So how is your’s going? I hope it hasn’t gotten much worse than “bulk cereal.”
I believe that tasers are a barbaric technology. Not only are tasers an excruciating way to kill people, it seems to me that you should be using some kind of non-lethal stunning weapon.
A taser is supposed to be a non-lethal stunning weapon.
Well, there is clearly a PROBLEM. If police forces around the world are willing to give me their tasers, I will pass along the technical schematics for a number of non-lethal devices that my Uber-Ape-Jackboot-and-Miniskirt Paramilitary Forces (and dance troupe) have used quite effectively to subdue the great unwashed populace.
The Amplified Kazoo:
Amplified kazoo music is brutal. I once knew a bonobo who’s atonal rendition of “Don’t Cry for Me Fargentina” could drop a brigade of gorilloids armed with broadswords.
While not quite as painful as the Amplified Kazoo, Electro-accordions can work as non-lethal weapons, and are especially effective means of crowd control with young hipsters. Warning: does not work anywhere people listen to zydeco, the Paris metro, or at Irish sessions. This is most effective when deployed by an armada of angry uber-chimps with no sense of rhythm.
On Mephitis VI, there is a kind of multi-appendaged gut worm that can emit a high-pitched whining sound, which is a combination of noise similar to a mosquito’s buzz and about 100 overtired children stuffed into a mini-van. If amplified, the sound will pop the eyes out of any primate. Warning: Handle this creature with care; each appendage of the gut worm is capable of delivering a neurotoxin that causes bits of your face to fall off and necrotize rapidly into a bubbly goo that smells worse than the Stench-Beast of Vomitus XII.
What are you going to do with all those tasers?
Oh, I have uses for them.
Next time: How do I fit “tab a” into “slot b” if all I can find is a multi-dimensional “thingy c”?
“What unit, Minister?”
“Remember the regiment that was forgotten in the Peltarsh Mountains?”
“Right. The unit of horse archers. Did we ever figure out what to do with all those old compound bows? I’ve got one in the armoury — it’s quite ingenious in design, you know, thought it’s primitive. Did you know it uses horn?”
“Yes, sir. We auctioned most of them off on E-Bay. The idea was to help pay for the retraining.”
“Excellent. I like to see our Departments using our resources efficiently. How is the unit shaping up?”
“Well, not as well as it did with our cavalry units. We had a surprising number of troopers who were able to fly the helicopters, and the rest really seem to like the idea of being called air cavalry.”
“And the horse archers?”
“Most of them seem to think the helicopters are some kind of god.”
“I see. Well we had to expect some problems. They were isolated in the mountains for centuries, without any word from us. If I remember the file, the country was still under the control of the ancient dictator Slagothon the Bloody when they last heard from the capital.”
“Yes. We’ve been trying to educate them and bring them into the 21st century. It has, uh, been somewhat costly.”
“About ten times what it takes to upgrade our cavalry units.”
“I see, and the recommendations?”
“Well, we think we can do it, but we may lose the unit cohesion that we were trying to save. The unit has quite a storied history. Did you know they defeated the Horde of Logdor on their own?”
“I see. Naturally, these are their descendants. So how much more do you think it will cost?”
“Estimates are high. Possibly 500 million.”
“And they think the helicopters are gods?”
“Yes. Every time a pilot gets into the cockpit they scream in horror. They think the god is eating them.”
“And when they come out?”
“Well, it’s a miracle to them. They’ve started worshiping the pilots. Or stoning them to death. It has started a small religious disagreement.”
“Could we just send them back to the mountains?”
“Sure. They’ve been guarding that flank of our country from the barbarians for centuries. I say we give them some rifles, a few officers with modern training, and let them do it.”
“So we have a plan.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“There’s just one other matter. You know our territories down in the Glotharian jungle? Well it turns out we have a unit of warriors down there.”
“What do you mean, warriors?”
“Well, it’s hard to define.”
“Give it a try Minister.”
“I should probably start by explaining that they’re armed with clubs . . .”
The O’Reilly Boys finally caught up with Old Judge Turgid at the Annual Pecos River Ride and Chili Jamboree. Salathial had hung their older brother Seamus “The Tinkle” O’Reilly just the year before and they were plum angry.
But Old Judge Turgid, he didn’t mind none. In addition to having a giant noggin’ that made his ten-gallon hat look like a Boston dandy’s bowler, Salathial Turgid had a legendary intestinal track capable of containing the very vapors of Hell.
He knew it. The O’Reilly Boys knew it. And the terrified denizens of Pecos knew it.
So when they put the Colt up against his temple, he laughed and said, “Boys, the only thing keeping my sphincter shut is my continued vo-lition. I’d give you the count of ten to va-moose but I suspect one of the town-folk will kill you first.”