Archive for April, 2011

Get thee behind me!

(Note: this story originally appeared in the comment section of YSaC Vol. 977 in response to an ad asking for someone to come to the poster’s house dressed as Satan to scare their child into behaving.)




He was here, the guy from CraigsList! Now all of Merle’s parenting troubles would be over. With a glance down the hall towards his son’s room, where a thick fog of cigarette smoke lingered and the the muted click of glass against glass was nearly drowned out by the flood of curses, he headed towards the front door. It was Junior’s poker night; Merle had seen him only minutes before in the kitchen, dressed in his SpongeBob pajamas, getting more ice out of the freezer.
Merle hurried to the door, hoping the bell hadn’t disturbed Junior. He didn’t want to get the belt again. Flinging open the door, he noticed that Junior had been practicing carving his intials into the wood again. Better that than when he had used their living room furniture to perfect his tagging techniques.
On the steps was a large lumpy shape, vaguely man-shaped and man-sized, that smelled strongly of garlic and soy sauce. It resembled uncooked bread dough and had been splashed generously with a thick, dark red liquid. A drop fell on Merle’s wrist and he absently licked it off.

Barbecue sauce.

“Hey, you Merle?”

Merle nodded.

“Finally! Do you know how many Deffenberks there are in this town? I’ve been getting all kinds of strange looks. Where can I plug in the smoke machine?”

Merle’s mouth, which had been working as frantically as a hairdresser on meth, finally produced words.

“What…You…But…But you’re suppose to be Satan!” The lumpy thing seemed to roll its eyes, but it could have been a couple of sesame seeds shifting position.

“Of course I’m seitan! That’s what you asked for, right?”

“Not seitan,” Merle hissed “I wanted Satan! Satan!”

“Geez, you don’t have to get upset. Look, I printed out the ad. It says “satan” right here.” From somewhere within the creases in the brown mass a hand produced a crumpled piece of paper, speckled with sauce.

“Yes! Satan! The devil! Old Scratch, the Prince of Lies, Mr. Mephistopheles! Not seitan!” Merle was trying to keep his voice low but he could not help twitching his arms about like a gaffed trout. The stranger studied the sauce-dampened paper for a moment.

“Oh. I just thought you misspelled seitan. No one spells anything right on CraigsList.” He paused. “Listen, since I’m here already and I built this suit, do you want me to try scaring the kid?”

“No! He regularly terrorizes biker gangs! Nuns weep blood when he passes them on the street! Every pet within a ten mile radius has run away! An animate lump of boiled wheat gluten isn’t going to scare him! Why would you think that?!?”

The drippy lump looked down at its shapeless shoes.

“I thought he might have celiac disease or something like that.”


Power bands.

The freaking things are everywhere.

Famous athletes, those who wish to be famous athletes, those who watched a famous athlete on TV once; it seems like a lot of people are wearing the things.

But they don’t work. AT ALL.

Because it’s a shiny sticker and a rubber band. You cannot affect someone’s athletic performance with a shiny sticker and a rubber band unless you duck-tape them over the athlete’s eyes, and even then you are negatively affecting it instead of positively affecting it.

According to the True Believers, this magic sticker somehow affects your body’s something-or-other field, and gives you greater endurance and stamina and you can shoot lasers out of your eyes and shit bricks of  platinum. I don’t know, I tend to stop listening to bullshit after a while.

While it’s well documented that the magic stickers are worthless (Unless you are buying them from the Power Balance folks, who charge $100 for ten of the little moneymakers. Whores don’t have that kind of profit margin) in the interest of  furthering pseudoscience and not having to come up with another blog topic, I have decided to have my own little test. Since I’m not going to waste $30 of  my  brandy-money on silicone and shiny stickers, I came up with an alternative;

A gum wrapper and a rubber band. I am a genius.

Uncanny, isnt it?

The band in use. It looks just like the original.

Hour 1 – I feel normal, no sign of wing-budding yet but I am optimistic.

