An Elegant Argument, Simplified.
by skitch
03/19/2010, 3:17 AM #

Perhaps some of you have trouble following the subtle (read "torturous and convoluted") arguments of the more colorful members of our zany cast of characters. I've asked my good friend Dave Goldberg (Rube Goldberg's half-Jewish half-brother) to diagram a sample argument to help clarify things. I'm not entirely certain he was the right guy to ask...


Passing Jew (A) casts shadow on photovoltaic cell (B) interrupting current to electromagnet (C) holding ironic weight (D). Weight falls on seesaw (E) flinging can of paint (F) onto dreaming bird (G), startling her awake and causing her to drop fecal matter (H) on picture of Jerzy Kosinski (I). Picture topples and falls on scissors (J) cutting string allowing pin (K) to pop balloon (L). Alarmed by the sudden noise, cuddly little lamb (M) runs away, pulling crossbow trigger (N) and firing bolt into copyright notice. Copyright symbol (O) is dislodged and falls on painted bird who (finally fed up with the serial indignities) flies to new perch on dynamite plunger (P) where she begins loudly scolding all passersby. Plunger is pushed down by her weight causing explosion that collapses twin towers (Q).

The Greatest Generation

The Greatest Generation
by skitch
05/11/2009, 10:34 PM #

"Drink your water, Bob." My voice is playfully stern, but I'm smiling at the incongruity of ordering this man around.

Bob grins back at me, and, trite as it sounds, his eyes have an honest-to-god twinkle. His grin is wide and inviting. You know the old joke about finding someone's picture in the dictionary? Bob's picture is right there next to "affable". We have to remind him to drink his water because he's collapsed twice now while on vacation: once in Maui, once in Tahoe. Dehydration. The second collapse required a day of hospitalization.

His doctor had admonished him the last time. "You let yourself get too dehydrated, Bob. It'll kill you if you're not careful."

But we still have to remind him or he just won't remember. He can't conceive of his body ever failing him. In his mind he's still 25 years old. The open-mouthed grin is an imp's smile, brimming with the promise of mischief. The teeth are mostly his and somewhat worse for nearly 90 years of wear, but the grin is a contagious one anyway, sculpting his eyes into a permanent, knowing wink. Bob has a way about him that makes you believe you're sharing a joke, a secret, that you're conspiring with him in a perfectly-executed prank moments from its denouement. His ears and eyebrows are both large and bushy (I'm reliably informed by my daughter that these are sure signs of great age). His hair is that rich snowy white I hope my own gray hair will turn out to be when I'm pushing a century rather than the gunmetal gray presently infiltrating my temples and sideburns. His shoulders are stooped now, his spine curved, and the top of his head barely reaches my chin. But he has the easy confident air of a man a good foot taller. His gait is slow but resolute, shaped by the hip replacement without which he wouldn't be able to walk at all. And though his step is slow I sometimes think he could easily outwalk me if challenged. If he stays hydrated, that is. We keep checking in with him to make sure he stays on top of it.

Lieutenant Robert Lucas, Naval Aviator, runs preflight on his F4U Corsair. He can't conceive of his training or his reflexes ever failing him. But even so, he and all his squadron mates take the maintenance of their aircraft very seriously. Nothing wrong with a reality-based foundation to back up your youthful sense of invulnerability. Lt. Lucas is a young man with close-cropped black hair. He and his buddies are all swagger and attitude, part of the most powerful war machine ever assembled in the history of warfare. There's something both thrilling and sobering about that idea that keeps Lucas hovering somewhere between pride and humility. It's a necessary mindset when you're about the business of saving the world.

Today he's flying a routine CAP, or Combat Air Patrol. Again. Although he has accumulated hundreds of hours of flight time running support and escort missions, he has yet to actually see a Zero, or any other enemy aircraft for that matter. For now, his exec has signaled the go sign. "Mount up!"

"Drink up, Bob!" I have to speak loudly. His wits are as sharp as ever but sometimes he looks a little befuddled because he couldn't follow the last few minutes of conversation. It's not that he couldn't understand it, it's just that he couldn't hear it. Sometimes he'll contribute an idea to the ongoing discussion that has already been brought up. If you aren't paying attention this might leave you with a mistaken impression about his frailty and his command of his faculties.

We're strolling through the afternoon heat in Palm Springs. Triple digit temperatures, "but it's a dry heat!" The very infrastructure here resonates with the ghosts of Bob's generation: Bob Hope Drive, Gene Autry Trail, Dinah Shore Drive. And for all that he never actually lived here, except in passing, Bob's personal knowledge base is chock full of local trivia. But that seems to be the case wherever he is. This man has accumulated two lifetime's worth of knowledge and he can seemingly tap it at will. He's even more animated than usual and his excitement is evident. He's assumed the role of host and entertainer for the trip, channeling his heroes. "Sinatra used to eat in this restaurant every weekend; he and Ava Gardner used to shoot out streetlights and store windows just for the hell of it. Liberace lived just up the way here. He had a swimming pool shaped like a piano. Not here, mind you, but in Vegas... Eisenhower went missing from here for a whole day once. They say that's when he was whisked off to make first contact with the aliens. Can you imagine?" He chuckles at the absurdity of aliens palavering with the president in the desert. "I wonder what their golf handicap was?"

In my mind's eye I can see him 40, 50 years younger in a dinner jacket, holding a scotch and a cigarette in one hand and punctuating his conversation with the other. He reminds me of Dino, but without the undercurrent of narcissistic entitlement. He still has a scotch every night (the finer the better, though that's not a requirement). It occurs to me that I've no idea whether he ever smoked. He almost certainly did. Everyone of his generation did. Growing up in that time, a time of historic economic and global instability, they had to grow up faster and embrace their self determination much sooner than their parents did.

Flying a CAP role means your flight has a great deal of tactical flexibility within the assigned objective area. The young men of Lt. Lucas' flight are no different than any other unit marshaled for a martial purpose. That means they're hungry to engage something. Anything. They have to resist the urge to linger on that side of their objective area closest to active combat operations. Predictability is considered a bad thing in time of war and your really top-notch enemies rarely oblige. They dutifully patrol the entirety of their assigned area.

CAP can be mind-numbingly boring, with long periods of rote activity only occasionally punctuated by short bursts of excitement when something out of the ordinary occurs, an unidentified contact, a mechanical malfunction, whatever. Today is no different. There's not even that hoped-for "something out of the ordinary" to break the monotony. Lucas' flight consumes their alloted fuel and mission time and wheels about to return home.

If he's going to save the world, it won't be today.

The world needs more men like Bob. He makes friends with a facility I might envy if I weren't a direct beneficiary. He looks for areas of common interest and rarely has trouble finding some because his own interests are so broad. What can a man his age possibly have in common with a 14 year-old kid? And yet he and my son are fast friends, walking together every morning when we're visiting and emailing one another when we're back home. I treasure the exposure to wisdom and responsibility that his friendship with my son represents. I hope it mitigates the contempt for the elderly that seems to afflict so many kids my son's age. Hell, that afflicts so many kids my age.

He never talks about the war. I only know a scrap of his story because my son interviewed him for the Veterans History Project. I'm going to make it my mission to find out more about his personal history. Somehow I feel that remembrance is the least I owe him.

His has been called the Greatest Generation. Knowing him, I can easily believe it.

skitch

Auld Fraye

Auld Fraye
by skitch
02/10/2009, 9:51 AM #

Stephen Kitterich sighed and pushed back exhaustedly from the workbench in his dimly lit quarters. As he climbed to his feet, he snuffed the oil lamp augmenting the anemic light that filtered through the tiny window in the wall high above. "I shall hie me to the Towne Square that I might peruse the Poste," he thought to himself. He stepped into the crisp morning air and made his way up the cobbled street, avoiding pools and piles of unidentifiable material, and waving merrily to screaming children as they pranced around him.

The Poste derived its name from a dilapidated wooden post in the center of the square to which was affixed a slab of slate covered in turn by rough-hewn boards. Every square inch of board was encrusted with multiple layers of fraying parchment. Townsfolk were encouraged to publish their thoughts and hold public discourse on the Poste. Kitterich eagerly surveyed the topmost layers looking for something new and interesting.

