Lelanophilus

The worst part about dying in space is that nobody would hear you scream. Well, no. The worst part is that your bodily fluids would be gurgling and sploogling out through the crevices of your spacesuit and nobody would be able to hear those nasty, nasty noises. If I can’t make somebody barf while I die, there isn’t much reason to even do it. I mean, really.

Although it is more fun to imagine it so, I suspect that the body wouldn’t decompose to the skeleton simply by being exposed to the cold airless void of space. To achieve the same effect in real life, then, you’d have to either pack a skeleton into a spacesuit and then set it adrift or fill your buddy’s space suit with a load of really hungry rats.

Pretty messed up.

I was writing this poem on the back of a survey for my history class, but I was interrupted by having to turn it in. Why don’t you finish the poem (I mean, if you can) and then leave it in the comments? Wouldn’t that be absolutely delightful? Yes, so get to it (seriously though, no shame if you can’t rhyme with numbered).

I have come up with a solution to the centuries long battle between the feminist desire to have men recognize their ability to do whatever they please and their desire to have men do whatever they please for them. It is so simple that the Nobel prize awarding committee is sure to give me nothing since recognition of my awe-inspiring achievement is bound to cause them shame enough to mortally wound a Japanese man.

The answer is to force men to continue to be gallant and to make women take an action equal and opposite to the men’s gallantry just so that we don’t forget that they can.

An example is in order:

A man and a woman have engaged in a date. The man walks the woman to his vehicle. A PROBLEM! Gallantry requires the man to open the door for the lady. Feminist empowerment requires the woman to open the door herself because she darn well can and no man is going to make her feel like toy doll. What the devil are they to do? If you understood the answer given previously, you already know the solution to this vexing problem and are gasping at the obviousness of it.

Men will, of course, continue to open doors for women. Women must now close doors for men. this means that our man would open the door for our woman, then walk to his side of the car and open his door and enter the car. The woman would now close the man’s door, walk around to her side of the car, enter and, finally, shut it.

Try your understanding of my new principle by considering these hairy problems: Men must give women their seats. Men must put the toilet seat down. Men must allow women to exit a doomed vessel first. Men must not swear in front of women. Men must endeavor to detain any zombies that are following women.

Chivalry is no longer dead and the feminist movement has one less complaint to shrilly voice. Send your thanks in edible format.

I was inspired by Posterchild’s Alan Turing stencil to make one of my own.

Mr. Turing is, I guess, the father of computational theory. He came up with the concept of a theoretical machine capable of running an algorithm and defined what is computable. Something that is capable of emulating a Turing Machine is said to be Turing Complete. So, pretty much any modern computer is a Turing Machine. That is what you should probably call them from now on.

I made the stencil using Inkscape and a picture unearthed using Google’s image search.

The hardest part was getting all of the letters cut out. I tested it with green paint on a piece of paper to make sure it would look alright.

Here is the shirt post-stenciling. It looked pretty much the same before except it didn’t have a stencil on it. I got the shirt for a fat four dollars at WalMart.

Here am I wearing a shirt.

I am Turing Complete.

Last night at aboot one in the morning I decided that I would upgrade my laptop to the latest version of Ubuntu: HARDY HERON. At about three o’clock with approximately two and half more hours to go to finish downloading all of the updates (here I should thank my apartment complex for piddling the money I trustingly give them each month for high speed internet on beer and prostitutes) I decided that I would just let my computer do the work while I slept. Hooray!

I woke up at ten o’clock the same morning and kind of sensed that something was amiss. This isn’t unusual; I usually imagine that bad things are happening to me. Since I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep I trotted out to the living room to find that my laptop was turned off. When I tried to turn it on, it flashed the little lightning bolt shaped led at me. A subtle way of saying “One of your roommates unnplugged me because he is a stupid jackanapes.”

Plugging it in and turning it on confirmed what I had feared – it hadn’t made it through the install process and was now half gibbon, half heron, all some other creature that doesn’t actually do anything. A big hooray to whoever it was that unplugged my computer to stick absolutely nothing in its place.

On the plus side, it did mean that I got to stay home and fix my computer instead of going to work and getting monies. I eventually fixed it by reinstalling everything from the CD I’d made of Hardy Heron and doing a little cleanup.

Anyway, the point of the story is that my operating system is the best thing ever. Boy howdy does it make me happy. The desktop effects are better integrated than ever. My wireless and other hardware were automatically detected without any tweaking by me. Everything looks a lot better and the integration of all the latest releases of open source applications is fantastic. Hooray, again I say, hooray!

BYU gives the New York Times away for free in an effort to liberalize its concretely conservative student body. I am not sure if I am being affected by its certainly poisonous influence, but it is a far cry better than the Daily Universe even if it has no comics and omits the crossword puzzle.

Anyway, I mention this merely so that I can post a link to a picture of the sneakiest man ever featured on the cover of the nation edition of the times. Who is about to receive an unwanted snow bomb from this man? We should probably send our troops over to find out. I am just glad that he is not sneak-sneaking up on me.

Although … he might make a pretty awesome friend.