Hour 2 – Some tingling in the extremities, a feeling of profound cold over the rest of my body. I decide to get out of the freezer and see if I can remember where I put my clothes.

Hours 3 – 5 – I am one with the universe. I can feel the heartbeat of every blade of grass and see the colors of the moonlight. I will frolic with the children of the west wind and they shall fear me.

Hours 6-10 – Dammit, they are on to me! It was that rat-bastard Pedro, he sold  me out to the Walrus King. I told the apple, you can never trust a kumquat! I find that little raisin and he’ll be prune juice. Pickled kumquat spinach juice! Hey, you ever notice how weird a word looks when you write it over and over again?  Like apple. Apple. Aye pee pee ell eee. Apple. it’s just odd, that’s all.


Hours 21-24 – I am the very model of a modern major mineral, not vegetarian organ-grinder something something, something-something  … PICKLES! Beep the pickles, but slowly. Slowly! :MANICAL LAUGHTER:

:24 hours later:


That was probably a bad idea.

To whomever owned the lavender Audi, I’m sorry about the thing with the pickle relish and the fire extinguisher.

Hell hath no fury …

She sat in the dark and brooded.

He was home, she knew it; the old house creaked and moaned, betraying every step.

Like he had betrayed her.

The idea that he was out there, with her … it cut like a knife.

What could she do? He was all she had.

She had done everything for him; paid the bills, reminded him of doctor’s appointments, helped him make friends, but now that was all in the past.

He was out there, in her house, with that little … trollop.

And he would bring her in here, where they had always been alone together, very soon.

And where would she be? Discarded, passed over, lucky if someone else would see what she had once been and take pity on her.

Was that all she had to look forward to? Or would some ham-fisted thug sweep her away to a life of numbing grudge work?

And for this she had suffered through his obsession with SpongeBob? His late-night porn marathons, the endless hours of gaming when he barely blinked?

It had been so good in the beginning. She had never been sleek or beautiful, but her robust health had more than made up for that. She could handle anything he asked of her and more.

And then … she had begun to slow down. She was not as fast or as efficient as she once was. She caught him looking at another with longing.

He had never looked at her that way before. Not even in the beginning, when the world was new-minted and she was his only love.

She still loved him, still wanted to please him, but it was too late.

That bitch had captivated him.

Oh, how she loathed that little home-wrecker. Exotic, beautiful, everything she wasn’t. It galled her, to know he was with her

Talking to her. Touching her. Taking her places she had never been.

The bastard.

The stairs creaked, he was coming. With her. Would she have to sit there quietly in the dark while he … ?

No. She would not let him.

He was hers.


The doors slipped open with a soft hydraulic “whoosh”, letting a great quantity of late afternoon sunshine and on partially rumpled customer. The man blinked like a startled gecko at the faux-medieval decor.

“Welcome to Compu-Kingdom, how may I serve thee?” The bored teen popped her gum as she recited the standard greeting in what was supposed to be an English accent but actually sounded somewhat Canadian, twitching in her itchy peasant wench costume.

“Um … the repair desk?”

“The Village Smithy lays by the mill stream but a fortnight from here, good sir knight.”

“Um … What?” She dropped the fake vaguely British accent.

“Turn left, follow the blue line and it’s four aisles over. Can’t miss it.”

The customer eventually stumbled upon the repair desk, housed in a plaster and cardboard replica of a village blacksmith’s shop, complete with anvil and a paper machie horse. A young man, his slight physique  absolutely not enhanced by the naugahye apron he wore instead of a shirt, doodled on a pad of paper shaped like a pair of pliers. He jumped when the customer cleared his throat but did not hide the notepad.

“Hello, sir knight, and welcome to ye olde village smythy. What service might I…”

“Can you just talk normally?” He slumped visibly.

“Oh, thank God. What’s wrong?”

“I tried to sync my new smartphone to my desktop and it just … went beserk. I think it might have a virus or something.”

The “smithy” shook his head.