On the Mythe of the Diaspora
Post'd by SunGod
Know ye that it is Oft-Claimed, by those Weak of Mind, that the
Historie of the Diaspora is Writ in Stone and that the Poore Israelites
were driven in their Hundreds of Thousandes from Home and Hearth!
I have it on Unimpeachable Authority that such numbers are False
and Laugh-able! Who amonst thee, having spent even the Tiniest
Fraction of Tyme and Effort to seek the Truth, truly Believeth that
Israelites congregated in such Vast Numbers in That Place and at
That Tyme? These Townes were not Paris! These Townes were not
Lundun! Were the True Numbers one Tenth, nay, e'en one Hundredth
of these 'maginary sums, 'twould still Beggar Belief! The Truth is a
Mighty Voice sweeping all before it into the Sea. A Hue and Cry builds,
as surely as I Write these Words, that will Compel the Stone to be Re-Writ!
Nostradamus prophesied a Tyme of Flame and Retribution. Only the Blind
and Foolish can doubt that that Tyme is 'pon us! I am but a Simple Messenger!

Hark! Nostradumbass!
Post'd by AgeOfEnlightenment
Begone, foul Jack-knave! The Grande High Inquisitor wrote thee a Missive!
He Requesteth the return of his Rack!

Re: Hark! Nostradumbass!
Post'd by SunGod
Jack-knave, am I? Well thou'rt naught but a Worth-less Jackanapes!
Belyttle the good people of the Inquisitione at thy peril! Hast consider'd
that the Spanish Inquisitione mightn't be the Reason'd Response of a people
Unfairly Deceiv'd and made Victim of Fraude? Could'st not Expect such a
reaction when Reasonable Persons are thus beset?

Nobody expecteth the Spanish Inquisitione!
Post'd by WorthlessJackanapes
(I merely saith!)

When Reasonable Persons are beset?
Post'd by AgeOfEnlightenment
Thy hapless readers know well the meaning of "beset". Nay, thy unrepentant
preoccupation with the Jewe marks thee rather as one besotted. Have thee
naught of greater worth to occupy thy time than the trivial exchange of a
dullard's mad ravings 'pon the Poste? Methinks thou stealeth thy Master's
time by thy constant dalliance here.

Re: When Reasonable Persons are beset?
Post'd by SunGod
Mark me well, 'twas the Jewe caused the collapse of the Walls of Jericho
and myriad are the accounts describing their celebration and merriment
'pon its destruction! As for my Master, know thou that I have none! My time
is mine own and I've the luxury of plenty of it. I had the Foresight to adopt
the Moderne Carroting process for creating the Felt I useth to
Block out Hats for my Clientele!

Kitterich stepped back, shaking his head. "'Od's bodkin. Is there nothing new?"

Movement in his peripheral vision made him turn slightly. He watched as an anonymous, asexual figure wrapped from head to toe in shapeless, unremarkable cloth crept furtively up to the Poste, rummaged through the flyers for a moment, held a new parchment against the surface, and finally pounded a tack through it to hold it in place. Turning to leave, the figure spied Kitterich and nodded a self-conscious greeting before scampering away. Kitterich moved closer to locate the new message.

"Hmm, Post'd by MuttonStew... Alack, methinks the imp was bent 'pon new-hatch'd mischief!" Kitterich checked beneath the newest addition and followed the thread of overlapping parchments back to the first one posted. "Behold! An essay by TheKnell!"

On the Suppression of Savages in the Newe World!
Post'd by TheKnell
Storys of the Newe World arrive nigh Monthly as the Great Ships-of-the-Line
ply the King's Business 'cross the Briny Deep. 'Mongst these storys come tales
of Fearsome Savag'ry and Epic Struggle, tales of Brave Men striving 'gainst the
Darkness with the Enlightenment of Our Great Age. Tales to Enflame Pride in
Empire a'growing! And yet: also do These Tales give me Pause. For hear we also
tales of Red-Men, tales of The Other. And the Storys these Tales tell bring me
Disquiet. By all accounts these Red-Men, these Others, are much like Thee and
Me 'pon the surface but Fierce of Aspect and Unrestrain'd of Behaviour. Are we
to Believe such accounts? Similar tales Told in Years Past have been told to
Enflame more than Pride. Tales of the Moor, of the Jew, of the Turk. Tales of
Hatred and Intolerance. Likeways do these tales of the Savages of the Newe
World tell of Bloody Retribution, of the Prosecution of King's Justice by Blade
and Cross. Are not all Persons belov'd of God and entitled, as are We All, to His Grace?

Kitterich found himself nodding in agreement. "Surely TheKnell hath a pen of purest silver! For though I care not always for his words, yet ne'er do I regret having read them!" Scanning down the overlapped parchments, Kitterich sampled a few of TheKnell's respondents.

The Savages of the Newe World are but Soul-less heathen!
Post'd by FistOfGod
'Tis passing strange that thou Takest up the Defence of the Heathen. By mine
Own Lights I Opine that the Lord without doubt hath Bidden his Children take
up His work and Excise the Blyght of Unbelief where'ere 'tis found. Thy God
and Mine wouldst of a surety Call for the Utter Destruction of any who Walketh
Not with Him! Wherefore wouldst thou think elsewise?

"Hark, I hear the cry of a Loon." Kitterich continued to follow the trail of parchment started by TheKnell.

Newe World?
Post'd by Diemacchus
Fool! Court Jester! None have discovered aught of a "Newe World"! For if they
had tried, they would Surely have fallen to their Doom! That many have returned
Safely from So-Called voyages to the "Newe World" is surely proof that it Cannot
exist, for 'tis obvious that none may Venture beyond the Edge of This One. What
are we to make of the Many Poor Souls who have NOT returned? They are the
Truth that puts the Lie to any sorte of "Newe World"!

Cretin!
Post'd by AgeOfEnlightenment
Tell me, wise Diemacchus, hast thou determin'd how many Angels may fit 'pon
the Pointe of a Needle? Thou rouseth my Spleen, and I Laugh myself Loudly
into Stitches! Prithee tell me how 'tis possible that thou believeth still in the Earth's
flat-ness when the Truth of its form is writ Plain within the pages of the Principia Wykipaedia?

Fie 'pon the Principia!
Post'd by Diemacchus
Art thou not aware of the agenda of its authors? Lyars and Scoundrels all, and
their Words amount to Lyttle more than the Excreta of the Taurus!

Sighing, Kitterich stepped back once more to reflect upon what he had read. As before, when the area around the Poste appeared empty, another unidentifiable figure crept out of the shadows and furtively attached a new message to the Poste. Tired of reading but newly curious, Kitterich stepped forward once more to examine the latest offering.

On the Role of the Jewe
Post'd by Alarum
Thou'rt without doubt Well and Truly acquainted with the scurr'lous Moneychanger
bequeath'd to our Moderne Tyme by Ancient Jewry. The Jewe is a Mean and
Selfish wretch and all Persons of Goode Character must needs Oppose the
Semite lest he succeed in Seizing the Reins of Free Trade! Why, did'st knowe
that the Jewe alone controls One Parte in Seven of all gold and silver? That a
Shadowed and Omnipresent hand ensures that thou pay'st a Third Tithe, to King,
to Church, and to the Jewe?

"God's teeth! We art beset by lackwits and buffoons!" Energized now, Kitterich
spun about and made his way back to his quarters, mentally composing his next
contribution to the Poste. Arriving home, he removed the tray from his home
GutenBook Pro and began sorting through his type drawer. Working quickly now,
he began to lay leaden characters into the tray, his mind reversing the mirrored
glyphs as he went:

Anciente Fraye
Post'd by skitterich
Septimus Kitchabus sighed and pushed back exhaustedly from the workbench
in his dimly lit quarters...

