Saturday, January 21, 2017


Wulp, I suppose that clenches it, then. I learned today that the girl I've been cockadoody-poopoo-tarded in love with since January 2009 is now a full blown, bona-fide nun.

I guess that means I can finally put the boots to to that dime-sized knot of twisted space-time that just barged in and made itself at home, right there underneath my sternum. You know, the one that feels like a chunk of degenerate matter that got lodged in mid swallow, which I've been choking on for almost seven years now. That'll be a relief, to finally hack that thing up and spit it out, like a petrified loogie.

So. Basically good news, then. I guess.

Meh. It ain't like I didn't know it would happen eventually. I haven't seen or spoken to her since October 2011. Right now it's just a sucker punch and not a full on ass-beating. I'll be right as rain in half the time. Three years, max.

Friday, January 20, 2017

glide ratio

Super coolness has just occurred, only a few minutes ago.

I just finished building a 1/5th scale model of a Rogallo wing, the biggest I've made yet. The wingspan is 52" - a little more than four feet. Full scale is a 22' wingspan. 22 feet, that is. The one I made is 52 inches. This is the fifth model of a Rogallo wing that I've made. You know... for the hang glider.

The first one was just WRONG. It was built out of bamboo shiskabob sticks and a tall kitchen trash bag. This is the one that, when launched, performed the unashamed, instant stall with a loop-duh-loop. It had about a 3 foot wingspan.

The second one, I rebuilt from the ashes of the first one. It was completely destroyed when it plummeted straight into the ground from about a hundred feet in the air, at about 30 mph I'm guessing, when I was flying it like a kite at Northlakes Park a couple of months ago. 3 foot wingspan.

The third one I built out of wire clothes hangers instead of wooden utensils. This one was like the first one, but smaller, and on acid.  When I launched it, 45% of the time it would nose straight down and 45% of the time it'd do a psychotic loop-duh-loop after a dramatic stall. 10% of the time it would do just the most amazingly perfect glide. 2 foot wingspan.

The fourth one I built just like the third one, but using shishkabob sticks again. My reasoning was that maybe the metal clothes hangers were too heavy. I never got to test fly this one, because I stepped on it when it was buried under a mound of dirty clothes, and it just broke, all over. 2 foot wingspan.

The fifth one I just completed a couple of hours ago. I was way more carefuller with the measurements on this one than I was on any of the others, because this one is a big one, and errors tend to magnify on a logarithmic scale by orders of magnitude. Who knows. So I had to nail a great big, unfolded lawn and garden hefty bag onto the wall, and I used one of those roll-up sewing rulers and a sharpie marker and a regular short 12 inch ruler for a straight edge to draw the shape of the borders of the most precise Rogallo wing ever, ever, onto that hefty bag nailed to my wall. When it was finished, I very carefully cut it out with one of my many thrillions of knives that I keep on hand, ready for deployment at an instants notice.

The final shape of the flat, unmounted wing was that of a right triangle with an outwardly curved hypotenuse, with the point of the right angle serving as the exact center of a circular border defined by the curve of the hypotenuse, which covered about 30 degrees of arc. I mounted it onto these long wooden dowels that I found in the crafts and hobbies department at WalMart, and all of a sudden it was a wing, for flying.

I just took it out for its maiden voyage, and man. How the wings billowed and took shape as they slipped easily, like a form-fitting garment, onto the wind. Just a trash bag taped to wooden dowels... but oh how it sailed. It was so pretty. And stable. No sudden nose dives, or psychotic stalls with a backwards loop-duh-loop right into the ground. This one just flew straight, with a glide ratio of about 4:1. That is, for every four increments of flight, it lost one increment of altitude. That's a pretty crappy glide ratio actually, but the important thing is, it was a glide ratio, and not a nose dive or a psychotic stall, ending in a loop-duh-loop. Every time I launched this one, it glided. It glided, like something that's built for gliding is suppose to do.

So, now it's just a matter of scaling it up 5 times.

Ye Olden Fart

Say, here's something to ponder, the next time you're carving the petrified cheese clumps out from underneath your toenail cuticles...