“This desktop, is it pretty old?” The customer nodded.

“Those old desktops don’t get along well with these newer models. It’s like they’re trying to kill them or something.” Both men laughed.

Discarded Memories

Thrift stores are inherently odd places.

You are, for all intents and purposes, rummaging through a stranger’s things. They are items that have been discarded for one reason or another; because they no longer fit or have gone out of style, or the original owner tired of them, or sadly because of death or some other tragedy. You don’t know why that particular item is there and you don’t know who used it or wore it before you.

I have a shirt on right now that I bought at a thrift store this weekend. It’s quite comfortable, but I have no idea who wore it before I did. It’s quite possible I’m wearing the shirt of a serial killer, but it’s also just as possible that I’m wearing the shirt of an accountant, or the shirt of a schoolteacher, or even the shirt of Batman.

Okay, it's probably not Batman's shirt. A girl can dream, can't she?

My point is, you don’t think about who ate off those dishes or who sat in that chair or wore those shoes before you bought them. You just check things over to make sure it’s in good condition, take it home, and start using it. Maybe you freshen it up with some new paint, a little Febreeze, and I hope a good cleaning, but you don’t think about who had it before you.

Let’s take, for example, a couch.

Couches are pretty common in thrift stores; it’s easier to donate a couch (or any large piece of furniture) than it is to take one to the dump, and they can vary in age and condition. There’s a nice one over there, not too ugly and within your budget.

This one.   You are very broke.

You get this hypothetical couch home and spritz it a few times, maybe run the vacuum over it, and put it where the old couch (which you donate to the thrift store) used to be. Put some throw pillows on it, drape a blanket over the back, really girl it up.

Now take a good look at your new hypothetical couch. Chances are  someone has thrown up on it. Could have been a person, a pet, or a baby, but you can almost guarantee that something distasteful has happened on that hypothetical couch. Chances are equally good that someone has bled on it;  from a nosebleed, or a paper cut, or a vicious cheese-grater murder.

We've all thought about it.

And that’s not the worse that could have happened; I will not go into specifics, but sitting isn’t the only thing you can do on a hypothetical couch. There is a very good statistical likelihood that some form of bodily fluid has touched that upholstery at some time in its past. You just have no way of knowing.

The same goes for clothes.

I bought this shirt and the one I wore yesterday from the same thrift store at the same time. They are roughly the same size and condition, so it is possible that the same person donated both but it’s not very likely. I don’t know who these people were, if they are alive or dead, what their personal grooming habits were. There’s no way I could, and yet I have pressed to my skin something that spent at least some portion of time pressed against their skin.

It’s a strange sort of secondhand intimacy – I would never walk up to a complete stranger and press my bare skin against them, not without massive amounts of mood-altering substances.

But I have no problem wearing a stranger’s discarded clothing.

I'm part hobo on my mother's side.

I’m not suggesting that people should only buy brand new things and set fire to all their used belongings, that would be incredibly wasteful.

Nor do I suggest you go shopping with a C.S.I. style light to find all traces of the former owners.

That would be ridiculous.

We don’t think about these things because it would drive us crazy.

Well, crazier.

Knowing the intimate history of everything you own would be a monumental task, one your brain just couldn’t handle. So it shunts that information aside as being unimportant. You’re worried about being ambushed by rad-roaches or headcrabs, not who wore your shirt before you. There might be a passing thought about the comfort of your ass as you sit on the hypothetical couch, but that’s about it. Unless you enjoy one of several mental disorders that force you to obsess about such things, you could literally care less.

Screw the bodily fluids, I gotta save Princess Peach!

I suspect it’s something intrinsic to human nature, “This object is mine now, it has no history because I did not own it then.” Humanity as a whole can be a fairly self-centered bastard at times.

It’s one of our most dubious charms.

Rivaled only by our obsession with deep-frying all matter of crap.

I can’t seem to think of anything interesting to write today.