Fray Bash - Armageddon

Fray Bash - Armageddon
by skitch
10/21/2008, 3:09 PM #

Though the hour grows late, the great Fray Bash of '08 shows little sign of slowing. The grounds around the main hall have grown more quiet as revelers abandon the hills and pathways to escape the growing chill, but the faint sounds of celebration continue to pulsate in the ballroom and snippets of enthusiastic conversation and relaxed laughter continue to carry on the cool night breeze.

But not everyone is drawn to the ongoing festivities; some prefer the stimulus of conflict, and so it still is in the valley of the partisans, where a reasonable man can no longer be found. The megaphone-powered speechifying has turned even more acrimonious than usual and the fray's two political factions have retreated to the right and left sides of the clearing respectively to regroup and to review their tactical positions. The groups continue to trade half-hearted verbal shells while their leaders inspect their individual arsenals and attempt to energize their bases.

"The GOP is the party of good ol' Joe SixPack and Hot Moms. Er, Hockey Moms!"

"More like Joe Vogler and the AIP!"

"No! Like Joe the Plumber, American Everyman!"

"Yeah, just like Joe the Plumber, the party of liars and tax cheats! Joe's a plant and a crook!"

"Ha! According to your Joe, Biden the unpredictable, your man Barack isn't even ready to be president!"

Even the most clairvoyant of pundits had failed to predict the importance of the Joe factor in the current election cycle...

Satisfied that the area surrounding the conservative encampment is secure for now, a handsome man with an incongruous monocle turns to address his compatriots. Somewhere along the way Urquhart has ditched the dapper tux he was wearing on the red carpet at the beginning of the night's festivities and is now sporting an equally dapper Brigadier General's uniform, somewhat inexplicably displaying the archaic crossed sword and baton insignia of the old British military. "Look sharp, people, these are decisive times! Imperative that we identify and press every advantage in the weeks remaining to us!" Urq indicates the gruff and dangerous man standing next to him. "Sgt_ROCK here has your marching orders!"

Beneath a battered WWII helmet, sgt_ROCK's low forehead squats malignantly over intense beetle-black eyes and a flat pugilists nose. He glowers at the ragtag band while intently chewing the decimated butt of an old cigar. The bandoliers criss-crossing his chest are festooned with ammo and live grenades.

"Awright ya worthless fray grunts, I wancha ta fall in and form up on the milquetoast here," sgt_ROCK indicates Kazillions with a perfunctory wave. "He'll issue ya yer quiver'a Talkin' Points. Treat 'em with respect. They're yer first line'a defense against the bleedin' hearts!"

Behind Kazillions sits the huddled form of Kent Lansville, laboriously pumping the treadles of a spindle-mounted whetstone. He alternately inspects and then applies each Talking Point to the spinning stone, producing a fiery cascade of sparks, repeating the action until he's satisfied with the result. His "Kent Lansville" name tag has been scratched out and "Angel of Dearth" hastily pencilled in beneath. The Republican foot soldiers quickly collect their weapons and begin the task of familiarizing themselves with the arsenal of the day. In front and slightly to the left of the encampment an older but still energetic man sits and watches the silhouettes milling about in the liberal camp across the clearing. He has intense glowering eyes, and he is holding a shield with an immaculately detailed Guardant Ass scratched out and replaced with a crudely painted Rampant Elephant. Demcon is restless and impatient with his conservative allies, but then Demcon is restless and impatient as a general rule.

Meanwhile, in the liberal conclave, MichaelRyerson rubs his hands with glee. "We've got momentum on our side, boys! But for God's sake don't relax your vigilance for even a moment! Those bastards stole the election in '04 and they'll do it again if we let 'em!" Tartuffe nods agreement as he supervises NickD, Woolley, and acro101 who have removed their clothing and are stuffing them with loose straw from bags emblazoned with the stenciled word "ACORN" in a bid to inflate their apparent numbers for the coming battle. Several figures are scurrying about in the dim light propping up straw men here and there all around the perimeter.

As preparations continue apace, several malformed trolls in the center of the clearing continue banging their fists on plastic toy keyboards in a transparent bid to reignite active combat. Everyone's blood is high and the participants find they are in the mood to oblige. All pretense at trading point and counterpoint in a civilized fashion falls to the wayside as the two factions scramble out of their foxholes and from behind their barricades to converge on the center in the great Fray Clash of '08.

LaurieAnnM laughs as she enthusiastically swings her hammer. "I see the Kool-aid swilling Obamabots are spinning like crazy tonight!" She's standing back-to-back with Demcon, who matches her enthusiasm stroke for stroke.

Demcon grins fiercely. "Intelligent voters like me will see right through his Messiah image to the pissant woman-hater at his core! It's rabid Obamanut fanatics like these that pushed me away from the Democratic party."

At the moment Demcon is trading blows with another_liberal. "And 'old blinky' is a viable alternative? He comes across like someone put cocaine in his metamucil!"

Demcon scoffs. "I see you don't possess the posting acumen to actually produce a point, child. Or the originality, either, since the metamucil thing is Letterman's."

Tartuffe weighs in, engaging Demcon on a second front. "McSame voted 92.34769% of the time with his ideological clone, the war criminal George W. Bush (see [link]!) Oh, and the Bridge-to-Nowhere Lie Watch is up to 357 (you guessed it: [link])!"

Kazillions is dancing back and forth wielding his rapier wit with abandon. "Reverend Wright is Obama's mentor and spiritual advisor and it's common knowledge that Obama himself pals around with terrorists. He's a 'Big Government Socialist Lib'. And Michelle Obama clearly hates America. Any idiot can see that 9/11 and Saddam were undeniably linked 'cuz after 9/11 we told him to shape up or we'd kick his ass and he didn't! Shape up, that is! The Democrats forced the banks to make bad loans! I admit the poll numbers look bad right now but you can't trust polls calling it for Democrats, 'cuz Republicans don't open up to pollsters. It's a huge case of selection bias! Polls are only accurate if they call it for the Republicans! Nobody wants to be called a racist because he didn't want to vote for the black guy! And the record clearly shows that Fannie Mae gave more money to Obama than to anyone else!"

Constantly mindful of the immediate tactical situation, Urquhart claps Kaz on the back of the head. "Take a breath there, fellow enlightened one. Must keep our signal-to-noise ratio solidly in the black. You're entirely correct that Obama's association with Ayers matters, despite the wobbly claims of the tartuffle-another_liberal axis!"

Sidestepping Urq's sortie, acro101 responds in kind. "Oh yeah? What about Todd and Sarah and the Alaska Independence Party?? Does their association matter?"

MichaelRyerson, an old warrior in his own right, is swinging and connecting with some precision. "Of course it does, as long as these clowns keep insisting that Obama's association with a washed-up 60's radical matters. It also matters that Sarah Palin abused her power by violating Alaska statute 39.52.110(a)."

Urq deftly avoids Ryerson's thrust. "Lies! The report was clearly inconclusive. Said so right in the summary!"

JackDallas snorts loudly while adopting the Crane position on an old stump. "What do you expect? Barack Hussein Obama is an empty suit and a lying sack of shit. Democrats are liars by definition. They've signed up 200,000 cheaters in Ohio and another 30,000 cheaters in Florida... and in Missouri, too!" He's attempting to kick Pace in the chin while hopping from foot to foot but finds himself hampered by poor balance.

Sgt_ROCK signals his agreement by ripping a grenade off his bandolier and pulling the pin with his teeth. "Yeah, and like 30,000 by ACORN in Indiana!" He counts to 3 (not 4 nor 5) and tosses the grenade. With a muffled "whump" tartuffe and ellens cuddly kittens go flying head over heels. ROCK bayonets a straw man for good measure.

Unsteadily, ellens cuddly kittens climbs to her feet and shakes her head in an attempt to quiet the ringing in her ears. "The fascists are killing defenseless animals!" she screeches. The other liberals glance at her quizically but don't question her point.

Taking advantage of the general confusion, artandsoul crawls from cover and leaps on JackDallas's back where she proceeds to garrote him with a line she picked up in an email somewhere. "Obama showed decisive leadership during the bailout debacle, Jack. I know it's a tall order, but stop being so stupid."

