tundra’s lesser known ramblings about his last peyote bender), also caused them to be disgusted, especially Jan (pronounced Yawn, which is exactly what he did in Technicolor). Now, for the titillation of your own IFO, you can experience the very same text:

You turn around because someone is leaning on your shoulder, suddenly looking into the open mouth of a drunken beggar… you see his rotten teeth, surrounded by pustulant sores, while he suddenly releases the reeking content of his stomach all over you… You feel your stomach turn over as you suddenly feel the acidic taste of a clump of his vomit on your lips.

According to the New Scientist: “The team suspects that reading about delight or pain also activates similar converging networks in the brain. ” I’ve already sent in my note to volunteer for the “delight” experiments, because I’ve heard the “real life” tests will be held in Amsterdam.

Sources of prose delight can be found at humor-blogs.com and alltop, and a very fine collection of other craziness that may evoke an emotional response is available at the Carnival of the Insanities.

Thag grok free will!

By on August 7, 2008 in Odd Science, Thag

Thag grok free will!The journey back to the Thunka Grunkas had been a long and difficult one, but Thag had finally returned from his sabbatical with the Drunka Grunkas, learning how to make beer.

Along with this new technology, Thag also returned with the willowy and beautiful Twigla, his new mate.

Naturally, Thag had been somewhat concerned with how his old mate, Onga, was going to take this news. But he needn’t have worried. She had already moved on, mating with one of the most ancient Elders, Methusalag. This was a mating of convenience, really. Methusalag needed someone to take care of him in his dotage, and Onga was still making grunties with the Shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother.

So at first, all was well. He and Twigla settled in quickly — Thag returned to his post as leader of the hunters, and at the same time, started his first batch of beer. Twigla quickly befriended the luscious Vonga, and her mate, Fonzag, who had become a decent hunter; Thag thought he could someday lead the others when he was too old. With Thag leading the hunters and providing beer, the tribe prospered.

But in his absence, the Shaman had solidified his hold on the tribe’s religious development.

“It is the will of the gods that Thag has returned to the Thunka Grunkas, and their divine wisdom makes him brew us beer. They lead him to the mammoth,” Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother told the assembled tribe the night when everyone enjoyed the first batch of Thag’s beer.

“What?” Thag asked.

“It is not your own will, but that of the gods, that brings these good things to us.”

“You not want me go to Drunka tribe. Thag convince Elders.”

“This too was the will of the gods.”

“Where be gods?”

“All around us, Thag. Do you not see their work when the wind blows, when the rain falls? This too is their will.”

“Thag see wind. Rain. Grok no gods.”

Thag had enjoyed perhaps too many bowls of his first brew, and was feeling less inhibited than normal.

Fonzag who had also had quite a few: “Aaay! Let’s be cool.”

“What mean?” Thag asked.

“Not sure, but he is the Shaman,” Fonzag said.

“You should listen to your best hunter,” the Shaman said, “he understands it is the will of the gods that rules, not our own mortal desires.”

“Thag make own decisions,” Thag insisted as he stood up.

“No, it is an illusion. You just feel like you make your own decisions. See, you think that you made yourself stand, when in fact it was an impulse sent to you by the gods. But don’t feel down about it, Thag. A man of limited perception cannot see the will of the gods around him. That is why the Grunkas need the Shaman. Otherwise, we’d be guided by idiots like yourself.”

Thag looked thoughtful for a moment, and pretended to move away from the shaman. Then he hauled back his hunter’s fist, and punched Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother in the nose (with enough force to break said proboscis, and knock the smug Shaman off his feet).

Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother moaned in pain, and Methusalag said, “Thag, how could you?”

“Not Thag’s fault,” Thag explained. “It will of gods.”

New Scientist Story: Determining free will . Humor-blogs.com and Alltop also have free will, at least as far as the feeds allow. Originally published 2007.