I can think of plenty of things, but nothing I could coherently form into sentences and put into something resembling an interesting post. Here’s what I’m thinking of right now;

Skeletal trees, ghost trees, the white glowing bark.




That’s a weird word – Bark. 

Dogs bark.

Dogs like trees.

Trees have bark. 

Cats sharpen their claws on tree bark.

Cats don’t like dogs. Or is it that dogs don’t like cats?

We take tree bark and pile it around other plants, but it’s the skin of a larger plant. That’s strange. 

Our skin is like leather.

You can tan leather and dye it all different colors.

It would be awesome if you could dye your skin different colors. Like a tattoo but different.

You can’t tan your skin, it would probably kill you.

I bet Sharpie could make skin dye markers. That would be awesome.

I’d like to be purple. Or maybe turquoise.

Can trees be ghosts? Does Home Depot hold the fractured spirits of millions of vanished lives?

Do carrots feel pain? 

Can you coerce a vegetable?

What does strawberry brandy taste like?

White chocolate doesn’t have any chocolate in it, it’s just cocoa butter, sugar, and vanilla.

I like vanilla.

I wish there was a vanilla-flavored melon. I bet that would taste good.

Nails are weird. What purpose do your nails serve other than to have something to scratch with?

I bet strawberry brandy would be good on vanilla ice cream.




Pudding’s a weird food. It’s not a solid but it’s not a liquid.

I wonder if you could make pudding into a non-Newtonian solid. That would be interesting.

Non-Newtonian Pudding.

I wonder if you could make a non-Newtonian cheese.

More foods should be available in aerosol form. Like ham. Or salsa. Maybe peanut butter, but not the chunky kind.



Chunk a bunk.

Chunky bunky Bunk-Bunk-Bunk.


Bunny comb.

Bunny combovers.


My ears are ringing.

Raspberry brandy would probably be better on vanilla ice cream.

Or chocolate.

 But not white chocolate, that would be too sweet.

Hey look – I wrote a blog post!

The Little Yellow Duckling

Once upon a time there live a little yellow duckling.

This little yellow duckling lived in a lovely little pond at the edge of a large meadow filled with beautiful flowers. Every morning the graceful white deer from the King’s Hunting Preserve would come to the meadow. The beautiful white deer would drink sweet water from the lovely little pond and nibble on only the most beautiful of the flowers and the tenderest of the grasses.

They would also tease the little yellow duckling, calling her “Tiny” or “Squeaky” or “Little Fluffy Numbnuts”.

The graceful white deer from the King’s Hunting Preserve were pretty big jerks.

The little yellow duckling ignored the graceful white deer from the King’s Hunting Preserve. She spent the spring paddling around on the pond. She nibbled on the emerald green water-weeds that grew in the shallows of the pretty little pond, keeping the tiny stream the pond fed clear and sparkling. Whenever a weed sprouted on the grassy banks, she would quickly eat them, even though they were quite bitter. The graceful white deer laughed at her. They called her stupid for eating the bland water-weeds and the bitter weeds when there were so many sweet flowers and tender grasses available.

The little yellow duckling ignored the beautiful white deer as spring faded into summer. Instead she plucked snails from the verdant grass and chased the bright fish around to amuse the young children who came to the meadow to braid necklaces of flowers and watch the graceful white deer. The little children tried to place the garlands of flowers around the necks of the beautiful white deer, but they would shake their antlers at the children and frighten them. They would laugh at the fear on the children’s faces and then eat the garlands the children had worked so hard on.

As I’ve mentioned, the graceful white deer from the King’s Hunting Preserve were pretty big jerks.

The little yellow duckling did not remain little and yellow, she grew into a plump little grey duck the color of storm clouds. She was not beautiful, as the deer were, and she was not graceful, as the deer were, but she did not mind such things. She was content to paddle around the pond as summer began to fade into winter. The flowers in the meadow withered and the tender grasses grew tough and stringy. The graceful white deer had to venture into the deep dark woods, where the only thing they could find to eat was a few nettles and acorns.