JackDallas's bulging eyes and purplish face belie his calm tone. "Libs are stupid by definition. The smartest Democrat is stupider than the stupidest Republican." With an audible groan he sinks to the ground, unconscious.

CaliforniaDreamin shoulders forward to fill the void left by Jack's demise. "DEMS DIDN'T LEARN THEIR LESSON RE: SOCIALISM WITH ADOLPH HITLER! Why should we think they might have learned it now?! Democrats are DESTROYING AMERICA!"

"Hmmmm. Blk Winchester conservatives deposited Grand Caymans private Oprah funds for RNC Rainbow Coalition when KADzillions Dallas smutzie Laurie clan breaks wind," points out lilmacg reasonably. Hostilities cease for a moment as both sides contemplate lilmacg's point.

And so it goes, with the apparent advantage swinging first one way and then the other. But ultimately the conservatives are no match for the well-funded liberals and Urq and Kaz urgently sound retreat as the Republican lines begin to buckle in the middle.

Ad hominem attacks and pointed barbs clatter and ricochet around them as Urquhart and his cohorts fall back to the foxholes and other meager shelter of their base. An unnamed redshirt carrying the company radio tumbles inertly on top of Urq in what he can only assume is a fortuitous plot development. Desperate now, he frantically claws the transceiver from its cradle and punches in what he fervently hopes is the frequency of the day. "This is Maggie Thatcher, repeat, this is Maggie Thatcher!" He holds his hand over the microphone and snaps "Don't ask!" at Angel of Dearth, who is looking at him quizzically. The radio hisses and pops, "...[sskkk] we have you, Maggie, go...[skksks]..." Urq hisses urgently at the transceiver, "October Surprise, dammit, October Surprise!" The radio responds tinnily, "...confirmed, Maggie. Operation October Surprise your location in fifteen..." Urq slumps back in relief. "Now we wait... HOLD THE LINE, THERE, YA IDJITS, THE BARBARIANS ARE AT THE GATES!" CaliforniaDreamin barely manages to fend off a sally from an invigorated DallasNE wielding a giant pair of scissors and a bucket of thick paste.

It starts almost imperceptibly at first, the whup, whup, whup of helicopter blades intermingled with the driving sound of a familiar opera. The noise swells in strength rapidly and the besieged conservatives cheer raggedly as an enormous Huey rises from behind the hill marking the rear position of the Republican encampment. Huge speakers mounted to the undercarriage of the chopper blare the rousing strains of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. A familiar figure leans from the aircraft's open door.

It's Sarah Palin looking ultra-fashionable and fetchingly mavericky in pink camo and Kawasaki 704's, her pageant-smile bright and her eyes glowing with the confident fervor of her cause. She's leaning out the door of her chopper directing a glowing stream of moose-stopping pellets of death from the door-mounted .50 cal machine gun into the shocked and awed figures on the liberal side of the battlefield, all of whom scatter in confusion at this latest development. "God I love the smell of gunpowder in the morning!" She's seemingly oblivious to the fact that it's actually late at night. The liberals are crawling about in frantic consternation unsure exactly how to respond to the Palin incursion.

"Barack America's an articulate and bright and clean and nice-looking African-American guy!" Joe Biden has appeared at the crest of the hill. He's bare-chested with a bloodied necktie knotted tightly around his head and he's holding a .50 cal under each arm. He screams "Stand up, Chuck," and charges down the hill while squeezing off a prolonged burst from one of the fifties. B-r-r-r-r-r-r-t! "You can't work in a 7-11 without an Indian accent!" B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-t! "When the stock market crashed, Franklin Roosevelt got on the television and said, 'Look, here's what happened.'" B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-­r-t! "You need to work on your pecs!"

Despite the non-specificity of Biden's seemingly random aim, Sarah's chopper shudders with the impact of several dozen slugs and the tail rotors fly apart with a keening wail. The aircraft begins to rotate slowly as oily black smoke erupts from the engine. "Say it ain't so, Joe!" Sarah frowns prettily and impotently shakes her fist as the chopper slides sideways over an adjacent hilltop and self-destructs.

As both the liberal and conservative blocs frantically try to regroup, the clearing is suddenly overrun by serious looking men in dark suits and sunglasses enthusiastically "restoring order".

John McCain strides into the clearing with a warrior's swagger, albeit a bit hunched over, and assumes a painfully defiant pose immediately before the conservative encampment. Barack Obama appears seemingly from nowhere enveloped in a rich halo of warm golden light, accompanied by the harmonic stylings of an angelic choir singing Springsteen's Born to Run. McCain acknowledges Obama's appearance with a nod. "Senator." Obama returns the gesture almost regally, if somewhat stutteringly. "uh... Senator."

The troll brigade's incessant pounding has reached a feverish pitch and the partisan camps have each fallen in line behind their candidate of choice. Each side is chanting loudly in an attempt to drown out the other. Occasional cries of "Get him!" and "String him up!" can be faintly heard from the right side over the clamorous din. It's starting to get ugly.

A muffled thumping sound heralds the arrival of yet another helicopter, a large Sea King emblazoned with the presidential seal. Dubya himself is recklessly leaning out the open door of Marine One waving a medium-sized object. "John," he screams over the clatter of the blades, "take this!" He heaves the object he's holding, a nondescript black suitcase stylishly embossed with the same seal as the helicopter. The briefcase spins lazily as it plummets in a steep arc to the center of the clearing between the two men.

The onlookers stir nervously. "Is that...?"

"It's the football!"

Both men, seemingly transfixed by the bizarre events of the evening, stare at the object with overt desire. McCain seems agitated, blinking and scowling furiously, his lips drawn painfully into a grim rictus. Obama by contrast seems calm, almost beatific. The fraysters watch in fascination as the two men weigh the situation. McCain, closer to the football, moves first, running toward the case with an agonizing crablike gait. "Welcome to the House of McPain!" he screams.

Obama surges forward as well, seeming to glide without effort over the broken soil, his bare feet hovering a good 6 inches above the ground. "Allahu Akbar," he screams as he advances, "uh, I mean, for God and Country!" A sharp crack resounds through the clearing as the two men meet in the center directly above the prize, merging into a thrashing mass of flailing limbs and gnashing teeth.

The two men grapple heatedly in the mud of the clearing, McCain's scrappy warrior training compensating for Obama's youth and vitality. The battle is furious and personal and epic as the two candidates struggle for control of the briefcase. The partisans gather round, intermingling without regard to faction, their individual conflicts forgotten for now as they chant the name of their chosen champion. A dozen Secret Service agents gather uncertainly nearby. "Samuels, see what the operations manual says about the candidates trying to kill one another!" The men appear locked in a death struggle, each straining to control the briefcase.

----------

Back at the main party, TheBell is patiently demonstrating the intricacies of the Macarena to Dr. No. "OK, now left hand to right shoulder, right hand to left shoulder, good! Now left hand back of head, and right hand back of head, very good!..."

Suddenly a brilliant flash fills the ballroom through the big clerestory windows, limning the celebrants with a bright incandescent glare and casting stark black shadows across the dance floor and onto the far wall. The intense flare is followed almost immediately by a juddering shock wave that slaps the main doors open and knocks a few of the more altered partygoers to the floor. Curious, the revelers stampede through the main doors into the night air where they are met by the astonishing image of a tiny mushroom cloud roiling menacingly just over the hill.

DragonTat2 looks stricken. "What... what does this mean?"

"I'll tell you what it means, sister!" Topazz has a mischievous grin on her face. "Conga line!" Topazz sways her hips and shuffles and kicks her way back to the ballroom collecting enthusiastic fray bashers along the way.

----------

Out in the clearing, now a pitted crater lined with molten glass, a blackened figure levers itself out of the fused muck and opens bright white eyes, looking for all the world like the coyote after lingering a moment too long in front of an ACME roadrunner cannon. Urquhart the Undying kicks the stirring form of Kaz in the head. "Look alert, brother, it's once again into the breach!"