I think we can all agree, that uness you get murdered, or suicide yourself, or get tragically and pointlessly scrubbed along the way for some dumb reason, you're eventually gonna transmogrify into an old fart, and then die. I mean, we. Am I right?

So. You got three possibilities. I mean we. Murdered, scrubbed, or blown away and forgotten on the wind of an old, dusty fart. The Three Great Destinies According To The Human Condition. One will be yours! Just think... no. Never mind. It's better if you don't just think. About the horror, the horror...

Hang on though, I've got an idea. Say, what if... for instance.

If you in general are one of the lucky few with completely neutral luck, and you happen to survive your entire life without suiciding yourself or getting tragically scrubbed by a random death encounter, then you're probably thinking that the only thing left for you is a one way trip to Old Fartsville. Right? You were thinking that.

Allow me to suggest an alternative...

Just because you've survived all of life's horrors, only to wind up as a broken, windy fart for all of your effort, doesn't mean you HAVE to be an old fart. Instead, try being an Olden Fart.

An 'Olden Fart'.

When the time comes, that is. Just think about it... 'Olden Fart' sounds way more dignified than 'old fart'. Am I right? Say what?

You're welcome.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Planet Dirt

You know what? 'Planet Earth' - that most majesterial sounding title that we proudly give to and proclaim as to be our homeworld - to some alien would translate literally to 'Planet Dirt'.

'Where do you come from?' those aliens would ask.

'What do you call your homeworld?' they'd say.

'You call it Earth? What does it mean, this word, Earth? Please, enlighten us with your rich cultural history! We are extremely advanced aliens, and we respect all humble origins! What? Huh? Say again? No. Really? You're joking!

We, as advanced and enlightened aliens, of course, appreciate humor... huh? You're not joking? Wait, just hold on.

Earth means... that is, translated literally, it means... dirt? Like, the stuff that makes you dirty? The stuff that retarded kids eat, and that Enlightened Beings continually strive to remain cleansed of and from? That's the name of your world? Planet Dirt?'

Uncomfortable silence.

'Ta ta, dirtlings!'

Aaaaand... they've shunted into hyperspace.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

emergency bullshit


Hello, Grand Central Station...

Oh, hey, sup y'all. Huh? Me? Oh nuthin'. Just out haunting the neighborhood, up to no good. Drunk and high on amphetamines, hanging around between parked cars, with my head full of stars.

Oh, sorry... Huh?

Yeesh! That sounds exactly like the pedicure from hell, straight out of the lawyer book. Hell yeah, file a claim! That's an act of God. It's legal! Bad pedicures are always Acts Of God. Look it up in the lawyer book!

What? Say again? You woke up and your toenails were on fire? Oh. You just shake that off, that's called wake&bake&shake. Huh? Oh, what? They're literally on fire, with flames and smoke? Oh! Dang. Sorry bout that.



Hello, Grand Central Station Drug Emporium, can I help you?  Huh? Oh, I see. Cold or clammy? Both? Which hand? Both hands? Ok, hold please...


Grand Central Station Drug Emporium Smack-O-Matic, what's your emergency? Huh? Oh. Oh, I see. Are you sure? Ok then... firstly, and according to the instructions here... hang on. Ok. Firstly, did you do the tail flick test? No? Oh... yeah. No, yeah. You need to do that for the death certificate. Red tape... anyway.



Hello, Grand Central Station Boulevard... Oh! You still there? Great! What you need are 10,000 mg of Imodium. Do you have it? I mean them? Whatever... Oh... huh? What? Oh, you have it? REALLY? NO SHIT? Great! Now just administer it... carefully... watch for it... into the subdural vein of the transvertical hematoma, of the corresponding brain partholomew... watch for the weak ipsilaterral component... got it? Great!

Now. What I need you to do is to STAB the rat, carefully, right up it's butthole. Yes. Up the butthole. What? Oh, whatever... FINE! The anus. Can we continue? Thank you!

Carefully STAB the rat, right up it's ass, with a carefully contrived stabbing tool... why you little... hey, let go of that! SECURITY!!



Hello, Grand Central Station Mind Fuck Delivery Service and Quantum Algebra, please hold...

::: seventy two gazillion years later:::


Hello, Grand Central Station Mind Fuck Delivery Service and Quantum Algebra II, please hold...