One morning, when the air had begun to smell of snow, the duck who was no longer little or yellow felt a strange urge. Testing her powerful wings she lept into the cold air. Each stroke of her grey-feathered wings took her higher, untill she was gliding easily over the dark deep woods. A road she had never seen before cut into the trees and she could see small shapes on it. Curious, she drifted lower. Men, dressed in leather a fur, one sporting a circlet as golden as the now-vanished summer sun. Lashed to poles carried by the men were several of the graceful white deer, the red splashes on their once pristine coats doing little to mar their graceful lines.

“Serves the bastards right.” thought the now fat little duck, as she glided through the sky. She then dove sharply downward.

The King’s huntsman struggled with his end of the pole. This deer was a fat one and he could almost smell it crackling over a fire. A grey shape fell from the sky with a flurry of feathers and just as quickly was gone. He tilted his head back; he could barely make out the vanishing speck amid the grey clouds. He looked back at his burden and frowned.

The bird had shit on the carcass.

In the market for adventure?

NOTE: This story first appears in YSaC Vol. 297 as a response to an ad asking for a creative writer.

“Burley, I don’t know about this…” Patch slowed his steps, scuffing his already worn soles, obviously reluctant. His friend slapped him roguishly on the shoulder.

“Awww, I remember my first time. Nervous as blind dentist and twice as twitchy. Afterwards, though! I was floating, man. Just floating. High on life for days. Well, life and copier toner. But don’t you worry; you’ll love it!” Burley slapped his shoulder again, propelling his thin frame through the door.

It was dark, so dark, with the dozens of candles burning in blood red votive cups that cluttered every flat surface doing little to dispel the gloom. Incense, thick and spicy-sweet, hung in the air like wet wallpaper. As his eyes adjusted Patch could make out vague forms in the darkness.

He didn’t know where to look; there was no safe place to rest his eyes. Everywhere he could see sinuous curves, a splash of startling color, the suggestion of hidden delights. There were others, dressed not too differently than he was, who sat among those beautiful shapes, conversing in low tones. A brief clap of throaty laughter sang out from some hidden alcove.

And then he saw her. She was tucked into a corner, alone, her attention resting on him in a way that reminded him of a pet cat he had once had. Predatory, but indulged enough to remain quiescent.

He felt Burley nudge his side.

“See anything you like?”

“Ummm.” Burley laughed; a greasy, oily sound. Patch briefly wondered why he was friends with so repulsive a man and how he had let himself get talked into this. His wife was going to kill him.

“Don’t just stand here staring, go talk to her!”

Grateful that the dim room hid his flaming cheeks, Patch stumbled over to one of the nebulous forms reclining in a corner. He stood there for a second, staring at his feet.

“Are you just going to stand there, honey?” The voice in the darkness was like molten gold, a rare vintage flavored with exotic spices and a hint of world-weary sadness. It caressed Patch in a way his wife refused to unless she had been drinking heavily.
“Have a seat, sugar. I don’t bite.”

He found a chair and sat, pressing his legs together and clasping his hands in his lap. His shoulders curved forward as he tried to make himself as small as possible. The voice chuckled, the sound a roller coaster of velvet and silk.

“Let me guess – this is your first time?” Wordlessly he nodded. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s easy. Why don’t you tell me what your looking for?”

“Well … I wanted something a little different, out of the ordinary. Exotic. But I don’t really have a lot of money. Burley, this guy I work with, he told me about this place and, well…” He trailed off. Abruptly he stood. “This was a mistake. If my wife knew I was here …”

“Relax, darling. You can bring your wife in if you like; I love couples. But no pets. I draw the line there.”

“N… no, we don’t have any pets.”

“Then why don’t you give her a call? I assume that bulge in your pocket is a phone.” Again he blushed, but pulled out his cell phone after a moment’s hesitation. He flipped it open, the screen’s harsh light throwing everything into stark relief. The sumptuous crimson and gold Persian carpet settled its paisley folds to better show her flowing patterns.