Kaz shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. "You know, Obama may have squandered the last of his momentum. Any remaining undecideds will clearly be annoyed by his cocksure assumption of victory. And the Bradley effect might buy us another 5, 6 percent..."

MichaelRyerson's hoarse laugh floats across the crater, punctuated by pained chuckles from tartuffe and another_liberal. "You wish! If McCain loses even one of the swing states it's all over but the slow walking and sad singing..."

The chill in the night deepens as the factions begin to dig in again.

==============

(OK, so it's a bit of a stretch that the football itself would explode, chalk it up to

Fray Bash - The Pusher

Fray Bash - The Pusher
by skitch
10/06/2008, 10:47 AM #

Keifus shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, wishing for the hundredth time he hadn't had that fourth glass of wine. Particularly on top of the unknown amount of beer he'd imbibed losing straight sets of beer pong to switters. How that guy could even stand straight after so much recreational consumption, let alone throw straight, was truly a mystery for the ages. The pressure on his bladder has been growing steadily for a good half hour. And so, again for the hundredth time, he glances anxiously across the room where Kazillions and Kent Lansville are continuing to fortify their blockade of the restroom entrance, now heaving a frayed old couch they'd rustled up from a back room somewhere onto the mountain of detritus blocking the door.

"Fuck this, time for plan B." Keifus hops off the stool, resolved to find another restroom somewhere while he can still walk without crossing his legs. A good-looking but nondescript man in his mid 30's with the physique of an accomplished gourmand and a dark beard just threatening to turn gray, he makes for the back of the ballroom where he'd previously noticed a dimly-lit hallway leading into the bowels of the building.

To get into the hallway he's forced to step gingerly through a small army of inflatable sex dolls wearing "NObama in '08" and "McCain/Palin: Mavericks on a Mission" t-shirts. The name tag on the nearest reads "Hi, My Name Is: sickofliberaldefeatocrats". Keifus notes a few other names as he threads his way through the weird and vaguely unsettling display: theghostofarnut, thumbelina, dumdumdems, Lilliputin, ohforgodssake. He breathes an audible sigh of relief upon emerging unscathed from the bizarre gauntlet.

Safely in the hallway he nods to artandsoul and Pace who are both grinning widely as they watch NickD struggling to get his shirt off over his head. Nick's muffled grumbling sounds something like: "who the hell ever heard of strip craps, anyway?". "Regards," says Pace, returning the nod with a wink and pantomiming something about the pair of dice she's holding. Artandsoul giggles and the two women strike their best innocent poses before dissolving into laughter.

Continuing his quest, Keifus plunges into a maze of seedy corridors, turning randomly at each unmarked intersection. It's a few minutes before he realizes he can no longer hear the rhythmic thumping of whatever speed-metal rockabilly synthpop neofusion selection Max and the other self-appointed DJs have managed to agree on. He turns slowly trying to orient himself when his attention is caught by muffled voices down the corridor. Curious, he approaches an anemic puddle of light spilling from a cracked-open doorway and nudges the door open with his toe.

Inside, a single lightbulb is swinging crazily back and forth, causing the shadows of the room's occupants to dance around like a scene from a bad noir thriller from the 40s. Since he can detect no breeze to explain why the light is moving, Keifus concludes it must be doing so for the dramatic effect. Two figures are leaning over a small table with their backs to the door: an elegantly dressed woman in a backless red gown and an olive-skinned man with unkempt black hair. The woman's hand is on the man's neck as the pair scrutinize whatever is on the table before them.

Keifus does a classic double-take and rubs his eyes to convince himself that the woman is Dawn Coyote and the man is Woolley.

"C'mon, Woollyebugger, you know you want to!" Dawn's voice is soothing and persuasive.

"No... no, I can't!" Woolley's voice is simultaneously defiant and uncertain. As his eyes adjust to the unhinged lighting Keifus realizes that Dawn's hand isn't resting lightly on Woolley's neck as he'd first assumed but that she in fact has a firm grip and is applying no little pressure to steer Woolley's head toward the table.

"It's only scary the first time, honestly." Dawn is cooing now, trying to keep Woolley calm.

"I don't want to, let me go, dammit!"

"Just try it this one time, what could it hurt?"

Woolley has begun struggling in earnest, now. "Get off me, woman! I'm not interested in your shit!" He jerks his shoulders to break her grip and rolls out from under her hand. His voice rises as he turns to run. "It was just a joke, bitch!" He shoulders past Keifus in the doorway and flees from the room, glancing over his shoulder to see if he's being pursued. Keifus watches his retreating back with bemusement.

Keifus clears his throat, uncertain what to say about what he'd just seen. "Hey, I know you can always get the best shit... I'll take some of that..."

"Aw, hell, Keif, you don't need this". Dawn steps aside to reveal an open MacBook instead of... Keifus wasn't really sure what he'd expected to see there. He moves closer to read the text at the top of the open browser window: "The New Agenda - a new non-partisan group for women’s rights"

Dawn is grinning now. "Have you seen Jack Dallas around?"

It was a strange and dorky night

It was a strange and dorky night
by skitch
08/25/2008, 8:01 AM #

BOTF: Bulwer-Lytton On The Fray


Foreword
In which the author expounds on his inspiration

This post is dedicated to Arch, who reminded me about Bulwer-Lytton, although it's not like I had actually forgotten about it, because after all, I've certainly followed it in years past and there's usually a blurb in one of the news sites I read whenever the winners are chosen, even though it's not really news on the order of, say, Obama's running mate or oil prices dropping, and I almost certainly would have returned, swallow-like, to that Capistrano of the written word, but to be fair it wasn't exactly on my mind very much until he mentioned it either.

The Meat of the Matter
In which the author exposes his intent

Its head bobbing from side-to-side to improve depth perception by providing multiple distinct points of view to its primitive brain, a brain nonetheless more advanced than the brains of most of its contemporaries as is often the case with creatures that have made game-changing adaptive leaps like our "more feathery than leathery" protagonist, Archaeopteryx eyed the grub with the mixed expression of disgust and disdain that it reserved for those Darwin-challenged blunderers that predictably scamper right when they should veer left and pinned it to the ground, like a modern-day entomologist mounting a particularly fine specimen of eisenia foetida, with its beak-like snout.

"You won't get where you need to be that way, moron," yelled Jack at the "Obama in '08"-plastered green Prius that cut him off turning left from the center lane of the old DFW turnpike accessor as he was driving down to the "Smarter by Design" daycare to pick up his grandkids who, come to think of it, each had more sense in their right pinky than the most "well-educated" liberal democrat with his America-hating ways had in his entire body.

"Look what we have here," thought Dawn as she adjusted her black teddy -- the one that chafed her even as it gave her a killer figure -- and sharpened the filleting knife with the scrotum-shrinking intensity of the "Abandon Ship" klaxon that left the S.S. Michigan Sea unmanned during a nasty November squall, "a patron of the tarts caught without his posse and with his hatred of women showing...".

Ignored by the ignorant and obviously oblivious bystanders standing by, the three men from Nairobi "high-fived" one another over their latest accomplishment, secure in the absolute knowledge that their command of circa-1950s entertainment trivia and tertiary protein substructures whose underlying primary structures display little or no sequence homology, not to mention higher mathematics and poetry, made them stand out from the hoi polloi.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents -- except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a cold gust of wind which swept in from the bay (for it is in Baltimore that our scene lies), lowering the mean temperature of the day, and definitively putting paid to the myth that the earth is really getting warmer every year.

The colorful and controversial prophet perching proudly on the soapbox looked for all the world like an ancient Greek philosopher (or perhaps a rhetorician or astronomer, or maybe even a librarian or poet) as he railed against the willful stupidity of the oblivious and apathetic masses who, despite their aforementioned stupidity, are nevertheless ideal sermon targets, but who ultimately couldn't see the Mossad conspirators lurking behind the Bushes.

Nancy glanced nervously around the House chamber wondering if people had forgotten about the poetry reading today, even though it was Thursday and the poetry reading was every Thursday, even accounting for those occasions it was also on Saturday, wondering whether she should go call someone to make sure they were coming, and fervently praying there would be no repeat of the time she put everybody to sleep while reading poetry penned under one of her noms de plume, assuming anybody showed up of course.

Laurie sipped her Kool-Aid and pondered the latest personal affront perpetrated by her arch-nemesis (well, not her archest of arch-nemeses but rather her arch-nemesis du jour), wondering not for the first time whether this particular arch-nemesis could be really real or perhaps a clever automaton created by her archest of arch-nemeses for the purpose of getting her goat even though she couldn't really remember the last time her goat was really gotten, but none of that was really important now as she watched her cursor circling ever closer to the submit button and wondered: would she finally throw propriety and caution to the winds and click it this time?

The orator's words rang forth with the clarity of a bell, and also, perhaps not so positively, the prolonged sustain of an undamped bell, one nestled in a little enclosed valley where sound waves are easily reflected and focused back on their listener for a tonal experience that goes on an on for just a smidge too long, which isn't necessarily a bad thing because, after all, just have a gander at this sentence for God's sake.

An unheralded scion of Zeus, agog, descended from the summit of Olympus to challenge the cleverness of the evanescent disciples of the gods dwelling in the bosom of Gaia, and though these ephemera, upon excogitation, were renowned for their vexatiousness -- witness the nettlesome and hubristic Sisyphus, who rendered mortals immortal for a time, a dire affront to his Olympian brethren, or the bathycolpian wanton who seduced his sire and bore his half-siblings -- this innominate brother to Ares and Athena, to Apollo and Artemis, resolved to forge an equitable tournament, but neglected to consider the capricious and covetous nature of his kind, and so despite herculean (perhaps even sisyphean) effort became suffused with nepenthean denial, and triumphed with supernal ease.

Who nose what sick scents first caused the duke to notice the pungent odor -- call it pure instinct -- but really this particular aroma was quite a smelly feat, achieving a high rank of funk per fume, and though he nosed about searching from whence the bouquet arose (perhaps it was the rhino's pen at the zoo, or maybe the ol' factory), his failure to sniff it out leaves me with this nascent thought: though I tried hard to elicit at least a fray grunt, chances are no pun in ten did... just my two scents.

"Move your ass, Sancho," Ellen bellowed as she strapped on her greaves and tightened her gorget, wondering what unbeatable foes the new day would bring, like those guys in that one cabal of bullies that always picked on the poor and downtrodden, the huddled masses yearning to post freely, or that other clique that liked to pile on hapless underdogs who made the mistake of displaying even the slightest sign of weakness, finally stopping to watch herself in the mirror as she drew her sword and voiced her battle cry: "can't we all just get along?"

Irked by the mind-numbing uniformity of his supplicants' latest offerings, and seized by a fit of pique, the supreme monarch (well, perhaps supreme is too strong a word, especially given the rather backwater nature of the realm), intent upon stirring things up a bit, commented on the dearth of quality entertainment and thought to himself, for the umpteenth time, "I gots to get me some new subjects!"

Her biting humor had even more of an edge to it than usual these days as she nursed the unexpected wounds suffered at the hands of her erstwhile allies, friendly fire if you will, though when these friends showed their true colors she saw red, which in turn made her more blue, I mean, who does that to one of their own?

"Equality before the law," concluded the speaker, slapping the podium to punctuate the final point in this, her latest denunciation of the arbitrary rule of tyrants, and leaning back to observe the reaction in the people assembled there, who, by the depth and quality of their attention and their ensuing enthusiastic applause, acknowledged her the fairest of them all.

Reading the fact- and logic-challenged screed before him, Dave couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face as he began typing out his response, marveling how frequently these idiots flew onto his radar screen (it wasn't like he went looking for them, they just kept falling in his lap [well, OK, maybe he looked for them a little because, really, it's must-watch TV]), and mixing his metaphors in his excitement.

"I... I don't..." [runs upstairs, lips quivering with emotion, bosom heaving with passion over the author's use of the word "bathycolpian" because, really, that's a hell of a word if you think about the etymology of it, and the tragedy represented by perfectly good words disappearing from the language for lack of use, and throws herself on the bed, sobbing]

"My search for clarity and understanding is an ongoing one, much like the long journey through renaissance, science, and industry that characterizes our species' continuing struggle for enlightenment, because really success is just that part of the Venn diagram where the problem space overlaps the solution space; the trick is to frame both in such a way that you can even draw a circle around them, something we humans continue to aspire to no matter how many times we may have fallen short", Keith wrote.

Bureaucracy In Action

Bureaucracy In Action
by skitch
06/13/2007, 3:08 PM #

OK, I admit it. My subject header is a bit disingenuous. I let an errant "space" creep in there... It's supposed to read Bureaucracy Inaction. We've all dealt with the paperwork monster: the company HR department, the Division of Motor Vehicles, the IRS. But nothing, nothing compares to the bureaucratic Grendel that is the "health care" system.

Case in point. I had a recent... adventure... in which I enjoyed the delightful and pastoral ambience of my local hospital. Several times, actually, but that's another story... Suffice it to say that somewhere along the way some very skilled and saintly men and women cut my appendix into itty-bitty bits and extracted it through one of three itty-bitty incisions in my abdomen. (Laparoscopic surgery they call it, though when I reflect back on it all I can picture are those creepy alien creatures with tendrils that they can insert into your body to suck out your vital essence. Wow, that's some pretty contrasting imagery there, eh? Skilled and saintly creepy alien dudes saving your life by inserting their tendrils and sucking out your organs. I think I've got mixed feelings about health care...)

But back to the point. This particular adventure began, as they all do, with Admitting. There's a misnomer for you. The admissions process consists of reading (ha!) and signing page after page of vaguely English prose stipulating that not only will your potential caregivers admit to nothing when it's all over, but in fact will disavow everything. The Consent For Treatment form (please sign this before we can proceed) absolves your Friendly Neighborhood Health System (FNHS) and it's medical staff, employees, independent contractors, placement agencies, providers, agents and assignees, ad infinitum, from any and all non-optimal results in gory and fascinating detail. Sort of like those FCC-mandated disclosures that the Pharma companies have to include in their drug advertisements now: Take Generis and feel better fast! Side effects include retching, belching, farting, fever, diarrhea, constipation, high blood pressure, weight gain, weight loss, swollen genitals, nasal discharge, bloody stools, delirium tremens, spontaneous human combustion, anal probing, energetic catastrophic disassembly of the cranium, and sudden death. Unlike the Pharma company ads, though, I don't remember the Consent For Treatment form mentioning anything at all about the desired outcome...

Next we have the obligatory Patient Information form: name, address, date of birth, medical record number, social security number, number of sex partners (ummm, lots... yeah, that's the ticket!), insurance provider, name of childhood pet, last ten bowel movements, registered political party, tetanus shot, polio vaccine, flu vaccine, family medical history, drug history, ancient history, American history, genetic profile, number of fingers/toes, declaration of goods and services purchased outside the country, arrest record, credit rating, mortgage payment, net worth, shoe size, hat size, coffin size, etc. The usual. This is in the ER, mind you. I was pale, clammy, and listing dangerously to starboard. I'd hate to speculate about the reams of forms to be completed if I were being admitted for elective surgery or an outpatient procedure.

As if the Consent For Treatment form wasn't alarming enough, now they hit me up with the Advance Directive form. This is the form where you specify what steps should be taken if, say, your cranium decides to undergo energetic catastrophic disassembly despite the best efforts and intentions of the FNHS medical staff, employees, independent contractors, et al: (Choose one) A) undertake heroic efforts and all necessary artificial means to preserve my life for the eventual legal struggle between those who love me and want me to die a dignified death and those who love me and want to keep me around to assuage their guilt over not treating me better while I could still appreciate it; or B) just kill me now. In the absence of a Durable Power of Attorney, please indicate who should make medical decisions on your behalf in the event you are unable to do so? My wife of course (Honey, I swear I'll get to those rain gutters as soon as I can, OK?)