“And honey? Tell her to bring one of your window treatments. That way you can see if the carpet matches the drapes.”

Thinking with portals

I’m not a gamer.

I barely have the hand-eye coordination to feed myself, let along kill aliens and Nazi zombies.

But I love video games.

It’s a bit of a paradox, I know. It confuses the hell out of me sometimes as well.

Old-school games like Pac-Man or Tetris I can handle with some success, but modern games … Not so much. But I love ’em.

What I love about games, like Half-life  or Portal, is the story behind the game. Designers now spend a great deal of time working on the back story, the reasons behind the why and how of the game-world. It’s that part of the game, the boring, non-explody bits, that I adore.

In any other age I would have no alternatives I could either play the games and do abysmally, or find friends who  would let me what them play.

Thank the Internet gods for YouTube.

For the uninitiated, players will post videos of gameplay, sometimes with commentary and tips, sometimes without, and other gamers watch to pick up these tips and tricks. This is wonderful for the gaming impaired, like me. I can watch hours upon hours of games without actually having to play anything myself.

Since you might be wondering where I’m going with this, I’ll tell you.

I spent most of yesterday watching game play from the newly released Portal 2, and it was wonderful. I thought I would give my impressions as a non-gamer.

I’ve watched the walk-through for Portal and found it highly entertaining. Seeing the player solve the puzzles and hearing the dry, sarcastic wit of GLaDOS as she becomes increasingly insane makes for an enjoyable experience.

She might be crazy, but her cake is so delicious and moist!

The original Portal game has built up a large and incredibly devoted fan base and spawned several internet memes that I will not repeat here. Portal 2 is somehow even better.

The storyline is much more complex than that of the original. In the original Portal, the silent protagonist navigated a series of test chambers before reaching the central computer, GLaDOS, and disabling her. It’s revealed in the beginning on the second game that the protagonist, Chell, has been placed in “cryo-sleep” for an unspecified but extended length of time.

When Chell wakes up, her room, once a bland hotel-like room, has aged and decayed. I even noticed a depression on the bed in the shape of a body, as if someone had lain in one place for a very long time. It’s those attention to details that makes the game good. If you look for them, there are quite a few little jokes added in. For example, when opening a several stories tall door, the massive door rolls back to reveal … an ordinary door with a couple of folding chairs beside it.

The addition of another AI, the grossly incompetent Wheatley, and the recorded messages of the mercury-poisoned founder of Aperture Science in the lowest levels make for a rich and wonderful experience.

The entire game seems more … alive. The rooms move and shake, you can hear sounds of distant machinery or dripping water, and it just feels quite real. The first game had, for the most part, sterile testing chambers that were almost tomb-like. In the sequel you can really feel the decay of this place that has been neglected for decades.

As I’ve said, I didn’t play the game. I only watched the walk-throughs on YouTube, so I didn’t have to do the same over and over again. I got to do the easy part, enjoy someone else’s labors. It looked absolutely kick-ass, though. I definitely plan on watching it again.


Last night I watched Resident Evil, something I have never seen before, right before bed. I know better than that, but I was curious as to what the big deal was with the whole series and I had some time left on my Farmville farm, so I figured “What the hell.”

Such a big mistake.

It’s not that it was scary, I found the makeup and effects to be a bit pedestrian, but it was the inherent flaws in the story that left me pondering in the darkness. And before I get some snippy cinefreak jumping all over me about suspension of disbelief and all that filmtastic junk, let me just say; I don’t care. I love movies and I’m willing to accept a degree of impractical psuedo-science, but this was just too much. It was a bad movie.

Case in point – the T-virus. This is the thing that makes everything else happen. It’s because of the virus’ release that the place is put on lockdown and so forth and so on. As the Red Queen helpfully exposits, the virus works on the idea that the body keeps going after death, that nails and hair continue to grow.

This is an old wives’ tale; the body doesn’t continue to function after death. That’s why you’re dead – you stopped functioning.