Up next: Symptom and Triage form. At last, we're getting to the meat of the matter! Let's see, Please indicate why you are visiting the ER today. I think I managed to scratch out an almost-legible facsimile of "unbearable abdominal pain". When did these symptoms start? When did you last have anything to eat or drink (recent ingestion of food or drink may delay your medical treatment!)? Please rate your pain on a scale from 1 to 10. Please describe the nature of your pain (acute? sharp? distributed? other?). Finally, they're asking what's wrong! Can sweet morphine be far behind?

Admitting Clerk: Please have a seat in the waiting room and wait for your name to be called!

sigh...

Eight or nine hours later (well, it seems that long anyway) they finally call my name. Now I get to face the triage nurse in her lair.

Triage Nurse: How are we today Mr. skitch?

Me: [incoherent gasping noises]

Triage Nurse: Good, good. Please fill out these forms Mr. skitch, while I encumber your arms with blood pressure cuffs, oxygen saturation sensors, pulse monitors, and IV needles. Oh, and open wide for the thermometer... do you have any questions?

Me: [weak whimpering noises]

Let's see, Intake Information form. Name, address, date of birth, medical record number, social security number... hey, isn't this the same form I filled out at the Admissions desk? Don't you guys talk? Ah, no, this one asks if I'm a smoker and if I'm allergic to any medications. No, and penicillin. I (re)enter all the information and let the clipboard slide from my weakened fingers.

Triage Nurse: Don't forget page 2 Mr. skitch!

Ah. Page 2. Please list all medications you are currently taking, including over-the-counter products and vitamins. Well, that's reasonable I suppose. Wouldn't want to take an energetic-catastrophic-cranium­-disassembly-inducing combination of chemicals accidentally.

Triage Nurse: Mr. skitch, are you a smoker? Any drug allergies?

Me: ...

Triage Nurse: Good news, Mr. skitch, we finally have a bed available between a flatulent old man with dementia and a teenage skate punk with a nasty bleeding head laceration. Your ER nurse will take you back now!

By this time it has penetrated my pain-dulled consciousness that the nurses are passing around a fat folder with my name on the front stuffed to the brim with every form I've filled out in my entire life, including my Blockbuster Video rental card application and my High School Annual order form. But I don't care any more, the ER nurse has injected some morphine into my IV. Ah, blessed happy juice. The next few hours pass hazily with an endless stream of nurses, interns, physicians, and orderlies poking and prodding me in various ways that I might actually have enjoyed if only I weren't alternating between pain-induced amnesia and morphine-induced apathy.

ER Doc: Mr. skitch, you have an elevated white blood cell count indicating a possible infection and you are presenting with some, but not all, of the symptoms of appendicitis. We're going to send you over to Radiology for a CT scan.

ER Nurse: [grinning evilly] Mr. skitch, you have to drink this 5 gallon container of contrasting agent in the next hour! Good news, though! Instead of the old chalk-flavored agent we now have a choice of flavors: berry/chalk, apple/chalk, citrus/chalk, and beef/chalk!

Me: Do I have to choose my flavor on a form?

The next hour is spent in a frenzied attempt to ingest twice my body weight in viscous berry/chalk-flavored room temperature shake punctuated by frequent reminders from Nurse Ratched's evil twin that I have to finish the entire container. Finally the deed is done and they wheel my gurney over to Radiology. Meanwhile, the contrasting agent has expanded to twice its original volume and those organs not directly involved in digestion (including my besieged appendix) are feeling like passengers on a Tokyo Metro Rapid Transit car (by the way, who the hell decided it was a good idea to put raised expansion joints at every hallway intersection and every room door?).

Radiology Nurse: While we wait for the Imaging Tech, Mr. skitch, we have to fill out some forms!

Me: Huh? Wha?

Radiology Nurse: We need to fill out a Consent For Treatment form, a Patient Information form, and a Current Medications form!

Me: Wait, aren't those the same forms I've already filled out?

Radiology Nurse: Radiology is a different department sir!

The Radiology nurse is an improvement, though. I still have to sign the Consent For Treatment of course, but at least she makes an effort to streamline the form-filling-out process by wielding the pen herself instead of tying it to my rigor-stiffened claw.

Radiology Nurse: [winding down] Are you a smoker? Any medicine allergies?

For God's sake, how many times are you going to ask me if I have any medicine allergies? (PENICILLIN you Neanderthal, it says so 564 times right there in that very folder you're using to prop up the form you're filling out. Do you think I'm suddenly going to remember a new allergy the twelve hundredth time you've asked me?)

I'll spare you the boring details of the remainder of my adventure (too late, skitch!), but after the surgery and a pair of abscesses and their accompanying paperwork it's safe to say that a substantial portion of both the Brazilian rainforest and Pacific Northwest old growth forest have made the ultimate sacrifice and given their lives to document my latest journey through the health care system, leaving me to wonder: "who the hell actually reads all this stuff?" I don't remember my Dante very well... wasn't there a special circle of hell reserved specifically for the bureaucrats? Problem is, I'm not really sure how to punish these guys... would they be in greater agony forced to fill out forms for all eternity or PREVENTED from doing so?

Ah well, I can at least comfort myself in the knowledge that the worst is over. At least until I have to fill out all the insurance paperwork and short term disability forms.

Oh, yeah, on that Advance Directive thing? Will there be forms to fill out should you successfully revive me? Yes? Then I choose B) just kill me now.

skitch

If They Mated

Subject: If They Mated
From: skitchwa
Date: Sep 13 2005 10:13AM

The other day an unnamed poster (andkathleen) made an offhand comment that she would no longer bear the children of another poster. Leaving aside for a moment the question of whether she has already done so, this concept fired up two or three neurons in the old thinking machine and I wondered just what the progeny of such a union would be like. I resolved to explore the question in a bit that I have shamelessly stolen from Conan O'Brien that he likes to call: If They Mated!

The premise of this bit is that we here at "If They Mated" headquarters have a device that lets us sample the digital DNA of any two Fraydenizens and find out through the magic of technology the precise results of their genetic union. When two Fraysters are seen associating with one another, we the readers have a right to know what may happen should their libidos over come their better sense. We perform this function as a public service. Just remember, this is all in fun, so if it offends anyone, well, that's the bleedin' point, innit?

switters & andkathleen
Some threshold of switical mass is exceeded whenever the switster and ampkath wander within pheromone range of one another (get a chatroom, you two!), and the occasion is frequently marked by the detonation of a flirty bomb. Of course, andkathleen would probably be the first to tell you that she's pretty dang flirty with just about everyone when she's been nippin' at the ol' Guinness (and even when not!). But she can't do the whole friggin' Fray (she's not Amber after all), so let's just focus on switters, shall we?
Offspring: Sweetlee - The first poster to achieve an advanced degree in Tivology, Sweetlee can dissertate with dexterity on any topic from the most sacred to the most profane. Plus she's cute as a button (or "reghot" as the kids today like to say). Equally comfortable discussing the symbolism of Victorian poetry, the evolution of fusion jazz and its influence on modern rap, or which bitch should get the rose on the next episode of "The Bachelor," she will mostly be remembered for being the first to coin the word "cuntard."

Ender & Tempo
Now we all know this will never happen (anyone seen the 5-day weathercast for Hell lately?). But just for the sake of argument, suppose some evil genius releases a DNA-specific retrovirus targeting not_Ender (or not-ender) and the literal-minded bugger (get it?) mistakenly kills everyone who's not Ender except for Tempo because she is immune by virtue of being fed up with Ender. Hey, it could happen! It would then be incumbent on these two to repopulate the earth, right? RIGHT?? Work with me, people! So what would the resulting fruit of the loins (tm) be like, hmm? Enquiring minds want to know!
Offspring: Tender - this hapless poster would offend herself [note to self: maybe "Offender" is a better name] every time she posted something, relentlessly and endlessly taunting, rebutting, and defending herself [hmm, "Defender?"] before ultimately melting down in a runaway chain reaction of posting. A sizeable minority of Fraysters, equally offended by Tender's gamesmanship, would be taken out as collateral damage (some of them by friendly fire). The FrayEditor would then memorialize her MBTU by renaming it HereLiesSheWhoseNameMustBeRemembered. [possibly Pretender, dead-ender (thanx Rummy), big-spender, FenderBenderMender, RenderUntoSeizeHer, Return_To_Sender...]

Hauteur & kevinarno
C'mon! We've all seen the movies and read the books, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more! We all know that wherever we see contempt we can find passion lurking just beneath the surface if only we would take the time to poke it with a sharp stick. Far be it from me to pass up a good poke when I see it!
Offspring: Provocateur - This power-mad irresistible force of unadulterated ego wields the flush user function with gusto rivaling that of Jason swinging his machete, leaving behind him the bleeding lifeless (and MBTU-less) husks of those with the temerity to disagree.

denny & Robo_Editor
This pairing is legitimate fodder by virtue of their shared automaton-like qualities. Plus it's my bit and I say so. Neener neener.
Offspring: [insert random nic of the week here] - This poster is the poster boy for persistent posting, the first authentic example of a wholly automated posting engine with a source database equal in size to the internet itself. If you should accidentally open and read one of its posts, you may get the feeling that you've read it before. You have. Also, the first example of Artificial Stupidity (AS) to pass the Tiring test (in which a test subject is challenged to tell the difference between having a conversation with the AS and a debilitating energy-sapping disease). Did I say AS? I meant ASS.

Thrasymachus & locdog
These two posters are always dancing around each other. That's gotta mean something, right?
Offspring: MachoDog - This Navy SEAL-trained bleeding heart will kick your ass and make you care. Secure in his own belief system he is nevertheless internally conflicted by Intelligent Design.

fatman & littlemo
Don't get ahead of me people! Wait for it......
Offspring: AdamBomb - This poster's movie poster sez "the story of the extraordinary people who changed our world." This film reenacts the Manhattan Project, the secret wartime project in New Mexico where the first atomic bombs were designed and built. Starring Paul Newman, Dwight Schultz, Bonnie Bedelia, John Cusack, and Laura Dern.

DawnCoyote & DragonTat2
These two ladies with mythical animal monikers are both sweethearts unless you say something stupid. So don't. Say something stupid that is. Plus, they've been seen hanging out together IRL, more than enough for the "If They Mated" team to fire up the old "mate-o-tron."
Offspring: MangOfLaMancha - This poster's big heart is exceeded only by her even bigger lance. She travels the world righting wrongs and correcting injustice (along with other, you know, windmill-tilting stuff). Oh, and having a little fun on the side.

butterscotch & bacon
Coincidence that these two are always near each other in any alphabetical listing of Frayerati? I think not!
Offspring: ReesesGooeyStrips - Two great tastes that taste great together!

ghost & Col-BullKurtz
Why did I pair these two wildly different posters together? Consider: combination as tautology. Not intending to sound cryptic, probably failing (conversation for another time).
Offspring: what_did_he_say - The Fray's first ruthlessly logical babbling idiot. Now with 50% more obscenities!

DrNo & YessireeBob
OK, so these two aren't seen in public together very often. But c'mon, with names like that they're just askin' for it! That gives us rocket scientist types at "If They Mated" headquarters clear license to proceed with the mating. Yes, we checked with Legal first.
Offspring: MaybeBaby - Maybe half the time you can figure out this poster's point. The rest of the time: duck and cover, baby, duck and cover!

twifferTheGnu & [Newbie To Be Named Later]
The research staff here at "If They Mated" headquarters reserves the right to engage in at least one off-the-wall pairing for no sound reason at all. This is [it] [one of them].
Offspring: twifferTheNewbie - This earnest and affable young court jester has an interesting and insightful comment to make on just about any topic, but nobody ever reads his posts because... um... who were we talking about again?

MichaelRyerson & Splendid_IREny
These posters, well-spoken and secure in their beliefs, will always respond civilly when so addressed. But they can both bring it when the chimps are down (yes, I said "chimps"... we seem to have a surplus of dressed-up monkeys wandering the Fray halls these days).
Offspring: we_shall_overcome - The very model of a modern posting liberal. I may not always agree with what this poster has to say, but damn! I want him watching my six!

the_count & Betty_the_Crow
OK, this is [the other one]. Sue me.
Offspring: count_your_chickens - This poster has mastered the art of the meaningful non-sequitur. Listen to what he says, even if it makes no sense.

IOZ & doodahman
Team Satire on the Fray. If you can't find any skewers at the local meat market for your teriyaki cookout, it's because these gentlemen have depleted the world's supply for use in their essays.
Offspring: IOwnU - Lookout! This poster is a comedic explosion of sarcasm and irony with some gratuitous profanity thrown in for good measure. IOwnU refers to himself in the third person and shows little tolerance for stupidity. Go ahead, say something stupid. You'll find his Fluffy White Boot up your lily-white ass (or ass of color as the case may be).

Bald_Tony & DemonFromHell
These two lovable mugs have their principle residences in Grouchville, USA. Anyone doubt that they hang out at the local pub/library/mall skewering hapless passersby with their barbed tongues?
Offspring: DevilMayHair - This poster is a pinpoint singularity of irascible crankiness who doesn't give a damn what other Fraysters think. Approaching DevilMayHair too closely may result in local time dilation effects making your posting engagement seeem tooo taaakkee ffooorreeeevvvveeeeerrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!! Be careful not to cross the event horizon or you'll find yourself in the mythical 10th circle of Hell being ground to paste in DevilMayHair's noisome fetid mandibles.

Dallas_NE & DarkKnight
Meh. Opposite poles (and polls). Hold your enemies closer and all that.
Offspring: OnTheFence - This coupling might one day answer the age-old question "what would happen if a resistible force met a moveable object?" Or not.

FrayGoddess & MsZilla
Who could resist this pairing? The divine Fray spirit, no doubt created by the elder gods to act as guardian of our cybersouls, and the down-to-earth IRL mom self-appointed to supervise our more prosaic Fray activities and nurture our Fray minds. Or something. Anyways, the payoff's in the name...
Offspring: GoddessZilla - This fire breathing fraymother will just as soon smite you where you stand as recommend a good movie or video game. Stay on her good side and she'll clasp you unto her bosom, but stray and she'll raze your downtown district, flattening your tanks and swatting your planes from the sky.

TheMaxFischerPlayers & The_Bell
Two of the most respected posters on the Fray, these two probably hang out together in the private suite in the back (the one with the velvet curtain guarded by the mook with the dark glasses and earpiece). Or maybe they trade cheerful hellos in the executive washroom. I wouldn't know, I'm one of the little people... [sniff].
Offspring: SavedByTheBell - The prince of extra-curricular activities, this poster will answer even the tiniest inquiry with vast tracts of text in a tremendous treatise (but eloquent... so eloquent).

Geoff & chango
Is it just me or are these guys a bit cryptic? I always open their posts but I'm often left scratching my head on the other side...
Offspring: lets_tango - This cyber cipher glides serenely in the rarified atmosphere above the Fray, occasionally alighting on a juicy post to decorate it with a delicate crystalline bon mot... or sometimes just to poop on it.

Ducadmo & historyguy
Ducadmo can puntificate on just about any topic and historyguy can quote a previous thread on it. That's enough for me!
Offspring: Duc_of_url - This poster can produce a link to any punjack in the Fray archives. And when it came to punjacks, Ducadmo than anybody...

[lieberal partisan hack] & [repuke partisan hack]
Representatives of this ilk are legion. Here I am speculating about them breeding when I should really be figuring out how to release sterilized individuals into the population to prevent it.
Offspring: SeeAndPee - No, not what your dog does on his walk, but rather "c&p", short for "copy and paste" (though the resemblance between your dog's leftovers and this poster's offerings is more than a little eerie... and now that I think about it, it does describe his MO...). This willful loon will fill the board with metric tons of blind partisan diatribe brimming with illogical strawmen and regurgitated crap, responding to the perceived political leaning of the target poster and not even tangentially to any actual points made. This poster is a force of nature and can't be reasoned with. Batten down the hatches and pray that FEMA has its shit together this time around.

skitch