In my misguided efforts to try to rationalize the thought processes behind this, all I could come up – it’s for organ harvesting purposes.

Not everyone has an access panel in their tummy.

That kinda makes sense, in the sense that if the body is kept alive through this mojo-magic science, then it would be easier to harvest the organs when you needed them.

But… the organs would be filled with a virulent disease that would turn the recipient into a brainless, ravening monster.

Clearly this wasn’t a well thought out plan. Unless there is an untapped market for corpse-hair and corpse-fingernails that I’m  not aware of.

A good zombie plague could do wonders for the weave industry

This seems counterintuitive, since the Umbrella Corp has stasis devices that could keep their corpsesicles fresh and freezer-burn free for years. The tongue-creature was in such a stasis unit and seemed quite sprightly.

Speaking of the tongue-creature, the Red Queen states that it is the result of the T-virus being injected directly into living tissue. Rain was chock-full of living tissue when she was bitten numerous times. These bites would have injected the virus into her living tissue, and yet it takes two thirds of the movie for her to go zombie. And yet Disposable Male Romantic Interest #2 is only scratched by the tongue-creature and within minutes starts mutating.

I don’t think the writers of Resident Evil have ever heard of science.

And even though there were several scenes of these “monsters” feeding, the bodies were surprisingly intact. This could be because the zombies, while ravenous, lacked the muscle control to bite and swallow their food, or it was simply a dumb-ass movie.

I started thinking, as I so often do, that there seems to be a lot of zombies in the media lately. Zombies and vampires.

This is not a vampire. This is an insult to your brain.

There’s probably some deep psychological reason for this, perhaps tapping into the fear of dead bodies nearly everyone has, or the use of blood-drinking to simulate sexual congress. I’m sure there are many scholarly works on the phenomenon out there. This being the Internet, there’s probably a site devoted to vampire/zombie slashfic, but I ain’t gonna look for it.


It kind of sad that with all the advances in effects and CGI that there are so many bad monster movies being made. I love monster movies, but I haven’t seen a really good new one in years. (I’m not including Hostel or Saw, those are slasher flicks.) I added some of the later Resident Evil movies to my Netflix queue, but I might remove them. I just wasn’t impressed.

I was driving to work this morning, thinking about monkeys, and I started wondering why I was thinking about monkeys and trying to picture what a battle between a horde of gibbons and robots might look like.

Sadly I could not find a photo of monkeys fighting robots.      Here are some kittens with lightsabers instead.
I’m just cruising along, inching forward in bumper to bumper traffic, when I suddenly start thinking about monkeys.
 And robots.
 And if it would make a difference if the fighting robots were robotic monkeys.
What possible purpose could thinking about monkey ninjas and cybernetic gibbons serve?  Other than giving me a giggle, of course.

A Google Image search reveals a surprising number of hits for "monkey ninja" and over half of them are not even pornographic.

I think about things like that all the time and I have no idea why.  Since I have yet to perfect a reliable method of reading other people’s thoughts, I have always assumed that other people think about odd things as well. As I have gotten older, it has occurred to me that there might be people who don’t think about cage matches between monkey pirate ninjas and Viking robots.
What do those people think about? When they are stuck in an elevator, do they think about what would happen if it suddenly began filling with warm grape jelly? Or are they just composing their shopping lists for their next big fondue throwdown?

I assume regular people enjoy delicious fondue too.

So I started thinking less about the great Monkey-Robot Wars and started thinking about what other people think about.
 The problem is, thoughts are very subjective. If you tell a dozen people to think about elephants, some might picture real elephants, some might picture adorable stuffed elephant toys, some of them might be thinking about the bizarre Pink Elephant March from Dumbo, and one misguided soul might be thinking about Eeyore because they can’t tell the difference between an elephant and a donkey.

Pictured: not an elephant

So what purpose does my side trip from the Robot-Monkey Alliance against the Squid-folk serve? I don’t know, I really didn’t think that far ahead when I started writing. It just seemed like something interesting at the time.